Every Thursday night is Salsa night at Gonzalez y Gonzalez. Their website promises a free beginner lesson at 8:45 pm, followed by all-night social dancing with a live band. A few years ago, my friend Chris and I decided to attend our first Salsa night together. We were both brand new to salsa and we were dance-curious. I was single at the time, having just recently gotten out of a relationship, and I was looking to explore the world. Dancing and salsa was one of those things that I had been drawn to, but had put on the back burner for some time. As I waited for Chris on the quiet, heavily-scaffolded street, I couldn’t help but wonder about the world that awaited us inside.
Chris soon arrived and we entered the venue. The interior was larger than expected, with wooden walls and dim lighting. Colorful spotlights blinked merrily on a vacant dance floor. The merry lights and the large room’s emptiness created an almost apocalyptic atmosphere. There was a salty smell in the air, and the floor beneath us was noticeably sticky. Their 3.5-star rating on Yelp instantly came to mind. As I glanced around the room, I saw three or four individuals quietly sipping their happy hour drinks at the bar. Someone at the front was struggling to set up the speakers. We had aimed to be punctual to make the most of the free class. However, I was soon to discover that in the world of salsa, arriving “on time” meant being exceptionally early.
By 9:10 pm, they had sorted out the speaker issue and two salsa-dancer-looking people with good posture gathered the attendees for the lesson. They touched briefly upon salsa’s New York City origins before diving into the basic step. The basic step is salsa’s foundational move — the lead walks forward with their left foot while the follow walks backwards with their right foot, creating a synchronized, yet opposite movement. I copied the female instructor’s movements and soon got the hang of it. When a sample song played, I felt happy to be able to basic-step to the beat- or at least what I thought was the right beat.
The instructors then moved on to demonstrate the Suzie Q and the Box Step. The Suzie Q is a playful step that involves crossing one foot over the other, shifting weight from one foot to the other, and adding a hip shimmy. The Box Step, on the other hand, is a structured move where dancers step in a square pattern on the floor. I would later learn that both of these moves are shines. A “shine” in salsa refers to a sequence of footwork that dancers perform individually, breaking away from their partner. It allows the dancer to showcase their individual style, footwork, and technique. Unlike the basic step which is danced with a partner, the Suzie Q and the Box Step are danced solo.
The instructors didn’t explain any of this — they were neither helpful nor hands-on in their approach. Teaching seemed more an obligation for them than a genuine passion to impart knowledge to new students. They barked orders over the music: ‘Now the basic step. Then the Suzie Q. Box step. Back to basic. Pair up and do it.’
Chris and I faced one another to practice together. It may have been the first time that I had ever touched Chris even though we had been friends for some time. It was odd to be closer to him than normal and I remember he was wearing a plaid shirt that day because Chris is much taller than I and when we were close together, I’d be staring at his shirt. It was fun to stumble and practice together.
Soon afterwards, the class time was over and the instructors vanished. The training wheels came off and the dance floor became a free-for-all. Suddenly, Gonzalez y Gonzalez was full of experienced dancers– I had no idea when they had all entered the room. I had been so excited about learning how to dance that I didn’t give any thought to what the Social part might be like. The instructors hadn’t explained, but as I would learn through experience – the rules of the social are as follows: you dance with one partner for a song. The lead typically invites a follow to dance. After the song ends, you thank one another for the dance and move on to the next partner.
When a stranger held out his hand to ask me to dance at the beginning of a song, I panicked. What do I do? I was upfront to him about my beginner status. He shrugged and didn’t seem to mind. He just seemed happy to be able to dance. I was surprised how close I was to this stranger–it seemed wrong to feel his sweat on my hands. I had no idea what I was doing and kept losing track of the beat. Am I supposed to look him in the eye? I apologized for my clumsiness, though I’m not sure he heard me over the loud music. I thought about how silly I looked and was glad to be a follow so at least I could go along with what the lead was doing rather than be creative on my own. When the song ended, I breathed a sigh of relief. Chris reassured me that I did well, but I had my doubts. By midnight, the dance floor was electric, teeming with people. I watched other dancers with envy. They swirled around effortlessly and I was determined to become beautiful and swirly also. Chris and I were captivated by the community’s energy and resolved to make it our “Year of Dance.”
