Salsa for salsa

Nicola is a dance addict and has been chafing at the bit to teach Tony and me.  I don't have a dancing bone in my body and a self-diagnosed form of tone deafness makes dancing seem like a futile activity for me.  Also I didn't want to waste Nicola's time.  

     I'd missed the opportunity to learn dance in year ten.  We had to attend dance lessons with boys from Ashgrove, the brother school to Stuarthome.  We'd had dances each term with the Ashgrove boys and there was no way I was doing dance lessons with them.   I had just turned 15 and I decided they were either immature or inarticulate or both or they were bevans.  But I took the school note home on the holidays and gave it to Mum, hoping she'd forget.

     My parents farewelled me at Lae airport as I was about to board the first of two planes back to Brisbane.

     "I almost forgot," said Mum pulling two fifty dollar notes from her bilum.  "This is for the dance lessons you are doing this term.  You have to give it to Mrs Crossley."

     I accepted the money with deep gratitude.  It was the most I had ever held.  It was mine.

     Mrs Crossley never saw it.  She was a well spoken, proper boarding mistress.  She even had a posh English accent and wore court shoes.  She probably thought my parents were crass Australians who had no interest in the essential skills young ladies needed to function successfully in life.

    I did well out of that hundred bucks.  A good deal of it was spent when I snuck out of school and caught the bus into town. It paid for yoghut cones at Wendys, cups of coffee at Jimmy's on the Mall, a packet or two of Alpine Lights and Beedies, both yuck, a pair of bright red Lipstick winklepickers and the remainder on editions of TIME magazine till I flew home for the Christmas holidays.

     Over the years I regretted not handing Mrs Crossley the hundred dollars because there have been times when I really wish I knew how to dance formally such as weddings or being at dance clubs.  The older I got, the less inclined I was to risk the humiliation of learning to dance. 

     I am not a fan of movies or even watching TV, but one of my favourite movies (of the whole ten I have watched in the last 25 years) is Strictly Ballroom  I even bought the CD. I wasn't brave enough to sway to the music, even when I was alone, but I did decide that by the time I was 70, I wanted to be able to do the salsa, samba, rumba, cha cha cha and of course, the pasodoble.

     Back to the present.  Nicola was keen to teach and her enthusiasm was infections.  And deep inside me, there is a Tina Sparkle waiting to twirl out in shimmering glory.  And Tony was keen to learn and he needed a partner.  

     We started last week.  After the first night, I was addicted and had one blister and a toe threatening to pull away from my foot.  At the moment we are fixated on salsa.  The other night, I made salsa which was fitting. 

All the ingredients came from the garden except the dressing and the half zucchini which was $4.99/kg from IBIS, a steal.

     Each night we clear the lounge and dining room of furniture and I apply a few BandAids and Fixomull. 

Dancing the salsa.  I am wearing my best dancing frock, not quite Tina Sparkle. I should wear socks for my foot injury, but they wouldn't look the part.

Tony and Nicola's stamina outdoes Henry's and mine.

     After lessons, I bring Pepper up, feed her and put her to bed inside. Tony gets onto Youtube and studies dance moves.  Henry goes downstairs and plans the next evening's footwork and music.  And Nicola helps Henry and searches for our salsa dresses.

     I have decided I want to do the salsa, samba, rumba, cha cha cha and of course, the pasodoble, by the time I am 46!