problems posting comments in IE
If you're trying to post TypeKey comments from IE and are experiencing strange behaviour, the best thing you can do is open Netscape 7+ or Firefox/Mozilla and do your work from there. If that is not an option, please try the following (which works for me sometimes, but not always).
Go to "Tools | Internet Options"
Click on the "Privacy" tab and then on the "Edit..." button near the bottom of the panel type http://www.pseudoLatino.com into the "Address of Web Site: " text box and then click on "Allow." Finally, click on "OK" and then, just to be on the safe side, close all instances of IE. When you return to pseudoLatino.com you should be able to enter your comments normally.
If not, just blow it off. Enter your comments without TypeKey until I can find out a workaround.
Sorry for the problem, but there IS a way to post comments without any difficulties, so chill out.
---e[ch]
Posted by earwicker at 01:29 PM
The King's Tale
Note to Readers:
The following story is an account of my 2-wheeled adventures through the Old Country during the summer of 2003. The author of the tale which follows--a rather smelly gentleman who would only identify himself as “The King,”--has some obvious problems with prolixity and verbosity, seemingly under the impression that “if it ain’t long, it ain’t good.” On the other hand, he has undertaken the narration of a 6-week journey that took me through 8 countries (France, Belgium, Luxembourg, Germany, Austria, Leichtenstein, Switzerland, and Spain) and over 40 different Alpine and Pyrenean passes. A faithful accounting thereof is bound to be a bit on the wordy side, I’m afraid. Feel free to ignore the whole endeavor, or to skip about as you see fit. After a bit of haggling, The King told me that I was free to distribute his work to any and all of my friends but that he intended to retain the copyright in hopes of someday earning enough money from this magnum opus to buy a six-pack and a ticket back to some place he called “Graceland.” In any case, that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it. So . . . without further ado, please enjoy The King’s Tale as much as I enjoyed living the events to which said tale gives voice.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::
The Cyclic Adventures of the Pseudo-Latino
Dearest Friends and Smitten Admirers of the Illustrious Salsa Pretender: rogue, charlatan, statesman, and intrepid slayer of Mountains---
This notice will serve to inform you of the recent exploits of Our Hero, as he proudly stormed the citadels of European Culture and Cyclisme in the name of all that is good, right, and holy (in other words, in His Own Name).
In The Beginning. . .
Having arrived in Paris on the 15th of July, apparently just missing a HUGE National Holiday given in his honor on the 14th (he was shocked and bewildered that the French loved him so dearly, but accepted their well-placed affection with his usual modesty and grace), and having further reassembled his bike in the middle of Charles de Gaulle airport and loaded it down with 40 pounds of vital, essential, crucial, indispensible, obligatory, compulsory, mandatory and necessary (but certainly not redundant) gear, Our Heroic Cyclist hopped on a train and found his way eastward to meet his friend Maryse . . . someone he had known for 5 years as an online presence, but had never before met in person. She was a charming, delightful hostess, but seemed a little confused--claiming that the holiday on the 14th was something called "Bastille Day" and wasn't actually in honor of Yours Truly. Oh well. One supposes she couldn't be PERFECT, after all.
Early the next morning he set out with his fully loaded rig towards Cologne. This journey took three days and covered almost 600 Kilometers, passing through the stunningly beautiful Marne Valley en route to Belgium, Luxembourg, and finally into the Fatherland itself--Germany. He had not anticipated the quantity or severity of the climbs during this portion of his sojourn, and arrived in Cologne fatigued and weary.
"Weary" means that his legs were really tired, and that the old phrase "that really chaps my ass" no longer referred to a cause of annoyance or anger. The Figurative, one might say, became The Literal. The Word became Flesh. Supremely irritated flesh, but flesh nonetheless. And naturally there was pain. Lots of pain.
Two days were spent in Cologne visiting old friends and relaxing at the home of Klaus and Christa Fellenz, two of the most wonderful people in all the world--his surrogate parents from his student days in Germany, and his ass was allowed time to unchap, as it were, before the two-wheeled odyssey through the Old World once again took up where it had left off.