Then the pandemic struck. Chris relocated, and memories of Gonzalez y Gonzalez began to seem distant and surreal and, in the context of the pandemic, unsanitary. The many months of being alone in my tiny room highlighted my yearning for intimacy and human connection. As life gradually returned to “normal”, I enrolled in a group salsa class. At first, masks were mandatory, but over time, they became optional. I enjoyed the weekly ritual of going to salsa class and methodically learning more about salsa. Each class, we’d learn one or two moves, building on what we learned in previous week, and then practice with partners. I’d see the same faces over and over again at the classes and I developed preferences for leads I liked dancing with. One lead sweated profusely. Even during the warmup songs at the beginning of the class, he would already be quite sweaty. His sweat was off-putting at first but I learned to overlook the sweatiness when I realized I liked dancing with him — he was friendly and gentle and he practiced diligently each week, improving over time. Another lead, I felt a good connection with. He remembered my name and we’d laugh together when we messed up a complicated spin.
It was a while before we learned about shines in class. One day, Francis, our instructor, introduced them to us, explaining that it’s something you do on your own without a partner, and demonstrated one. He then asked if we had any questions. One woman raised her hand and asked, confused, “What’s the point of the shine?”
Francis laughed heartedly and after a moment said, “Well, what’s the point in dancing at all? Or doing anything? To have fun, I suppose.” I thought about this exchange often, not just because I found it funny, but also because I was searching for my own answers too.
Socials also made a comeback. Francis encouraged us to attend socials because that’s where the real dancing happened. Each song, I’d anxiously wait to get invited to dance. When overlooked, I’d feel rejected. When I was chosen, genuine connections felt rare. Salsa socials tended to attract some interesting characters. Annoying questions like “Where are you from? No, where are you really from?”, or the unsettling “You’re so beautiful – are you even legal?” were all too common. I’d cherish the good connections, but they too felt disappointing and far too fleeting. I secretly hoped I might meet my future love interest on the dance floor, but with those that I felt a good connection with, it was just for one dance.
Yet, I persisted. With some effort, I did get better at salsa. I bought sparkly salsa heels. I listened to the Salsa playlists on Spotify. I’d practice hook turns at home. For the first time, I thought I looked cute when I’d catch glimpses of myself in the mirror.
I began to understand the subtle cues that leads would give: a slight raise of the hand indicating a right-hand turn, or a gentle pull back signaling a copa. These non-verbal cues became a language of their own, a way to communicate on a level that only those experienced and trained could understand and appreciate. These skills don’t come easily and there’s no way to shortcut the learning– there’s simply a certain amount of experience it requires to be able to pick up on them. I continued honing my skills and I learned to react, rather than anticipate. Salsa started to feel more natural to me. Still, I felt uncomfortable in those moments when the lead pulled away and we were to each freestyle and perform shines. I felt like I wasn’t there yet, and I’d get nervous whenever I needed to figure out what to do on my own. In those moments, I’d default to the basic step and send encouraging energy to my partner as they did their shines.
I think when I first started my salsa journey, my aspirations were predominantly external: to look beautiful and to be admired on the dance floor. Over time, my perceptions shifted. I began to dance not for the distant promise of being an awesome dancer someday but for the experience of sharing a dance with someone in the here and now.
It was while I was still enrolled in my intermediate salsa class that I met my now-boyfriend Petr. Though we didn’t meet on the dance floor, I can’t help but feel that salsa had played a role in our meeting. When I told him about salsa on one of our first dates, he mentioned that his sister first met her husband through salsa dancing.
