ADVENTURES IN SALSALAND

Other readers have questioned the veracity of my name, suggesting I’m hiding behind a pseudonym. I assure you this is not the case. Yes, it’s true - on the dance floor I go by many names. To some I am Diego. To others I am Federico or Roberto. Or perhaps you know me as Paddy (a tribute to my great grandfather, an Irish rebel and a fine dancer by all accounts). I have also been referred to as “that annoying little [expletive] with two left feet” (yes ladies - I have ears you know). But alas, my editor was not so easy to fool. “Two forms of ID”, she insisted, “or we won’t print your article”. And so I bare my soul in these pages without the protection of an alias. Why all the subterfuge, you may ask? Let’s just say it’s my way of overcoming my painful shyness. My counsellor advises against it but I tell him: only when I find my Helen shall I divulge my real name. I shall say to her “My name is Enriqué Papadopoulos. I once sold you a loaf of sourdough bread in Regina and I have been in love with you ever since”. I would like to deliver these lines on bended knee, but at 4’9” I need all the height I can muster. You see, my beloved Helen stands 6” tall so I’m hoping my dynamic personality will compensate for the vertical imbalance.

I know you are eager to hear more about my quest for the elusive Helen but perhaps you should know a bit about me first. As many of you already know, I hail from Regina where I was raised by my father Alexandros, a Greek baker. My mother Maria, was a beautiful dancer from El Salvador. Sadly, she left when I was three to pursue an acting career in Hollywood. You may know her from such films as Revenge of the Killer Crabs or Mutant Space Monkeys II. What little skills I have on the dance floor, I owe to my mother. My father had nothing but disdain for the craft. “What good ever came of dancing?”, he would say to me. “There’s only one thing you can count on in this life, Enriqué. Bread. What good is dancing if you are hungry?”. And so you can imagine his shock when I told him I was leaving the family business to join the vibrant salsa-dancing scene in Vancouver. “I suppose you are doing this for a woman, eh?”, he admonished me. “What use is a woman if you are hungry?” My father can be a little repetitive at times.

Yes, my friends – I won’t deny this started with a woman. But you know, something else happened. Would you believe it if I told you I began to fall in love with the dancing? Somehow, out there on the dance floor I found a new sense of freedom. I lost myself in the music. “Little Enriqué” became “Dashing Diego”, the dark and dangerous lover. Or “Federico the Fabulous”, a former circus performer. Or Roberto, the enigmatic poet with a mysterious past. Or Paddy, the… actually, I’m thinking of dropping Paddy. He’s not working out so well for me. Of course, I still have a lot to learn about the salsa scene. When my teacher told me it’s all about timing I thought he was referring just to the timing of the steps. Now I realise there’s another crucial aspect of timing I have yet to perfect – picking the right time to ask a lady to dance. Let me explain. Many times I have asked a lady for a dance, only to be told “I’m feeling a little tired. I’m going to sit this one out.” I’m a very sympathetic young man so of course I understand. “Perhaps a brandy would help revive you?”, I suggest but she’s gone. Imagine my surprise when I see her, minutes later being lead up to the floor by a dashing Latino. You’ve got to hand it to him – he’s got it down to a fine art. I remind myself I may be half-Latino but my timing still needs a lot of work. Still, I hope someday to perfect it. Ladies, if you can give me any tips on this, it’d be much appreciated.