Phase II: head for Innsbruck, Austria and then turn west--through the Alps.
The Journey Southwards
Accordingly, The Master of Map and Compass set out in a south-southeasterly direction, following the majestic Rhine river as far as Bingen (as in 'Hildegard von') before turning away and back into (yup) those pesky, gosh-darned, ubiquitous HILLS.
European Cycling Theorem 1.1: if one is in europe and is not following a large river, one is probably climbing, descending from a climb one has just completed, or dreading the climb which has just appeared in one's path. Alternatively one has just attempted to pass through a large city and is currently losing many hours of one's time threading one's way out of said city's labyrinthine streets, alleyways, and bike trails.
After three long days of intense climbing and unusually hot weather (it turns out that Our Beloved Arriba Amoeba brought his native Texan weather along with him to europe; the humidity and temperature were extremely high for almost the entire trip), he arrived in a city named Aalen (where he nearly died in a tunnel forbidden to cyclists. Ooooops!), and realized that--at his current rate of progress (about 100 miles a day) he was likely to spend all his time riding TO the mountains instead of IN the mountains. So he hopped on a train, spent a day resting in Don't-Blink-Or-You'll-Miss-It-Mindelheim, and decided that he would begin his alpine ride the next day--the 24th of July-- in an austrian town named Reutte, chosen arbitrarily from his map due to its ideal location.
Why--one may now legitimately ask--didn't he just RIDE the rest of the way? Well, keep in mind that all of his travel decisions at this point were aimed at getting him to Cerbere, France, on the first day of August so that he could rest and begin a ride called the Raid Pyreneen on August 3rd. . . and that he had concrete goals to achieve between Reutte and Cerbere--including several nasty Swiss passes and the Mother Of All Climbs--L'Alpe d'Huez. But I, dear reader, am getting ahead of myself!
Back to Reutte . . .
And the Mountains Rising Nowhere
Disembarking from the train that evening, surrounded by mist-shrouded mountains and lightly pelted by some of the only rain he was to experience during his entire 6-week stay, Our Hero felt himself succumbing, once again, to the charms of europe. Weight dropped from his shoulders, and years from his countenance. Cares were left far far behind.
He spent the 25th and 26th bagging passes in western Austria, the most stunning and deadly of which is known as Bielerhöhe. Its thirty-one numbered hairpin turns were, for him, more difficult than L'Alpe d'Huez. He found it more than a little disconcerting to ride on a road so steep that in only 2 or 3 turns one has left one's point of departure hundreds of feet below, and to do so time and time again. (Noting my obvious disbelief he assured me that this is indeed no exaggeration!)
Cloud Guts and Traffic
On the 27th, he loaded up the bike, climbed aboard, headed westward into Liechtenstein, and then fought the strongest headwind he had ever experienced to climb into Switzerland. This wind is known regionally as the "Fön" which, oddly enough, is the same word those crazy germans use for "blow-dryer." Well, Our Legend in His Own Mind could hardly move his bike forward through the Blow-Dryer, and several sideward gusts nearly knocked him flat on his still-quite-chapped-and-now-becoming-calloused ass. But he somehow made it over the hill, and the river, and through the woods, and snagged a train to Andermatt, where we can all rest assured that SOMEBODY's grandmother has a house to which they go. Regularly.
The loop he had chosen in central Switzerland turned out to be a lesson in frustration and frostbite. The day was a series of 3 extremely long, high climbs into freezing cold mist with zero visibility, fast, exhilarating descents requiring winter gloves and three layers of clothing, and short periods of moderate weather in between--during which he saw the sun for perhaps 45 minutes total during eight and a half hours of riding. Brrrrrrrrrrrr. One of the most beautiful locations in all the world, and he saw lots of . . . ummmm . . . clouds. From the inside. The wet, dribbling, freezing cold, visibility-masking inside. Next time he sees that idiot Joni Mitchell, rest assured that Ours Truly is gonna ask her what the HELL she was thinking with all that "I've looked at clouds from BOTH sides now" crap. "Joni," he'll say, "when you've taken a few good looks from INSIDE the *&#!^*@# clouds, get back in touch. Until then, why don't you go play in some traffic?"
