ADVENTURES IN SALSALAND

Moving In...

2006-12-04T09:05:00.000-08:00

What a month it’s been! I’m stuck in the west coast of Ireland where I’ve been awaiting trial on a drink-driving charge. Only, my lawyer successfully argued that since it was a joint effort – with Uncle Paddy operating the pedals and me on the steering, they’d have to split the charge between us, charging each of us as half a person. The judge threw the case out, commenting under his breath that charging me would be more like charging a quarter person. I think he felt sorry for me. Sometimes my diminutive size can be a positive thing.

Still, I’m stuck here with no money, no place to stay and I can’t get through to my editor for the necessary cash injection. So, what do I do? Well, they say if you’re in a spot of bother you either need some good legal advice or the help of a well-connected crook. In the absence of the former, I make a call to one Jimmy Finlan – an Irish acquaintance of mine who used to frequent the salsa-scene in Vancouver. By the way, ladies – I’m not sure what tall tale he told you about his reasons for leaving Vancouver but I suspect it had something to do with the money he owes to a Triad gang in Richmond. Not to mention the $800 the rogue owes me!

Anyway, Finlan sorted things out, booking me into a B&B in Galway under his own name. So we arrive at the guest-house (Paddy’s been kicked out by his wife so he tags along “to keep me company”) and the landlady says “Ye’re from Finland, is that right?”. Before I can say anything, Paddy – half-drunk, answers in the affirmative. “And what brings ye to Ireland?”. “We’re musicians”, I stutter – putting on my best generic foreign accent – somewhere between Russian and Spanish. She must have thought we were a couple because she put us in a room together with a solitary double-bed. There was a picture of Jesus on the wall (they’re everywhere in this country!) and, before leaving the room she turned it to face the wall. “Now”, she says with a wink – “ye can get up to whatever ye like, without himself botherin’ ye”.

That night, I met up with Sheila O’Shaughnessy – the rookie cop whom I met in my brief stint behind bars. Turns out, as well as taking a shine to me, she happens to be a keen salsa-dancer. And so, it’s off to a salsa club in downtown Galway (I use the term ‘downtown’ loosely. Galway is really just a cluster of narrow streets masquerading as a city). Apparently there’s such a thing as ‘Galway-style’ salsa and if you think New York style is complex, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet. As far as I could make out, it’s a cross between Cuban-style salsa and Irish-dancing with a little bit of ‘make it up as you go along’ thrown in for good measure. Still, it was good fun and you’ve got to hand it to the Irish – they know how to have a good time. I’d like to say I had a romantic night but unfortunately Paddy came along as well and spent half the night grilling Sheila on the intricacies of Irish law. It seems Paddy has had numerous run-ins with the law and figured a friend in the police force might come in handy. I’ll say one thing for Sheila – she was well able to keep up with Paddy’s drinking but I didn’t fare so well. That Guinness is heavy stuff and by the end of the night I was under the table – literally. It took them half an hour to find me.

Somehow Paddy got me home. With heavy head and a sick stomach I made it down for breakfast the next morning to be greeted by the landlady. As luck would have it, there happened to be a group of real Finnish musicians staying there. “Who would have thought it?”, the landlady laughed. “Two groups of Finnish musicians staying with me on the one night! Here. Why don’t ye sit with them?”. And with that, she seated myself and Paddy at a table with the dour-faced Finns. Well, my Finnish isn’t the best but I managed to get through the conversation by just nodding my head sagely and stuffing myself with food so I wouldn’t have to speak. Afterwards, I ducked out and made a quick call to my editor. More bad news! Apparently, due to some accounting error, they’ve been paying me too much, and that last zero on my cheque shouldn’t actually be there. So now I find myself in the unique position of owing the Latin Connection magazine. It’ll take a years’ worth of articles to clear this debt and to make things worse, my crooked friend Finlan hasn’t settled my guest-house bill as promised.

There’s only one thing for it. I pick up the phone and call Sheila O’Shaughnessy. “Hi Sheila. Remember you were talking about me moving in with you? I’ve changed my mind. I think it’s a good idea. Oh, and is there any chance you can settle my B&B bill for me?”.

Moving On...

2006-11-07T06:38:00.000-08:00

The first thing I see when I open my eyes is Uncle Paddy’s red face staring at me from the other side of the cell. “Must have been a good night”, murmurs Paddy; “cause I can’t remember a thing”. How did I end up in this mess? By rights, I should be in Iceland by now, reporting on their thriving salsa scene but SOMEBODY SCREWED UP and instead I find myself in a small town called Galway on the rainswept west coast of Ireland. I won’t say who screwed up but let’s just say when I told my editor I was in Ireland instead of Iceland, she responded: “Aren’t they the same place?”. Okay, okay – I concede that though my editor might need a geography lesson, I can’t exactly blame everything on her. Like the fact I’m in jail.

