"You're alive. Do something."



I was fortunate to have been able to spend Thanksgiving back in my adopted hometown of Manuel Antonio, Costa Rica. There is nothing like salsa dancing the night away--it has a special ability to really bring out a person's spirit, and is insurmountable to trump on the fun-scale.

It is more than just a dance; it is moving art, impossible to preserve in a museum or keep behind glass. It is two people's souls, emerging and marrying by forming their own unique rhythm. It is an intimate form of non-verbal communication, which manages to practically scream to those watching, "Passion!" "Intensity!" "Sex appeal!" "Desire!" "Enticement!" "Seduction!"

For me, it is my inhibitions let loose. My fear of those who are watching left behind. It is my sexual being wanting to express itself after the alcohol I consumed, which is expressing itself as I boldly march onto the dance floor, Latin in hand. The steps just flow, and my waist follows, shifting fearlessly from side to side, following the lead of my suitor. At this point, it does not matter the suitor; I am instantly attracted to him through his ability to make a woman feel like a real woman.

In salsa dancing, the roles are clearly defined. The dance is the definition of male dominance--he is the one to lead, and she to follow. He is the agressor, and she the passivist. And I love it. It is outdated, against all modern notion of equality...and I love it even more.

It is romance put to motion. It is passion come alive. It is sex in its most innocent form. And it is the love of all these things combined that propels my untrained American feet onto the floor, over and over again.