SATURDAY JUNE 18, 2011, CAMBRIDGE RAIN AND JEWISH RHYTHM (U.K.)
I just can’t seem to win with sleep. I didn’t want to go to bed last night, and now I didn’t want to be waking up, but somehow my body thinks that consistently being sleep deprived is a good thing. Thanks. I lay in bed for 2 hours waiting for Jiten to awaken, so I didn’t wake him in the mean time. Turns out he was doing the same thing. After a shower, we had breakfast. Jiten poured me a bowl of cereal telling me to say “when”. When “when” time came, he added a bit more, telling me it was barely anything and he understands it’s not the best, but it’s what he has. Telling me to eat more and guilt tripping me at the same time. Nice touch, but it made me wonder, was Jiten a Jewish Italian mother in a past life?
The weather outside looked lovely. Sunny, with few clouds, we were hopeful a day of good weather. Then painful shrieks of thunder shook the house. Hoping to avoid driving in the rain, we soon rolled. The route to Cambridge was lovely. We passed greenery in every form. Pastures, knolls, patches, trees, that along with the blue sky and cotton candy clouds was something that the people who lived here saw everyday, but for me, it was just a picture in a post card. Of course behind the white clouds and blue sky hid villainous gray clouds. They rested sinisterly over where we were going. It seems as though I had brought the “bad” (and I say “bad” because if it is slightly gloomy, it’s bad for LA) weather from LA and it was following me and my poor friends around England.
We knew we were in Cambridge when we saw the first sign of bikers. Cambridge is a charming University town and immediately I could feel it’s charm, sense of community, and lax vibe. Bikers ruled the roads, girls were not as dressed up and decorated with 15 layers of caked on makeup and people walked with smiles on their faces, even in pouring rain.
We drove through the center of the city on our way to pick up Jiten’s friend Esther. We stopped in front of a quaint stone brick apartment building, where a girl in a pink summer dress opened the door and stepped out in an elegant manner, a slight strut to her girly walk as she entered the car. She and Jiten had that of a playfully bickering relationship; constantly fighting with either other in a joking manner.
We parked the car somewhere in the center of town and walked to Rainbow Room; a vegetarian cafe along one of the main drags, passing impressive architecture, giant stone structured old buildings, which turned out to be different colleges and universities. On our short walk, it began to sprinkle, which turned to rain, which thus turned to down pour. We ran to the restaurant and at the back, sat one of their friends with a girl he knew. Arturo, a Mexican guy who had come to England 10 years ago to study, sat sipping orange juice across from his quiet German friend, Andrea. We joined them and everyone began talking. It’s hard not to in this case, everyone coming from such diverse backgrounds, working in completely different fields, studying completely different subjects. One has to have some sort of curiosity about how we all got to this table for lunch.
When our food was nearing, another one of their friends showed up. Ferruchio, a charming Italian walked in, sat down and ordered a cappuccino. When it arrived, he took a few spoonfuls of the foam on top and didn’t look all too pleased.
“It’s not very good.”, he said. “But then again, I wasn’t expecting too much.”, he stated like a true coffee drinking Italian.
After lunch, we walked outside of the restaurant to see sun again. We strolled down the street and around to another university hang out, where along the top floor, there was a coffee shop and a fantastic view over a nearby lake. We sat and sipped coffee, until we headed off to a (not so) garden party. Esther’s university was throwing a garden party, but due to the unexpected bursts of rain throughout the day, it was now an indoor party, filled with Uni students and strawberries over which they poured plain cream; The English and their cream. They were serving Pimm’s cocktails some sort of alcoholic drink tasting like cream soda with fruit in it, or as Ferruchio explained, “You know Sangria? Well it’s nothing like that.”
Most of Jiten’s friends were older than the university crowd and didn’t really know anyone there, so after a drink and a few hellos, we left Esther to her party. Jiten, Ferruchio, Arturo and I headed in Jiten’s car for a quick stop, and then over to Ferruchio’s pad for a pit stop and to talk over the plan for later on. Ferruchio very nicely kicked us out after a bit so that he could get a few hours of beauty sleep.
Arturo, Jiten and I headed to Mill Road, a long street housing various restaurants, and club and then onto CB2 just for a place to sit until later on. Part restaurant, part library it seemed, we sat on the top floor, where various mismatching chairs were arranged around tables, next to dusty book shelves filled with none other than books. It smelled like an old person’s house; dusty and ancient. We sat as the two boys sipped coffee, until Ferruchio joined us again, complaining how his father called him after 10 minutes of his nap to ask him a computer question. There went his rest time.
The boys tried to figure out where to go for dinner. A place down the street was chosen, though when we got there the lady informed us that you had to book 2 weeks in advanced as they only sat 12 people. Back to CB2 we went. I skipped dinner as my stomach was hurting, but after the boys ate, Ferruchio and Jiten turned into 2 women, talking about how fat they felt, and how one of them felt guilty after eating chips. I could have just as easily been sitting at the table with 2 girls.