First up, Paddy O’Shea isn’t actually my uncle. More like a third cousin once removed. Or is it first cousin twice removed? I had met him at cousin Stavros’s wedding where he tried to explain the complex familial connections to me over a pint of Guinness but on the eighth pint even he started to get confused so we settled on uncle and that was that. “Look me up if you’re ever in Ireland” he said, not realising I’d be calling on him so soon. And so I end up in Paddy’s house in Spiddal, just outside Galway city - “the fastest growing city in Europe”, according to Paddy. “70,000 and growing” he says proudly as I try to feign interest whilst unsuccessfully stifling a yawn.

His wife Mary serves us dinner – a curious concoction of boiled bacon, cabbage and potatoes. Paddy and Mary haven’t spoken in over 20 years so I do most of the talking. “What’s the salsa scene like here?”, I enquire of Paddy. “Ah we don’t go in for that sort of thing around here”, he says disapprovingly. “Irish dancing would be more my scene” he says, gesturing towards the multiple Irish-dancing trophies which line the room. “Like Riverdance?” I ask. “Who?”, says Paddy. “Riverdance. You know. Michael Flatley”. “Never heard of him. Is he local?”. I decide not to pursue the conversation any further and after finishing off my dinner it’s off to the pub with us to sample the local Guinness.

Only we can’t get in because Paddy’s barred from all the local bars. So we head off into Galway in Paddy’s tractor, stopping off in every pub we pass for “a quick drink”. “Aren’t there laws here against drunk driving?” I shout over the noisy tractor engine as Paddy steers us unsteadily along the coast road to Galway. “Doesn’t apply to tractors”, he slurs. “You can have as many drinks as you like and still drive a tractor”. Every so often I have to grab the steering wheel and steer him onto the proper side of the road. And thus we progressed – Paddy operating the pedals and me on the steering wheel. Everything was going swimmingly well until the cop car pulled us over.

It turned out Paddy’s interpretation of Irish traffic law bore very little relation to reality and we ended up in the slammer. “No tax, no insurance and drunk at the wheel – again”, growled Sergeant O’Reilly as he threw myself and Paddy in the cell. “They’ll lock you away this time O’Shea”. I had a hard time convincing the cops of my name. “Papa who?” says O’ Reilly. Well eventually I convinced them that I am indeed Enriqué Papadopoulos. But every time I told them I was from Regina they burst out laughing. Sergeant O’Reilly was so amused he rounded up all the other cops in the station and got them to ask me where I was from. “What’s so funny about Regina?” I asked to much amusement. Such rude men I have never met in my life!

However, there was one cop who seemed to take a shine to me. Sheila O’ Shaughnessy was her name, fresh out of cop-school, an Irish beauty with long black hair and, would you believe it? – a keen interest in salsa-dancing. Oh, and get this – she has a thing for short men. Now, I know what you’re thinking dear readers. What about my lovely Helen? I’ll admit, I felt a pang of guilt as I scribbled down Sheila’s number and promised to call her. But, let’s face it – I might never see Helen again and maybe it was time I started to get realistic about things. Sheila must have pulled a few strings because the next thing you know we’re out of jail. The tractor’s been impounded though, along with my passport and so we hitch back to Spiddal only to find Paddy’s wife has changed the lock.

I don’t know if any of you have ever slept in a hayshed and I can’t say I recommend it. Paddy’s incessant snoring didn’t exactly contribute to a good night’s sleep either and so I find myself wandering along the shores of Galway Bay in the wee small hours. I think about how far from English Bay I am – how far from Helen. I produce Sheila’s number from my pocket and read it in the light of the full moon. I consider throwing it away but, no – I put it back in my pocket. Something tells me I might be here for a while and maybe it’s time to forget about Helen. It’s time to move on...

My Big Hat Greek Wedding...

2006-10-31T06:46:00.000-08:00

My editor was so cross with me today! “You do realise your deadline was a week ago?” she snapped, her voice crackling down the long-distance line. How she tracked me down to a small hotel room in Thessaloniki, I shall never know. “Who is this?”, I mumbled incoherently, staring at my puzzled expression in the mirror and wondering where I got that black eye. “You’ve got two hours to come up with something or you’re fired!”. “But…”. She slammed down the phone before I could reply. I tell you my friends, I’ve been living quite the high life since joining the Latin Connection team and, hangover or no hangover - I’m not about to forsake the ample paycheque that wings its way to my East Vancouver apartment monthly. And so, here I sit in an internet café in downtown Thessaloniki, with two hours to come up with something to keep my readers happy.

