Ay caramba!

Joli Selten

I was not about to sign up for the contest. Five-year-olds, the

fashionably frumpy and the femme fatales were all in line, prepared to

return in a week for the Orange County Fair’s salsa finals.

For a moment, it almost felt like we were on the set of an outdoor

“Star Search,” complete with judges, a band and a host, who incidentally

looked more like Carmen Miranda than Ed McMahon.

Once the line died down, the pressure lifted to “be all I could be” on

the dance floor and I took my place in the front row for my very first

salsa lesson on the Heritage Stage at the Orange County Fair.

Looking around at my classmates, I sensed I was surrounded by

beginners, and my friend and I were not the only people without partners.

We were afraid to be paired up with strangers for this intimate dance but

we were left alone to figure the steps out for ourselves.

We learned the basic step first, moving on to a simple side turn, and

ended with an around-the-back, duck-under-your-arm, come-back-around spin

that, even after practicing for 30 minutes, never failed to tie me in a

knot.

Feeling frustrated by my inability to master the move, I kicked off my

sandals for better footing, only to be stepped on by a neighboring

novice.

During one of my many failed attempts to properly untie myself, I

caught a glimpse of a spinning woman and her perfectly poised lead in the

corner near the temporary tattoo tent.

Their bodies were as one. His command of the dance was unparalleled by

any other in the crowd and her style and flexibility set her apart from

the now-jealous aforementioned femmes. There was no doubt about it: The

Orange County Fair’s Carmen Miranda had found her winning contestants,

and the contest hadn’t even begun.

The half-hour lesson came to an end, and though we wanted more, my

friend and I gathered our shoes and walked away to make room for what was

to be a no-contest contest. Fifteen minutes and an Orange Julius later,

we returned to the stage to find that the same couple who’d caught my eye

had cleared the floor of participants. In a single gesture, her leg

kicked up to rest on his chest and he flipped her over backward, where

she recovered with a fierce hair toss and what seemed to be 20 turns.

Needless to say they won, and man, did they make it all look so easy.

I watched in awe and tried to mentally tackle the dance that completely

confused me physically:

It’s a fluid motion that begins at the hips and sends loose rhythms

through the entire body. These rhythms, feverishly serenaded by the

sounds of Latin, big-band jazz, excite the right foot to push forward,

closer to the music that, like an angry lover, pushes it back to where it

began. Before it’s aware of what it’s doing, the left foot picks up the

flirtatious flow and slides playfully behind, only to quickly return to

meet its partner, the right, for a repetitive game of hard-to-get.

Arms tight, eyes locked, it’s sensuous, it’s spicy, it’s salsa.

Be cautious, I think it’s addicting.