Sunday, December 12, 2010

Simmering Salsa

For my latina friend Isabel's birthday, she invited a group of her closest friends in Korea to go out salsa dancing with her this past Saturday night. She had planned to be at Caliente, a Latin dance hall on the main street in Itaewon-dong, by eleven that night and dance until the party petered out. As the subway system stopped running by twelve, I figured that eleven-thirty would be my limit for the evening. That would give me just enough time to catch the last train back home to Suwon.

Some of us arrived with the birthday girl around ten-thirty, but the rest of her party trickled in for the next hour. As we waited for them, we sat around two dim tables in the back, sipping our one free drink of the evening, my beverage of choice a smooth juego de pina on the rocks. I glanced at my watch as more of Isabel's friends walked in, observing the minute-hand quickly slipping by with growing dread. I was holding out like the last man standing on the battlefield before retreating. Only one dance, I told myself. I still have to learn how to salsa tonight. By eleven-thirty, no one except Isabel had gotten up from our tables, and she only to greet her arriving guests; we still hadn't danced.

It was about this time that a tall white guy wearing jeans, black tennis shoes, and a heavy t-shirt walked in to say hello to the birthday girl. This was Isabel's friend from Korean class, Thomas, a graduate student here in Korea studying to become an electrical engineer and preparing to work with Samsung. I noticed my things selfishly blocking an entire chair and shuffled them to the floor so he could take my seat.

As we chatted amiably after requisite introductions, he mentioned being from "South Texas [or] northern Mexico" and my interest rose dramatically. "Where in Texas?" I prodded excitedly.

"Corpus Christi." Three hours away from my hometown. Sweet. "I went to school in Austin."

Even closer, I smiled to myself. "UT," I said matter-of-factly, indicating his university of choice.

"Where did you go?" he almost yelled, due to the increasing volume of the room.

"Texas Lutheran. In Seguin."

"I don't know Texas Lutheran, but I've heard of Seguin."

Fair enough. I began quizzing him on all the obscure places around the southern portion of the Lone Star State that only a local would know. "Have you heard of New Bransfels?" I started. "What about San Marcos? Pflugerville? Georgetown? Lampassass? Marble Falls? Uvalde? The Hill Country? Boerne? Junction? Fredicksberg?"

He had either heard of or knew them all. It was like coming home--so many names and locations that I had carried with me for a year, that no one around me knew about but me. The equivalent in Korea is meeting someone in Seoul who used to live in Chungju, the boon-docks according to Koreans, a place only people from the country ever dare go. If you ever meet someone who has lived there, you instantly feel like kin.

"Okay this one you won't know," I said, trying to stump him. "Burnet?"

He almost scoffed at me. "Pfft," he nodded. "It's right by Austin."

I had only heard of Burnet through a dear friend of mine I met my last year of college, though it's at most an hour and a half from San Antonio. So he was from Texas.

It was eleven-forty-five the next time I consulted my watch. I'd have had just enough time if I had extricated myself that very instant. I knew that would have been wisest; yet there I was, without any intention or real desire to leave. Mentally, I took stock of the belongings I had carried from Suwon: Twenty thousand won cash--check. Camera--check. Passport--check. ID--check. Thick book about the origins of ancient world languages, in case of boredom on subway--check. Extra clothes or toiletries in the event I am stranded in Seoul--uh, negative. I was quickly running out of time for plan A and plan B didn't seem very forthcoming.

"I was thinking of going to the jimjil-bang tonight," my friend Rebecca said moments after my silent inventory. "There's a nice one in Itaewon with private rooms to sleep in." Ah, yes. Korea's famous public bath houses. After nearly fourteen months in the country, I had yet to rake up the courage to try one. "You get used to it," Rebecca assured me. "They give you towels and pajamas and you can buy soap and shampoo there. The subway's closing soon and I thought it's better than trying to catch a cab home." It soon became painfully obvious that if I had wanted to ride the subway, I should have hit the road long before then. The later it got, the more tantalizing Rebecca's idea sounded. Maybe Plan B was starting to form after all.