Of course, in Switzerland, on the 28th day of July in the Year of Our Lord 2003, one man took a look inside the clouds AND played in traffic. All at the same time. Ol' JWB3 is just talented that way.
Them Thar's Thuh Alps, Pilgrum
But enough about His Holiness. Let's talk for a moment about the mountains themselves, and particularly about the high passes of the French Alps--those glorious ascents of the Tour de France. These are the true stars of the next phase of McDood's Juggernaut. As he pedaled away from Grenoble on the morning of july 30th, his excitement palpably increased as the road signs began to show mileage (kilometerage?) to places like Bourg d'Oisans, L'Alpe d'Huez, Col du Galibier, Col de la Croix de Fer, and Col du Lautaret. No longer were these words sitting on the pages of Lonely Planet's Cycling France or on the internet. Nope. No longer were the images merely coming through the television set or jumping off the pages of a newspaper or magazine. No way. They were all around him, drawing him onward. He reached Bourg d'Oisans around lunchtime, set up his tent, stowed his bags, and went to find the most famous climb of them all, l'Alpe d'Huez. Without betraying the tiniest outward hint of his fervor or resolve, Our Hero had decided that l'Alpe, aka "that sumbitch," was gonna go DOWN. "L'Alpe," he thought "is MINE!"
As it turns out, l'Alpe doesn't belong to anyone. It belongs to the entire sport of cycling. L'Alpe is its Mecca, and the French Alps and the Pyrenees are its Holy Lands. The infamous climb to the top of l'Alpe d'Huez began within a mile of his campsite, and as soon as the road tipped upward he knew he was in a special place and that a wonderful experience was in store for him. He was not to be disappointed.
The on-road graffiti so famous and familiar to anyone who has ever seen the Tour de France covered the pavement beneath his wheels: "Lance is God" and "Ullrich #1" and "VIRENQUE! VIRENQUE!" There were dozens, perhaps hundreds of his fellow cyclists on the mountain, heading up or heading down, or stalled on the side of the road, recovering. Every stripe of bicycle enthusiast under the sun was represented, from hardcore, in-training professionals to slovenly once-a-year Tour-o-philes who had dusted off their rusty mountain bikes to make--or attempt to make--the pilgrimage to the top of this iconic lump of rock. As for Ours Truly, he made it to the top in one hour and thirty-two minutes. Lance did it this year in 41 minutes, so there's still some room for improvement on the part of Our Fearless Leader. But Lance had clearly better watch his back.
It was, to be sure, a fantastic, fantastic day.
But it was the next day that was truly to stretch him to the very limits of his strength and resolve: 4 cols, 170 Kilometers, and--if you believe Cycling France--almost 13,000 meters of climbing. And all in one day (Cycling France divides the route into 4 full days, not including l'Alpe . . . but JB wasn't interested in acquiescing to his mortality in this way. Nuh-uh. No-siree).
That loop (for a loop it was) was to take him to the tops of Col du Galibier (2654 Meters), Col du Telegraphe (1566M), Col du Lautaret (2057M), and Col de la Croix de Fer (2061M). The views he was unable to enjoy in Switzerland were presented to him on this day in spades. The view from Galibier (the highest altitude of his entire trip) was unparalleled. As was the windspeed. The descents from Galibier, Telegraphe, and la Croix were truly incredible--smooth and dangerously fast . . . not to mention the sheer, intimidating drop-offs awaiting anyone careless enough to miss a turn. There was a very low point early in the afternoon, as he travelled through a butt-ugly industrial butt-ugly valley on his way from the base of Telegraphe to the beginning of the (28K!) climb up to ye olde Iron Cross (Croix de Fer). According to his map, he was to have a nice, gradual and restful descent for about 30 butt-ugly kilometers as he approached butt-ugly St. Jean de Maurienne and the start of his not-remotely-butt-ugly climb. He had actually looked forward to this reprieve the entire first half of the day. MADE PLANS around it, even. Pah! What ACTUALLY happened was that the wind was being funnelled through this butt-ugly valley of butt-ugliness directly into his face with such force that on several occasions he had to pedal in order to get his bike to move DOWNHILL.