From dinner, we went to the part of the day I was dreading. It was Salsa time! It’s one thing if I go out with friends and we jump around like crazy fools pretending to dance. It’s another thing if I go out with a bunch of people who I barely know, who actually dance, and dance well. I’ve always been an uncomfortable dancer. It’s something I love to watch and dream of being able to do, but even if I learned, I’m too uncomfortable to actually do it.
We parked the car in a nearby Avis car rental parking lot and walked across the street and into something that looked like an apartment building. Inside, a skinny Cuban man wearing what looked like Elton John glasses shrieked in excitement to see Jiten and gave him a star stamp on his wrist. I got a heart because I was a girl. The pub, or salsa club at least for tonight, as all of the tables had been moved, was having a dance lesson. A Cuban salsa teacher stood in the middle of a group of people taking a lesson before the actual dancing began. I watched on as the paired dance partners did things that seemed to be troubling them, and most of these people had actually danced before. It looked difficult, and terrified me, yet the people actually doing these moves, seemed to be having a grand old time. I was introduced to the rest of Jiten’s salsa buddies, standing in the back waiting for their turns to dance. They were all so friendly, and so eager to dance.
As I stood in the back with them, a small man wearing a tight white t-shirt, tucked into tight jeans with a belt holding everything together, walked up to us, a beer in his right hand. He had charisma, charm, and a swagger to him; only someone comfortable in their surroundings could carry this out the way he did. He was obviously a local and began inviting the girls around him to his birthday party in a few months.
“Am I invited?” I questioned, looking at him. He rested his arm on my shoulder, took a sip of his beer, looked me in the eyes and said,
“Well of course y’are darling.”
From there on, the lesson ended, the music began to play, and the real dancing began. Jiten was attacked by one of his lady friends and thrown out onto the floor to show off his smooth moves. Nearly everyone was dancing, as I sat in the back watching. I was uncomfortable, scared, nervous, and longing. I so wanted to move my hips around in the manner of a sultry salsa temptress, but dreaded the thought of actually stepping foot out onto the wooden floors where people spun around and moved, leaving behind what had become my comfort zone in the back of the bar sitting on a stool. As I sat watching, Tosha, one of Jiten’s friends, and the woman who’s house we would be crashing at, came up to me and asked me about my trip so far.
“So how long have you been here so far? She asked.
“Well this is my 3rd night.” I responded.
“So you’re not really jet lagged anymore then I suppose?” She ended the sentence in a bit of an unsure question.
“Why do I look exhausted?” I said to her.
“No, you’ve just got this look on your face.”
“It’s fear.” I responded. She told me it was fine, and went off to dance.
Jiten came to have a rest a few songs later, sitting near me. Fed up with sitting and watching, I apprehensively asked him if he’d take me out the next song and show me a few basic moves so that I might be able to get into it. He took me to the back and we did the basic step, another basic step, and when he thought I was ready for it, a spin. This didn’t result too well for poor Jiten as my arm swung out and punched him in the stomach. Let’s just say, he didn’t ask me to dance after that.
Stephen dragged me out to the floor a minute later, as I warily followed him, explaining this was a bad idea and I had just punched someone.
“I don’t believe that!” he said.
“No, really, I did! Ask him.” I replied.
“Nonsense! You should have punched him harder, than he would have taught you.” I could tell this was going to end badly. I could feel my face beginning to flush, and a nervous smile was now stuck on my face. I looked down at my feet, as he tried to lead me in some basic steps. Doing ok now, he thought perhaps a spin would be a good idea, but I couldn’t get the foot work down, though Stephen refused to believe this and kept trying. At least one of us was optimistic about the situation. He told me to just follow the beat, and when the song ended, I thanked him and ran back to my comfort zone.
I watched some more. When Arturo asked me to dance, I declined, now fully embarrassed and dreading the thought of my bum leaving the chair for any other reason than to walk to the bathroom and back. I was petrified of this environment. Everyone so completely secure in themselves and their environment. I felt like a bee in the swimming pool, out of my habitat, and completely terrified of what would happen next. I then met someone just as scared as me. A husband and wife had walked in and their first stop was the bar. The woman sipped her drink through a straw moving her head and her hips to the music, anxiously awaiting a dance. The man stood in the corner, clinging his drink for dear life, as if it was the only thing saving him from having to dance. I talked to them for a bit. It was as I thought, she danced, he didn’t, she wanted to, he didn’t. After he finished his beer, I convinced him to taker her out for one dance. He did, and then came back seeming reluctant to have to go back out again.
I felt his pain, though I was dragged out by little Stephen again, just as the floor was emptying out.