Soon after our jimjil-bang discussion, one of our group volunteered to teach us to salsa and we all followed each other through the crowded, smoky room to the dance floor. Lea, an energetic twenty-something who spent a year studying abroad in Brazil, showed us the basic steps: Start with your feet together, then step your left foot out and bring it back back. Step your right foot back, then bring it forward to meet your left.

"Until you try anything new," she cautioned, "you always want to come back to one spot." Left foot forward, left foot center. Right foot back, right foot center. Got it.

"Then you go side to side, or you can do what every Cuban does--" she said as she rhythmically swung her left foot out and to the back of her and then brought it back in, repeating with the right. Man, she looked pretty good! I tried her basic steps, but confused myself at first with which foot went back and which forward. That is, until I started counting to four.

The group of novice dancers out on the floor circled around each other, self-consciously wanting to practice its new-found skills. The newbies would regroup again after each few set of songs, shuffling our feet from side-to-side in imitation of any real dance steps. Two Korean girls from Isabel's party always joined up with us, Isabel's co-worker named Stella and Stella's cute Korean friend. The friend looked the epitome of Korean fashion in her wide-brimmed black sweater, cutesy petite headband, and bobbed black tresses. Each time we found ourselves without partners, the two of us decided to dance with each other, wiggling around the dance floor like two toddlers learning to walk. Her giddy giggles and placating smiles made it all the less important that we weren't trying to perfect our Latin style.
As the six of us beginners started to pair off, Thomas and I found ourselves dancing with each other. Neither of us knew if the current song playing were indeed salsa, but we tried our hand--er, feet--at it anyway. As a way to judge his adroitness at rhythm, I had asked him while we were still in the circle if he played any instruments. Three of them, he told me: saxophone, piano, and violin. Clearly, he beat my claim of knowing only one. Rhythm, then, should not have been a problem.

I tried my best not to look at his feet or mine as he led me around the well-worn floor, instead shifting my gaze to other couples, reflections in the mirror, or the precise dance steps that surrounded us. Anything to keep me distracted from the fact that a man was actually holding my hand. One-two-three-four, one-two-three-for, I recited quickly to myself as I counted out the song's beats, trying to allow myself to be led. There was easily a foot of space between us both. Relax, Jennifer. It's just a dance.

Every so often, we'd miss a step, dislocating our movements from the rhythm of the song. Self-consciously, I stole glances down at our feet, making sure we were doing this right. One-two-three-four. "I still can't figure it out either," Thomas confided as we plodded on.

"Just count to four!" I shouted above the music.

He seemed to get it after that, even attempting turns every few measures to add a little sabor to our steps. One-two-three-four. One-two-three-four. Turn-two-three-four. One-two-three-four. Occasionally, he let go of my hand and turned himself, then quickly found my hand again, just like a boot-clod Texan might while dancing the two-step. Salsa with Thomas was beginning to feel natural, even rhythmic. At least until the music stopped.

Thomas and I yet again stood opposite each other at the start of another bar of music. He looked at me quickly, nodded then shrugged. "Yeah," he said straight-faced. "I'm getting bored of you, too."
I laughed off his comment coyly as we positioned our feet for another go. At the end of the music as he tried to dip me, my back stiffened unromantically in an awkward upright arch. I was taken aback--it was a move, I confessed, I had never tried. Neither had he, he assured me. Perhaps dancing with Thomas was far less fluid than my mesmerized mind had originally thought.

By this time I had forgotten to even consult my watch, so engrossed in the dancing as I was. Whatever the time, I knew it was late and getting even later. Rebecca stood next to me as we circled up to innocently practice our steps once more. I had already agreed to join her at the jimjil-bang whenever the party called it a night. "Unless you wanted to stay out later and continue dancing," she leaned over to me just then, "I'm fine with going in about half an hour."

I mumbled something to her about not really caring to stay out much later than that and glanced at my watch again: a quarter to two, what my dad would deem stupid o'clock in the morning. "We could leave at two, if you want." To this she nodded agreeably and the issue settled itself. This time, I would leave on time.

"Are you guys getting ready to leave?" Thomas asked, the next partner to the right of me in the circle. "Well, it was nice to meet you. Hopefully we'll run into each other again."

"It was nice to meet you, too," I said as I squeezed myself toward the door and my collection of belongings. I quietly left him to wile away the rest of the morning hours on the dance floor.

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