I leave you, dear friend, to think about that for a minute.
[insert one minute pause here]
In any case, he arrived home at the end of his strength, ate two dinners (something that happened pretty often during his 4000-6000 Calorie-per-day adventures), and tumbled into bed, dreaming of flat roads, tail winds, and unchapped asses--most particularly his own.
The Last Train To Dorksville
For a country so enamored with All Things Bicycle, it can be remarkably difficult to get one's bike from place to place using French railways. Our Enervated Friend was told flatly that there was "no way" to get his bike from Grenoble to Cerbere by train. "Impossible." Being one of the most annoying guys on the planet has its benefits, however, and he was soon on his way to the Mediterranean coast, WITH his bike, albeit with about 6 connections and lots of layovers before him. The only other notable event this day is recorded thusly in his daily journal:
Please repeat after me, slowly:
The Pseudo-Latino ["The Pseudo-Latino "] is a dumbass ["is a dumbass"]Do it again . . . just cuz I said so:
The Pseudo-Latino ["The Pseudo-Latino "] is a dumbass ["is a dumbass"]OK
Now, the reason for this is that I got off of the last train one stop too soon, and had to ride 10K at top speed in order to reach (not to mention FIND) the correct train station and catch my connection to Avignon. I made it with just enough time to find the correct track, haul my rig down and up some stairs, buy a coke, and jump on the train--which, by the way, was pulling into the station.
On the bright side, he tells me that it did help pass the time.
Arriving in Cerbere shortly after 10pm, he found a campsite about 3K north of town and settled in for a couple days' recuperation.
Who's Afraid Of The Big Bad Raid?
Sweltering Mediterranean Sun. Cloudless sky. Heatwave. Topless bathers. The strange brand of humanity known as "Beach People." Bike repairs and cleaning. Clothes washing. Lots of eating and waiting. Writing in his journal. That's how the next two days passed in preparation for the Raid Pyreneen. What exactly is a "Raid Pyreneen?" The RP is a ride that starts in Cerbere, France on the Mediterranean coast--only 4K from Spain--and ends 790 kilometers, 28 passes, and 16,000 meters of climbing later in Hendaye, on the Atlantic coast. One is allowed 10 days to complete the crossing, and must obtain stamps at various control points along the way in order to verify one's progress. As if this were not bad enough, it was Our Hero's fate to challenge these mountains with a 40-lb load in 100+ degree Fahrenheit heat.
This ride alone could occupy many many pages, dear reader, in which I, your faithful scribe, would recount glowing tales of triumph, adversity, heroism, rage, perseverance and passion, but such a brilliant and inspiring retelling will have to wait for another time, another place. Leave such stories to Scheherazade, I say, for I will not tell them. Not here . . . and disappointed though you must be at my callous refusal to provide uplifting and examplary parables for your personal and moral edification, you will undoubtedly make do with the following few general observations.
Most importantly, he completed the ride successfully in 7 days and 12 hours--rolling into the forgettable and ugly and forgettable and forgettable Hendaye on the 10th of August, ecstatic beyond all belief. Along the way he conquered many of the most famous climbs in cycling: Tourmalet, Port de Pailheres, Aspin, Peyresourde, Portet d'Aspet, Portillon, Aubisque . . . and the hardest (though not most famous) of them all: Col Bagargui. he learned to hate RVs and racing bikes (the motorized variety), and came to love most everything else about the French and their love of cycling. Were you inclined to ask him, he would be unable to tell you how many people screamed "Allez allez!" and "Bon Courage!" and "Bravo!" at him on those endless, brutal climbs, but he would tell you that their encouragement made a difference more times than he could count. Amongst other lessons, he learned to recognize the sound of his pulse pounding within his left ear as a result of overexertion under the midday sun (the first time he heard it he was convinced that there was some sort of machine clanking away in the river valley far below him). He relearned the seemingly trite but true lesson that EVERYTHING can be accomplished in life if one just continues to push on the pedals (more commonly but less interestingly expressed as "continues putting one foot in front of the other") and rediscovered many other fundamental things about himself and his own character in the extremity of those days and hours. He will NEVER, as he says, EVER forget those 7 days and 12 hours in early August of 2003.