“It’s a free dance.” he said. “Just move with the music.” I smiled at him, once again that completely nervous awkward smile and just looked at him with dead eyes. “Just like you would if you were just out at a club, dancing.”
“But I don’t dance.” I said.
“I don’t believe that.” He stated for the 2nd time in the last hour.
“No really, I don’t.” I tried to convince this tiny free moving man that I was not a dancer, nor ever was a dancer, nor ever felt comfortable as a dancer, but he refused to believe me. Showing me simple moves to copy, and telling me to move to the beat. The beat, was not the problem. I was.
I ran away as fast as I possibly could when the song ended, completely humiliated, thinking everyone taking a break spread around the room had just seen me make an utter jack ass out of myself, though I am not sure they did. Everyone was in their own little world, drinking, talking, and heading back out to dance. Perhaps I had escaped that last “dance” without being too badly scarred.
As the night went on, I still sat in the back, talking to the german couple, every so often someone sweaty from hours of dancing would come to take a break and join us. However towards the end of the night, as my mind got tired, so did my attitude. I was sick of sitting in the back, I was sick of watching everyone having such a fabulous time dancing the night away, and I was sick of not being able to dance. Though I wasn’t really going to do anything about it. That was until as I was standing up for some reason or another, an older Cuban man came up to me and grabbed my hand.
“You’re gonna have trouble!” I yelled at him.
He turned to me, chuckled, and stated, “We’ll see.” then chuckled some more as he grabbed both of my hands firmly and began leading me in a basic step.
Then he switched to another step, another step, a spin, another spin, a different spin, back to basic, and suddenly, I was dancing. My feet were moving, though I don’t understand how. This guy was a pro! He got me and my two left feet to be able to salsa slightly decently and though in shock, it was the first time I got excited during the night. I looked over at the bar to see the german couple laughing at me as I did 2 spins, I’m sure a goofy confused grin on my face. When the song ended, the man chuckled some more and said, “see.” I thanked him and my confidence in dancing had gone from a minus ten, to a straight zero.
The dancing teacher, Flex straight from London, had a signature move. He would dance with 2 women at one time, turning them both into him, or grinding or salsa-ing with the likes of 2 lovely ladies at corresponding times. He found himself a little shawty, wearing tight blue jean shorts and a black spaghetti strap, whipping her hair around, and a slightly larger curvaceous diva in too tight of a black dress strutting her stuff as she dropped it low. I’m sure he was looking for someone to take back home with him, but now he was working for 2. Though unluckily for him, when the song ended, they both walked away, together.
No bother for the dancer though. He was still just so happy to be dancing, as he glided across the floor to the front of the room, and then called everyone out to dance. I decided to go for it, as he was showing us moves, and headed out to further embarrass myself. However instead of salsa being taught, Reggaeton began to play. Flex shimmied his chest forward and back, and moved his pelvis up and down. We were supposed to emulate this. I was not keen, but did so anyway in the best possible way I could without getting to far into it. A routine was taught, kind of like some sort of odd Cuban Macarena and we danced to the song that never seemed to end.
A few more salsa songs came on as I sat at the bar with Ferruchio. He told me, I didn’t do too badly; I actually kept with the rhythm. Like I said before, rhythm is not my problem. Then the announcement was made, that the pub would now be closing. Relieved that we would be getting to sleep soon, I was all to joyful, until Flex announced “ONE MORE SONG!” and had people get into couples around him. I still sat at the bar, waiting to watch what was about to happen, until a tall lengthy man reached out his hand in desperation for a partner, and I was forced out again.
We followed Flex’s directions from the center of the circle, as the male leads spun the women around, then switched partners and did the same thing. This went on for a while, and then we all stopped and “caught a fly” as Flex said, reaching our hands into the air and clapping, as if, we had yes, caught a fly. There was also the crushing of the cucaracha, in which we would jump, and the double crushing of the cucaracha in which case we would jump twice. Then we began spinning and interchanging partners again. I went through Jiten, my original partner, the older Cuban man, the maffioso looking man, the abnormally tall guy who I had seen earlier dancing problematically with a girl half his size and then awkwardly with the woman who who moved her feet like a trotting horse and had no rhythm, and then an extremely sweaty Flex, whom I ended the song with as he embraced me on the final beat, his sweat moving through his shirt and onto my hands. Then everyone cheered for the last song. I chimed in too, enthusiastic that we were leaving. By leaving I mean, it was a Jewish goodbye, lasting a short half an hour to say goodbye to everyone.
The 20 minute drive back to Tosha’s house was long, but serene. We came to her charming townhouse, and she introduced us to her 2 cats as we followed her upstairs. I dropped my bag off on the third floor in a small little room with a very big bed, and we all met in her 2nd floor kitchen for a spot of tea and a chat. By 3:30 we finished up our tea, and went to bed. I crawled into an extremely comfortable bed and the rest was history.
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