I had my second class of baile tropical today.
Before flying out, I was familiar with the slogan of the national tourism campaign: Colombia es Pasión. Today, I finally think I understood.
I arrived breathless to the dance class, worried that I was late. As promised, my interpretation of ‘tardy’ was a Colombian’s ‘early’. The others were yet to arrive, though our instructor, Andres, was there.
As tropical notes of song stretched into the muggy air at sunset, he danced. Alone, by the mirror. The rising montañas distracted not as he twisted, turned, spun. His students neither, as they entered, with soft toes, the room.
His body glowered with the grace of a militant precision. Andrés locked his eyes to the reflector. One turn, no, two; a roll of the shoulders, a swing of the hips. Dedication, fervor. An arch of the back. Fever.
The canción stopped its play, and his body fell limp. He jogged to the music maker, to start a new song, and to greet us. As if nothing had happened.
Hoy, entiendo. Creo que sí, Colombia es pasión.
