Un-deux-trois...cinq-six-sept, Encore!

Nevermind quatre. You have just completed un pas base of salsa. Listen closely, because the instructor will suddenly call out: et main-te-nant en arriere!...avant!...du cote! No worries if you don't speak French, just watch everyone else. Such was the beauty of my first salsa lesson in France. Not only could I visually understand what was being said but most everyone was messing up, stepping out of rhythm, releshing the chance to laugh at themselves and at one another after a long day. In other words, I was having fun in feeling a fool. This isn't often the case. Whether it's trying to master the pronunciation of deux (more like "new," not "do") when ordering croissants on a Sunday morning or not knowing that the demi-pression (a half pint of beer) I asked for was, in fact, what I had already ordered, I often feel a fool. I have no qualms about laughing at myself, with myself, by myself, but there's nothing like doing it in the presence of other French people who usually eye me with a weariness one might, unconsciously, attribute to someone who looks and sounds different. But what was especially fun about the salsa class was that it allowed me, for one smelly and sweaty glorious hour, to feel French. Or not exactly French but like everyone else. There was no room for labels. We were all learning salsa. We were all having to dance with strangers. We were all in it together. Jenny, a friend from Scotland, was with me. From time to time I would glance over in her direction, especially when we were separated (a scary moment) and forbidden to dance with other, men-less women (an odd moment), to see how she was getting along. Although she wore an expression of concentration I had never before witnessed, she was feeling it, too, I thought. We had forgotten where we were -- even the fact that the lady at the welcome desk thought that Jenny's name was Jimmy. Needless to say, we had a good laugh over that one.