The Scene

Setting: Every salsa bar in Colombia.

Scene: Enter Blonde.

Heads turn discreetly and peripheral glances drift from eye corners to scan her from yellow hair to non-heeled shoes and back up again--partly intrigued, partly suspicious.

Blonde walks across the dance floor and removes her jacket.

The girls in the bar seem to be thinking, “What the hell is the gringa doing here?” The guys seem to be thinking: “Exotic species.  Must hunt.”

Blonde mingles within her crowd and starts casual nondescript side-to-side dancing with drink in hand.

Enter Man #1.  Script:  Default laundry list of questions/compliments: “Where are you from? How long have you been in Colombia? Your spanish is great! Do you know how to salsa?” (She says yes but they never believe her.)

Cue: Salsa music.  Blonde and Man #1 begin with the basic steps.  He notes that she catches the rhythm so he throws in a turn.  She doesn’t falter so he moves faster and spins her more until a circle is formed and a small audience observes--earnestly surprised that the white girl is not a horrible dancer. 

Cue: Reggaeton.    

Enter Man #2. Repeat default questions--this time yelling in the ear to compensate for the increased level of music volume.  Eventually, the two dance sandwich style, squished together amongst the mass of swaying bodies on the dance floor.

Enter Man #3: Blonde starts making up lies for answers to the default questions for boredom of repetition.  She starts teaching Man #3 the Funky Chicken and the Running Man and generates a small radius of breathing room with the flailing arms of the Disco and the Sprinkler.  The audience of observers assume expressions of bemused confusion. 

After she is tired of salsa and reggaeton and feels that she has provided sufficient entertainment as the clown of the evening, she collects her things to leave--despite the slurred protests of the observers with whom she formed alcohol-induced friendships. 

It’s only 1:30AM (early by Colombian standards), but she takes her bow. 

Every. Single. Time.  The exact same charade.  Not to say it’s not fun, just humorously predictable.