ADVENTURES IN SALSALAND

It all started on a snowy night in Regina (Oh, and I'd appreciate if you'd pronounce the name of my native town correctly: 'Reg-eye-na' not 'Reg-ee-na'). I was closing up my father’s bakery when a sultry voice disturbed me. “Am I too late for a loaf of sourdough?” I turned and looked into the eyes of an angel. 6-foot tall, long silky brown hair and eyes you could disappear into if you didn’t watch your step. There and then, as if struck by lightning, I was transfixed; speechless in the face of the beauty that stood before me. I wanted to tell her she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. I wanted to profess my undying love for her. I simply replied “Sliced or unsliced?”

In the interest of anonymity I hope you’ll allow me the indulgence of calling her Helen. My father, a Greek baker had instilled in me from a young age the tales and myths of my homeland. You could say Helen of Troy was my first love. Of course I didn’t really believe that a woman’s beauty was enough to start a war. But on that night everything changed. For if ever a face could launch a thousand ships, I tell you I saw such a face on that bitterly cold night under the starry Saskatchewan sky.

So how, you may ask does this story bring me to the Hot Jazz Club on a wet April night? Well, I could tell you how I followed her to a motel on the outskirts of Regina. I could further explain how I enlisted the help of one Benjamin Goldstein, a good friend and a damn fine private detective. Ah, the things you do for love. But in the interest of cutting to the chase, suffice to say I soon discovered my sweet Helen was a BC gal, destined to fly back the next day to Vancouver. My heart sank as Benjamin conveyed the tragic news to me. “Vancouver, eh?” I mused. “A long way to go for a dame”, Benjamin retorted. “Oh and another thing. This mightn’t be important but…”, his voice trailed off. “Go on”, I implored him eagerly. “It appears…”, said Benjamin, nonchalantly. “…that your lady friend is a keen salsa dancer”.

I don’t know what it was but at that moment I saw it all laid out in front of me. That night I would go home and tell my father I was leaving the bakery. Within a matter of weeks I would have moved to Vancouver and settled in a modest bachelor pad on the East side of town. I would engage the services of a salsa teacher who shall remain nameless (let’s just say Mr Castro is keen to learn the whereabouts of my good teacher). And after a crash course in the essentials of salsa dancing, a bus would skid to a halt on Main Street and out I would step; a nervous wreck, a fool in love, a reluctant salsa dancer.

I blame it on my therapist. “Ah yes, it’s easy for you to say it’s all about poise”, I tell him, “but you’re not 4 foot nine”. “And what of it?”, he admonishes me. “Confidence. That’s the key to a woman’s heart”. Yes ladies, you heard me right. I stand 4’9”, although I like to joke I’m 5’ in heels (the extra three inches come courtesy of my dancing shoes). And so, I check my coat and convey my ample 5’ frame to the bar. After consuming a swift Bacardi Breezer, I grab the first lady I see and confidently drag her up on the dance floor. And so we dance. One two three and five six seven and one two three and five six seven!. Well, what can I tell you my friends? It was terrible! She was dancing some strange step - definitely not salsa. She kept shouting at me over the music “Cha cha cha!”. I told her sorry I didn’t speak Spanish. Then one of my heels snapped off halfway through.

# posted by Enrique Papadopoulos @ 7:28 AM