But where to start? Well, I’m over here for cousin Stavros’s wedding so I suppose I could tell you about that – what little I remember of it. The ceremony was a standard Greek Orthodox affair, celebrated by Archbishop Gregorios, a man with an impressively long beard and the requisite deep booming voice you expect from an Orthodox priest. Then it was back to the Electra Palace hotel where I joined my cousins for a few shots of Ouzo at the hotel bar before the meal. There, I regaled them with tales of my North American exploits. As luck would have it my cousins are all smaller than me – the tallest was 4’7”. Being, for once the tallest person in the group did wonders for my confidence and the Ouzo which seemed to flow like tap water didn’t do any harm either.

The meal was a blur of Ouzo and moussaka followed by dancing to the groovy beats of cousin DJ Demetrius. At some stage I took a nap and when I awoke the crowd were assembled in a circle on the dancefloor. Now, if you think I’m going to miss a chance to join in a rueda then you don’t know me at all. Nicely embalmed, I jumped up and pushed my way into the circle, grabbing the nearest female and barking out orders in my best Spanish: “Arriba! Abajo! Enchufla Doble!” but nobody was taking any heed. Suddenly I realised I was in the middle of a traditional Greek Circle Dance. Some of the men broke free and started improvising their own strange dances which seemed to consist mainly of springing and leaping around the dancefloor. I may be half Greek but I tell you I was out of my league here. This should have been my cue to sit down, but what do you think I do? Well, my friends, I’m not quite sure why but I start breakdancing. I didn’t even know I could breakdance but it seems there’s a lot of things you can do when you’re on the Ouzo. Archbishop Gregorios must have been on the Ouzo too because next thing you know he starts breakdancing and suddenly we’re in the middle of a breakdance showdown, the crowd cheering us on: the little guy from Regina pitted against the deep-voiced Archbishop with the big hat - which by the way gave him an unfair advantage when it came to executing a head-spin.

I don’t remember much else from the night except a fight I got in with a cousin of the bride. I should have known better than to take him on. Maybe it was my newfound confidence after hanging out with my short cousins. Or maybe I was trying to impress Desdemona, the Greek beauty he was chatting up. Now, anyone who knows me knows I’m not one for getting into arguments about politics or world affairs. But there comes a point when you have to stand up for what you believe in. After listening to this ignorant man babble on incessantly for half an hour with his outrageous opinions, finally I could take no more. He had crossed a line and I had to set him straight.

I strutted confidently up to his table and tapped him on the shoulder. He turned to look at me. “Actually, for your information, Jennifer Aniston has way more class than Angelina Jolie and if I hear you drag her name through the mud any longer I shall have to ask you to step outside where we can settle this man to man”, I proclaimed (and all this in Greek, if you can believe it). It was only when he stood up that I realised he was considerably taller than my diminutive cousins. “Oh yeah? And what are you going to do about it”? I caught a glimpse of Desdemona out of the corner of my eye, smiling at me. As regular readers will know by now, I’ll do anything to impress a beautiful woman. And so, without much further ado, I threw my drink in his face. The last thing I remember was his fist making its way towards my face in slow motion. Ah yes, now I remember where that black eye came from. Well, my friends – it’s closing time in the internet café and cousin Petros is beckoning me with a bottle of Ouzo. I feel another adventure coming on. Until next time…

Enriqué.

Too Much to Drink...

2006-10-24T06:34:00.000-07:00

“You wanna know the secret of successful dancing?”, my dance teacher asked me one night, a mischievous glint in the one eye that wasn’t obscured by an eye-patch. “You wanna be king of the dancefloor, eh?”. “Of course”, I replied. His face broke into a grin, exposing a silver tooth which glinted ominously in the moonlight. And with that he produced a bottle of Cuban rum from inside his jacket. “This is my secret”, he said as he thrust the bottle under my nose. “Drink this and you will dance like a king”. I knew from that moment on that my teetotal days were over.

And so, it was a cold wet October night that found me supporting the bar in the Polish hall. The ubiquitous Vancouver rain was no match for the tears that streamed into my highball glass as the glamorous Polish lady conjured up numerous colourful cocktails for me. Exotic drinks with exotic names designed to disguise the inevitable fact of hangover. I spun my sorrowful tale to the Polish beauty, telling her of my futile search for the ever elusive Helen which had taken me halfway across the continent and cost me a small fortune in salsa lessons and alcohol.