A few weeks after we met, I went on a previously planned two-week solo trip to Mexico. Looking back, I spent a lot of time that trip dancing even though I didn’t plan it that way purposefully.
In Oaxaca, I enrolled a few Spanish lessons. It was there that I met Anna, a fellow student with long, light blonde hair. She was retired and had spent considerable time in Oaxaca, becoming familiar with its nooks and crannies. When I overheard her mentioning that she was planning to go salsa dancing, I eagerly asked to join her. I handed her my phone to exchange numbers and she put her name as “anna salsa dancing”. That evening, our quest for dance led us to a few places, but they were either closed or just warming up for the evening. Anna suggested we instead grab a drink at one of her favorite spots, a Japanese restaurant set in an open courtyard. She recommended I try the Negroni Mezcal. As we savored our drinks in the warm evening air, she shared stories of her travels in Oaxaca, including a recent visit to a local healer. Even without the dancing, I appreciated how salsa had brought unexpected experiences and connections my way.
In Mexico City, I met Emily, a violinist from the UK, at Tacos Los Alexis. I came upon the taco bar as a shining beacon in the night as I walked in the streets around my hotel, hungry. I sat next to Emily at the bar and we started talking — Alexis joined our conversation too. He told us he once worked at a famous Mexican fine dining restaurant, Pujol, but his soul kept calling him to the casual camaraderie of tacos. I learned that Emily was traveling alone just like me, and I invited her dancing the next evening at CDMX’s most popular salsa club, Mama Rumba. There, the venue was buzzing with energy — people were dancing and drinking and laughing and the live band was roaring. It was so packed that you could barely walk through. Everyone was dancing a different kind of salsa from what I was used to, but I went with it. Emily didn’t know much about dancing but she seemed to be having fun too. The happiness at Mama Rumba was intoxicating. Emily and I danced together and separately and I loved being able to introduce her to that small part of the world. At the end of the night, I felt like we had co-created a special experience together.
All the while, I was thinking of Petr. I’d text him snapshots of my day: ‘Here’s my breakfast.’ ‘Look at this sketch from my sketchbook.’ His encouraging replies made our brief conversations, no matter how mundane, feel exciting. We were in the very beginnings of our relationship and there was this pure curiosity to know more about each other. I felt a closer bond with him through those text messages than with any of the leads I danced with at Mama Rumba.
A few days later, I booked an Airbnb experience called “Super detailed salsa lesson and tacos!” hosted by a Mexican man named Javier. The lesson would be in a part of Mexico City that was far from the touristy area that I was staying in. I grabbed an Uber there, not sure what to expect from the 5.0-star rated experience. From the Airbnb page, I could see that no one else had booked the experience for that day and I was a little nervous to be on my own. The moment I met Javier, I relaxed. He was waiting on the sidewalk and waved at me from the Uber. He had a warm, relaxing energy. He navigated me through the apartment complex, his dog leading the way. His living room was cleared out so that we’d have room to dance. There, he introduced me to Cuban salsa, the style I’d seen at Mama Rumba. We covered a lot of ground since I was the only student and I was already proficient in a similar style of salsa. He was excited to be able to teach beyond the basic step, which most of his Airbnb students had trouble with. I could tell that Javier really enjoyed teaching salsa and I had a lot of fun dancing with him.
The second part of the Airbnb experience was tacos- we got into his car and he drove us 2 minutes to his favorite local spot. Over some delicious tacos, we shared stories about our cities and bonded over our interest in photography. He told me that he had been teaching at a dance studio nearby, but that during the pandemic, it shut down. I told him about the uncomfortable dances I’ve had with strangers. He said he hears about this issue often, and he encouraged me to politely leave them mid-song. He told me that these guys preyed on women like me who didn’t feel comfortable enough yet to walk away. I felt like Javier and I had a good connection, and I told him to let me know if he’d ever be back in NYC so that we could go dancing together.