He claims that everyone should tackle their own Raid Pyreneen from time to time. It's important, he says. He insists that it makes a meaningful difference in one's life. At the very least, I--a most disinterested and reliable third party--am forced to concede that it made a difference for Our Hero . . . and one can only suppose that's good enough to keep the tides ebbing and flowing and to hold the governments of the world safe for Democracy--at least for another year or two.
In The Heat Of The Knight
As you are now aware, Monsieur Pseudo-Latino brought his native Texas weather with him to continental europe, in order that he might avoid yet another disheartening bout of climatic homesickness of the sort that plagues him every spring and fall when he wonders constantly: Why be COMFORTABLE when one can instead simmer in one's own juices at the bottom of a crushingly humid atmospheric vat of intolerable heat???
Why indeed.
As surprising as it may at first appear, the heat was somehow survivable when Our Cheerful Champion spent all of his time out of doors. He acclimated. As soon as the ride was over, though, all that changed.
In an effort to escape the boring and wretched ugliness of Hendaye, Ours Truly had taken a train to Bordeaux to relax for a couple of days before returning to Paris and intruding upon the good graces of his Parisian friends. Why Bordeaux? Simple. It wasn't Hendaye, and it was on the way. What he did NOT take into consideration was that the heatwave was general throughout France, and that every hotel with air-conditioning, in every city, was full. No rooms. "Please to try the hotels near the train station, sir." Uh huh. The UN-AIR-CONDITIONED hotels near the train station, is what they meant. Yet he did. Try them, that is. He found a room and proceeded to sweat within its confines like a miserable, filthy, rank, smelly, and disgusting pig for the next two days. Every air-conditioned store or restaurant in Bordeaux received his grateful patronage during those 48 hours.
Yet all good things must come to an end, and finally--after his two days in hell--the heat started to subside a bit, and on the third day he made a snap decision to rise again in order to save the living and the dead (it being the third day he figured that SOMEONE had to do it). So he loaded his bike onto the train for Paris (after once again being told there was "no way" to get his bike from Bordeaux to Paris via railway, and once again capitalizing upon his ability to patronize and annoy) and headed back.
Home Of The "Cheese-Eating Surrender Monkeys"
Despite the best efforts and counterclaims of the "freedom fry"-eating morons in his country of origin, The Pride of All Rides stands firm in his conviction: France rocks. And if he is to be taken at his word (he is) no place in France rocks quite the way that Paris does. This was to be his 4th and longest stay in the City of Lights, and he made the most of it as he waited for the event that was ostensibly the reason for his entire european outing: Paris-Brest-Paris (PBP).
Dood! He Said "Brest!"
Paris-Brest-Paris may have nothing to do with those infamous globes which have inspired men of all ages, in all epochs, to impassioned acts of Love and War, but it does happen to be nothing less than the Olympics of amateur cycling. It is the oldest event in the sport, organized in 1891, and is the ride that inspired the creation of the Tour de France. In its modern form, it is a 1200K brevet which must be completed within 90 hours--roughly 4 days' riding to complete a hilly 750 mile course. It takes place only once every 4 years and there are over 4000 riders who participate, each rider having already completed a series of four brevets (200, 300, 400, and 600K) in order to qualify. Our Nefarious Slayer of Mountains arrived at the starting position on the afternoon of August 18th rested and ready to go. Antsy, even. Eager. The traditional mass start takes place at 10 o'clock pm, and riders are expected to ride through the first night. This is a beautiful thing. And it was, indeed, beautiful. As a non-PBPer, one might legitimately wonder how a PBP unfolds.