Later, I take the lovely Polish lady out on the tiles, my teacher’s words of wisdom echoing in my ears as I dance like I’ve never danced before, the cocktails working their mysterious magic as I weave across the floor, spinning and swirling my prepossessing partner to the rhythm of the pulsating Latin music. Our dance finishes and we head back towards the bar. Well, my friends, as we walk, who should I spot out of the corner of my eye only my beloved Helen? Like a mirage she appeared, dressed in white, gliding elegantly on the arm of a well-dressed man. My first impression was that I had died and gone to heaven and this vision before me was none other than an angel of our Lord, so radiant was she in all her wondrous beauty.

I watch, entranced as she dances with the tall gentleman. And then they finish, and he escorts my lovely Helen to a seat. As if in a dream, I walk towards her, my heart palpitating furiously as I consider the possibilities. Ask her for a dance or profess my undying love for her? My counsellor suggests I take things slowly but what does he know about true love? As I walk towards her I remind myself I’m glad I wore my lumberjack boots – a trick I picked up from George Costanza, a character from the once popular Seinfeld TV series and the nearest thing I have to a role model. Laugh away dear readers but I’ve learned many a trick from Mr. Costanza not least the advantage of a pair of Lumberjack boots when you need that extra lift. They don’t exactly go with my imitation Armani suit but given a choice between height and style I’ll opt for height any day of the week. Ah yes, the ways of the vertically-challenged!

Suddenly, a hand taps me on the shoulder and I turn around to see a wild-haired woman grinning down at me, her eyes aflame with mischief. “Would you like a dance little man?”, she asks me, somewhat patronisingly. Before I can answer, she grabs me, whisks me onto the dancefloor and proceeds to throw me around the place with reckless abandon. It was around this point that the numerous cocktails kicked in. The room started to blur as she span me hither and thither. Anxious voices echoed in my ears as the crowd moved out of the way of the crazy lady. My stomach groaned ominously as the cocktails sloshed around unceremoniously inside. Luckily, I blacked out just before she sent me flying through the window.

The next thing I remember was waking up on the ground in the rain as anxious faces peered down at me. “Is he okay?” someone enquired. “I think he’s drunk”, someone else whispered disapprovingly. I stood up, all 4’9” of me (5 foot in my Lumberjacks!), and brushed the glass off my now bedraggled suit. Through the smashed window I caught a glimpse of the beautiful Helen as her handsome friend escorted her out of the hall. But before I could do anything my crazy dance partner appeared in front of me. “I was wondering where you had got to! Let’s have another dance little man!”. And with that, she lunged towards me, that mad look in her eyes. What did she want from me? I wasn’t about to find out. I turned and fled, running down Fraser street, the mad woman in pursuit. Somewhere around Kingsway a bus hissed to a halt and I jumped on. “Quick! Drive!”, I screamed at the driver who took one look in the rear view mirror before slamming the door shut and putting the boot down. “Woman trouble, huh?” he quipped. “You don’t know the half of it”, I replied as I beeped my ticket through the machine, wondering if I’d ever see my beloved Helen again. My friends, I tell you – this salsa dancing is a dangerous business.

Uncle George's Souvlakis...

2006-10-19T09:47:00.000-07:00

Well my friends, my postman has never been so busy! My sincerest thanks to all of you for your many letters. Brent from Burnaby writes to ask me am I any relation to ‘former Greek dictator’ George Papadopoulos. I take issue with your choice of the word ‘dictator’, Brent but this is not the place for political discussions. In answer to your question, let’s just say you haven’t lived until you’ve tasted one of Uncle George’s famous souvlakis. Wendy from West Vancouver asks am I the same Enriqué Papadopoulos who penned the 2001 New York Times bestseller The Regina Monologues – Tales from the Prairies. A fine book Wendy, and I’d love to take the credit but alas I am not that Enriqué Papadopoulos; in fact we’re not even related.

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.

The Adventure Begins...

2006-10-05T07:28:00.000-07:00

It’s all about poise. That’s what my therapist says. I remind myself of this as I enter the Hot Jazz Club on a typically wet Vancouver night, my heart palpitating with a strange mixture of nerves and excitement. Tonight is the big night. After six weeks of intensive training, my first night on the proverbial tiles of the salsa dance floor as I count the hypnotic rhythm in my head. ‘One two three and five six seven and one two three and five six seven’. But there’s another reason for my trembling heart. If I told you I was here for the dancing I’d be telling a lie. For the bittersweet truth, my friends is, I’m here for the love of a woman.

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.

Boy was I glad when that dance was over! To make matters worse, my beloved Helen was nowhere to be seen. Three Bacardi Breezers and a Smirnoff Ice later and still no sign of her. Disconsolate, I stumble out onto the rainswept street as a trolley bus sparks towards me. I mount the empty bus pondering to myself the strange places that love can take you. What was I thinking? Me, a salsa dancer? Like I say, I blame it on my therapist.