When I returned to New York, I noticed my enthusiasm for salsa beginning to fade. Maybe I had reached the limits of my interest of it in Mexico. I suppose part of my attraction to salsa came from a longing for physical touch. When Petr and I started dating, that need was fulfilled and I felt like my time was better spent getting to know Petr and creating new experiences together. I happily surrendered my life as a salsa dancer and opted instead for quiet conversation.
Recently, I joined another friend, also named Chris, at a West Coast Swing event. Chris has recently gotten into West Coast Swing and invited me and a few of his other friends to join him at a social called Flow Friday. I was drawn both by curiosity and a desire to partake in his exciting new hobby. It had been nearly a year since I last attended any dance social and I had forgotten that not so long ago, it was a large part of my life.
The evening’s setup was familiar: a beginner’s class following by the social. When I was invited to dance, I was more attuned to the connection between me and my partner. One lead I danced with was a middle-aged Black woman, with a white hoodie and nicely manicured nails. At the beginning of the song, she asked me if I knew the basic step. I said, “Kinda.” She rolled her eyes, “Either you know it or you don’t.” At this point, I was tempted to say I didn’t because I could tell we weren’t going to mesh well, but part of me was curious, so I said, “I do.” As we danced, she was visibly frustrated with me. She scolded me, “You need to give me more pressure here,” referring to the tension between our hands. When she would lead me into a spin, I didn’t know which way to go and her reaction afterwards made me feel like I did it incorrectly. I wasn’t experienced enough to understand her cues and she kept trying the same moves again and again. While I admit I wasn’t a proficient west coast swing dancer, her irritation felt disproportionate, and I chose not to dwell on it.
Another partner was a middle-aged East Asian man. He wore glasses and a black T-shirt with the name of a West Coast Swing organization, which made me assume that he was experienced at dancing it. I told him I was new at the dance, and he nodded understandingly, “Just the basic step then.” I really liked dancing with him. I had the feeling that he toned down his dancing to match my level, but also that he didn’t mind that at all. He was at ease with himself, exuding a positive, patient, and encouraging energy. It’s the kind of energy I aspire to surround myself with more often. I soaked up the experience.
When I wasn’t asked to dance, a rush of memories flooded back to me. I remembered times when I wasn’t picked, feeling the sting of rejection. Memories from even before Gonzalez y Gonzalez surfaced. I recalled outings with an attractive friend where men would approach her, leaving me feeling sidelined and unwanted. I acknowledged that these painful moments too have been part of my journey, but I didn’t dwell on them. I shifted my attention back to Flow Friday and admired the other dancers on the floor. I admired the variety in skill levels, and all the different types of bodies out there moving together. I even felt happy to see the woman in the white hoody having a good time dancing with someone else. As I watched the more experienced dancers, the jealousy I once felt was absent. I recognized that they had invested time to hone their swing dancing skills. I knew I could reach that level too, but it would require dedication.
On the sidelines, I’d also have short conversations with Chris and his friends. It was my first time meeting them. One of his friends, Christine, was brand new to dancing and I liked her energy. She asked me how long I had known Chris. I said I had met him about a year before the pandemic through rock climbing. She said, “Wow, you’ve known him a long time!” Reflecting on that, I realized that I have known Chris for some time now and that we have had many great experiences together.
After a delightful night at Flow Friday, I felt like it was the right time to head home. As I said my goodbyes, a wave of excitement hit me. In just 45 minutes, I’d be home with Petr!
On the subway, I found myself reflecting on the evening. I thought about how I might not connect with everyone, but meeting new people is part of the process of finding people with whom I truly resonate. I cherished the time spent with Chris, learning more about his world and getting to meet his other friends.
Dancing has helped me become more grounded in reality. Dance isn’t a feeling or a fantasy, but an activity you choose to do to connect, physically and emotionally, with other people, despite the sweaty backs and the long subway rides home.
When the subway reached my stop, Petr was there waiting for me. I felt so happy to see him and to share with him my experiences from the evening.
Later that night as I drifted to sleep, a deep sense of gratitude enveloped me.