Here's one version, belonging indelibly and intimately to Ours Truly:
Thousands of bikes spread out before and behind one for the first few hours. Kilometer after kilometer pass under one's wheels; climb after climb, hour after hour. One's entire existence shrinks down to a small, glimmering, conical splash of diffuse light. Thoughts turn inward. Control vans ride past one at 4am blasting "Let's Twist Again" in order to wake one up and restore some spring to one's spin (more commonly but less interestingly expressed as "spring in one's step") . One finds respite by sleeping in a Cash Machine Booth because it is just too damn cold to sleep on the park bench outside. Hundreds of local people stand along the roads shouting encouragement and selling coffee, snacks, or drinking water at all hours of the day and night. There's pedaling. Lots and lots and lots of pedaling.
After 12 hours, things start to hurt. One adjusts one's cadence or position or one's saddle height. Some pains subside, others surface. One adjusts again. Catnaps. Quick meals. Control points. A visit to the medical tent, then a local pharmacy. Strong, hard riding throughout the second day--literally RACING into control #3 at Fougeres (never stronger!) and sharing the speed and exhilaration of a kamikaze paceline into control #4, Tinteniac. ATM. Dinner. Darkness. Freezing cold nap. Other pains arrive, this time completely new and unknown: the tendons over one's inner ankles start to ache. Hours alone in the dark, riding toward the next control in Loudeac. Medical tent again: please won't they wrap an injured left ankle??! At 4am there's no doctor, just a red cross assistant. One accepts a useless, half-hearted "massage" and an inadequate wrap, pays to sleep on a cot for an hour and a half, awakening with barely enough time to make it to the control in Carhaix, the last before Brest. (Yes, Beavis, I KNOW I said "Brest.")
Stepping into and upon the pedals, Our One True Hope and Joy knows he's in trouble. His left ankle is so inflamed that he can't even stand up on the bike. 80 kilometers and 4 hours separate him from Carhaix, and though his legs feel unbelievably strong, his mind alert and focused, he nonetheless begins to despair. At the secret control in St. Martin des Pres he asks for medical assistance. There is none to be had. He must make it to Carhaix, still over 50K away. Onward he struggles, wincing with every stroke, his frustration and anger building. Twenty-three kilometers fall behind him without ever once standing out of the saddle. This static positioning increases stress to body. Right ankle joins left ankle. Ass discovers new levels of chappedness. Left hand, thus far unproblematic, begins to go numb. Defiantly he forces his ankles to do their job. They worsen. Generally speaking there was pain. Lots and lots of pain. But none of it really matters except the screaming of ankles.
Nearly in tears, feeling helpless and enraged, Our Valiant Knight struggles as far as Plouvenez-Quentin before he can simply no longer apply pressure to his pedals. Refusing to quit, but unable to go forward, His Majesty simply fails. His body has abandoned him--not, as one might anticipate, from overtraining or overuse . . . but from a completely unexpected quarter. Without warning. Causation unknown. ("Human-to-Machine Interface Issues" one friend later suggests, trying to be helpful.) Feeling horribly embarrassed (and, as mentioned, violently angry), he accepts a ride into Carhaix, thereby giving up any chance of finishing the ride.
The doctor on duty says that nothing can be done that will take effect quickly enough to get him back into the ride. The doctor on duty tells him he should not ride for at least a week. The doctor on duty says he shouldn't even walk for a couple days, if at all possible. The doctor on duty says he's sorry, but there'll be other rides. The doctor on duty narrowly avoids being invited to kiss Ours Truly's hindquarters.
Sadly, he leaves the control, and the route, and the ride, finds a hotel room, drinks an entire bottle of red wine and sleeps like the dead for the next 18 hours, subsequently taking a train back to Paris in defeat.
That, dear friends, is how one PBP unfolded--at least for one rider, at one point in time. At the next PBP, at another point in time, it will unfold very very differently. But that story will have to wait another 4 years to be written.
Epilogue
And with that, we move onward to the end of our Epic Saga, where verily and wearily endeth this Chronicle, outlining but one set of adventures in the sometimes-remarkable-after-all life of The Salsa Pretender/Tango Leper/Pseudo-Latino -- rogue, charlatan, statesman, and intrepid slayer of Mountains. Despite his disappointment in Paris, Our Dear Friend returned home happy and satisfied--with a 95% success rate and nearly 3500 kilometers added to his odometer. His body is recovering nicely, and his legs--if we can believe the rumors--are just too damn sexy for prime time.
