Driving to Hohocus, keep your radio in focus...

Okay, guys. I need to learn salsa. And I mean I need to be amazing at salsa, the way everyone on the dance floor was amazing at salsa on Friday night when we all went to the party at Bar New Africa (same place we take classes)

Oh man. So there's the DJ who recognized Kaela from the first lesson we took, let us in even though I forgot our dance card (that proves we paid), and the floor was PACKED with dancers. First, there are five teachers who are probably there all the time, and a handful of women who'd take turns dancing with each of them, and then a handful of other men who you could tell were regulars, and good friends of the teachers. The whole room was basically an even split of toubab tourists who'd get drunk and try to dance, and the regulars who looked incredibly intimidating until you realized they were having a blast and weren't performing for anyone, they were just there to have fun like anyone else. Kaela was dancing a bunch, watching her made me just ache to be that good.

I wanna do *that*, so much! I mean, I got pulled into a few dances- three, I think. The same guy, one of the teachers was a real sweetie and taught me basic steps and didn't mind when I would stumble or trip or spin too wildly, but honestly I was perfectly happy watching everyone else. I got a few weird looks being the girl who stood on the sidelines the entire night without dancing at all, I barely even went to sit down at the table with some other friends, I didn't order a drink or anything. I was fascinated, though- by the end of the night I could tell how White-Pants-Suspenders' style was different from Showoff-Booty-Shake was different from Dreds-and-Eyelashes, and I started picking up on how flawlessly Bearded-Teacher and Fedora would switch partners mid-step. I saw how Sweetie pretended to be a beginner when he was dancing with newbies like me but then how when no one was looking he'd break out some fancy steps.

I really want to be that good. They did a salsa mixer, in a circle, with Dreds-and-Eyelashes calling out what to do next, and as it got later and later Bootyshake and Suspenders got more and more competitive, jokingly kicking each other or trying to outdo or throw off the other. DJ was dancing behind the bar. Awkward Polo Shirt could move his hips but not his torso and looked very very focused on his tipsy partner who wanted to be anywhere else. A group of middle-aged toubab men, balding, beers in hand, obviously on vacation, started wriggling in a circle, thrusting themselves shoulders first onto the floor and laughing. And a few girls with no rhythm took the night as an excuse to gyrate their scantily-yet-fashionably clad asses nonstop into what they assumed was a Latin dance step.

That night I dreamed the entire evening over again. It really was exactly what I remembered, which means that everyone's faces were perfectly clear, and in my dream all their legs were blurry. Even my subconscious was trying to remember every single moment of what I saw, and failed.

We're going back this week, lessons on Wednesday and party on Friday. I need to get good at this. It is now an actual need of mine. Because although last Friday I was feeling more mesmerized than left out, I realize how awesome it would be to actually, you know, DANCE.


Saturday we spent the day at the market, I got some fabric for a dress, now I just need to ask around and find a tailor who's not trop cher/jafe. We ate at a fancy french bakery/cafe/restaurant, all seven or nine of us, and then headed over to the national theater to see this free modern dance performance.

It was sponsored by the American Embassy and was this dance troupe from Brooklyn who was going on this world tour, performing for American citizens abroad? Which was weird to begin with. So the theater was filled with Americans, also really really weird. The guy who got up to introduce the event was reading this speech in french with the most awkwardly American accent I've ever heard, stumbling over words and gesturing stiffly with his free hand for no apparent reason. Then, after signaling from the stage for a few minutes for the light guy to wake up, turn off the house lights, turn on the stage lights, no turn off the house lights, no keep the stage lights on, no turn off the balcony lights too, okay who's taking the mic off the stage, no you don't need to follow it with a spotlight, okay who's opening the curtain, left side opened much faster than the right....

it was a big ordeal but finally the opening act started playing. And the *opening* act was like the Troupe Allah Laké but not as cool and with more expensive costumes. But it was still incredibly impressive traditional African dance. Then we waited while the techies sorted out how to transition to EVIDANCE, from Brooklyn.

When you compare modern dance to African dance, modern dance just looks lame. That's the problem. It just looks silly and boring. And it was. This group was made up of almost entirely androgynously-ethnic-looking purposefully-diverse cast. I couldn't get over the fact that one of the women looked like this woman Cheryl I used to work with, if she had my grandma's haircut. Doing modern dance. She was very distracting. They weren't very good.

And the thing is, I'm used to dance being an expression, not a conversation. This was a conversation, and I have to say I understand Wolof better. I mean, it was clear the dancers/choreographer were trying really really hard to communicate something, and I was resorting to linguistic strategies to try and understand. See, I could sometimes figure out African dance cognates, and certain patterns were repeated over and over again, certain gestures were more literal than others. And sometimes two dancers would be facing each other, doing sort of a call-and response. And sometimes they would look like they were holding guns. And sometimes they would spin, and always their faces were very grave, very focused. It was like poetry, people are always comparing dance to poetry, and this poem was written by someone with a very limited vocabulary who didn't know the meaning of metaphor or meter. Who understood rhythm but not alliteration. And I realize at the end that I was using the exact same mental process as I do to try and understand Wolof.

Which, by the way, is going swimmingly. I've got the greatest teacher ever, Sidy ("C.D."), who tells us stories of when he taught Wolof in the Peace Corps and how his students nicknamed him Q-tip because he's so skinny... this man is literally the greatest and most efficient teacher I have ever had for anything, and that is saying a lot. I mean, I've had lost of wonderful teachers. Absolutely great. And after seven hours a week of class, after five weeks, I can have a basic conversation. I can understand the gist of what my family's talking about most of the time, and sometimes can even respond! And greetings and small talk are becoming easier and easier. I can form complex sentences, even. For example:

Lan téere Shakespeare bind?
- Téere yu bare la bind, wanté bëgg na fukk ak ñarreel guddi.

What book did Shakespeare write?
- He wrote a lot of books, but I like Twelfth Night.

Okay, so probably that's not entirely gramatically correct, but it does mean that I can be understood. And I love it. lovelovelove it. It's not that I show off in class, not really, but I do always try and see, if he asks a simple question, if I can give a more complex answer. It's fun! It's like a game. Take what cards you've got, play them off each other. Plus, it's the one class I'm good at. And you can get much cheaper taxi fares if you start off greeting them in Wolof. Usually.









PS. I would like to make a clarification. This is ME writing this. I am not off on a Grand African Adventure to Find Out Who I Am, I will not return to the States a Changed Individual full of Worldly Knowledge. I am writing what is in my head. Exactly how it is. I'm not writing ALL of what is in my head, that would be boring and scary, alternately. But I am not trying to be a Writer. I'm not trying to write pretty, or philosophical, or amusingly. Or anything like that. This is ME, and that means JOHANNA, not Aminata, and don't worry I'm not going anywhere. Besides, y'know, Africa.