So. . . if, perchance, you should happen to meet Our Intrepid Wanderer in your travels . . . greet him warmly, welcome him home, and remember fondly the Tales he has allowed me--with his usual grace and modesty--to retell herein for your pleasure, your moral upliftification, and your personal empowermentude. Or . . . ummmmm . . . or something like that.
Posted by earwicker at 12:00 AM
It's not just for Chips, stoopid!
Though I'm still embarrassingly awkward, I've started dancing Salsa--formally--for the first time ever. I drove all over Dallas yesterday (thursday) night to find a place offering group lessons so I could be better prepared for my first ever private dance lesson this evening (friday). I ended up at the Therapy Lounge in Deep Ellum, which offers a live Salsa band and free lessons every thursday. There were six of us taking the lesson, and everyone but me had had some experience with formal dance. Needless to say, I sucked. The instructor tried to cram LOTS of steps into a 30 minute lesson, and they all just started to run together in my head. This is a bad thing, particularly when one's head isn't yet really attached reflexively to one's feet, as is the case with yours truly. As one of the two students who were partnerless, I ended up dancing with someone else's girlfriend, and as if my anxiety and lack of coordination weren't already bad enough, I suddenly couldn't count to four, couldn't find the beat with my feet, and began sweating buckets--more from embarrassment than exertion.
If you're out there, Amber, my profound apologies for those dances, and my profound thanks for your graciousness in the face of my ineptitude!
In any case, I survived my own terror, and actually spent the entire evening with Amber, Ben (her partner) and an engaging young fellow from Switzerland whose name I just can't seem to remember. We enjoyed the ambience and warmth of the clientele at the Velvet Hookah until near closing. The band was incredibly engaging and charismatic (at least after the obscene amount of alcohol I had managed to imbibe), their name? . . . Common Folk. They perform there every Thursday night, so I highly recommend a visit.
Anyway, back to the subject at hand. Having popped my pathetically unprepared Salsa Cherry at the Therapy Lounge (one wonders if they know just how aptly they were named last night?), I was primed and ready for my first private lesson--at 7:30pm this evening.
What a difference a day makes!
Even hungover and sleepy, I was able to nail down most of the basic steps I had been exposed to the previous evening, including [pause while I dance to Jerry Rivera's "Vuela Muy Alto" . . . ] some basic turns and a couple of fancy steps that I still don't really have mastered. My instructor (Star) was impressed with my progress and--to force me to lead her--she closed her eyes while we danced a couple of songs. It was an amazing experience! You really get an idea for transmitting your intentions through your hands (male left to female right) and your arm (male right to female left), and get immediate feedback if you move without signalling (i.e. girl moves wrong way or doesn't move with you).
After my first real lesson I was eager to make up yesterday's ineptitude to my newfound Salsa friends, so I headed up to Gloria's for an evening of live Salsa and Latin rhythms. I have rarely seen so many fantastically sexy women in a single place, and the club was packed with human beings there only to dance Salsa. It was . . . hmmmm . . . let's say "intimidating" to see these people move with such ease, grace, and sensuality. Unfortunately, Amber and Ben never arrived, and I was WAY too insecure in my newbie skills to actually dance with anyone, so I left about midnight (the band didn't even start until 11 o'clock). Not surprisingly, I came home, cranked up the Salsa and started practicing. This music makes my entire body ACHE to dance, and I'm trying to get in at least 5 hours of concentrated practice before my next lesson--this Sunday afternoon at 3pm. I intend to be dancing without too much inhibition at Gloria's within 2 months. To that end I'm taking 2 private lessons per week for the next month, and committing at least 10-15 hours per week to practicing, either at home in front of a mirror, or at one of the many clubs here in town that present Salsa during the week.
I'll keep you posted.
Posted by earwicker at 12:00 PM