Dancing with A Man Named Salvador
Everyone is afraid of the cartel, but the real danger in Mexico is danzón!
Dateline Patzcuaro, June, 2026.
A week ago, through no fault of my own, I spent an hour dancing with a short, nervous man I had never met before, named Salvador.
He said, “But everyone calls me Chava.” Nice to know.
If you’re wondering why I was dancing with a man named Salvador, so am I. I was there to take a dance lesson with a pretty woman that everyone here calls Paloma.
We met at a party at the Patzcuaro senior center. I had recently joined the choir. Standing there, alone, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around.
There, in front of me, was Paloma, wearing a bright blue party dress, her hair pulled up in a flamenco bun. Above her right ear, a brightly colored flower.
Her big, dark eyes were locked on mine; I could not turn my gaze away.
I gulped.
She did not know I had spent the last four years on the road alone with my dog. And she was very close to me.
I glanced down. Everyone at the table was staring at us.
Somehow, she made them disappear. It was only her and me. Then she spoke.
“Hey, we both speak English, so we should talk.” I nodded. “Sure.”
“Also,” she said, “do you want to be my partner in a danzón class?”
In front of everyone! The table fell silent. All eyes were on us again.
“Uh, me?” I said, pointing to my chest, looking around, to see if she might be speaking to someone else. My cheering section nodded encouragement at me.
Like a punch-drunk boxer, I stood my ground wobbily.
“Yes, you,” she said.
I had no idea what danzón was, but what could I do? Everyone was watching.
My brain said, “No,” but my mouth said, “Yes.”
Danzón is a formal Latin dance, along the lines of tango, but not as dramatic. The woman does not clutch a red rose in her teeth. There are no deep dips or dives.
Danzón came to Mexico on a slow boat from Cuba in the 1800s, landing at the city of Veracruz on the Caribbean, making its way north, like some new virus.
To understand its appeal, you have to hear the music; it’s hypnotic.
Like tango, it’s slow and seductive. But unlike tango, it doesn’t rip your heart out, although it might nibble on your ear if you’re not careful.
When I hear danzón music, I feel an irresistible urge to dance. My hips don’t lie, which is odd, because I don’t have hips.
I showed up at noon on Tuesday for my first lesson, but found myself alone, not with Paloma, but with Salvador.
Paloma was nowhere to be seen.
The lesson took place inside the chain link fence of the Patzcuaro senior center, on a quiet side street in Patzcuaro, Calle de Las Nueces. We met in the courtyard, under an open-air hangar, on a bare cement slab, visible to all and sundry.
Being from the Midwest, I’d prefer to take my first danzón lesson inside a room.
We began without music. Salvador clapped the beat and called out the steps, one through eleven. Without music, I feared, I might look like a crazy person.
Maybe I am. Mexico riles me up. The chiles heat up my blood; I see vivid colors.
Other than verbal commands from Salvador, the scuffing of our feet on the cement, and the occasional fly buzzing past my ear, we practiced in silence.
Technically speaking, I wasn’t dancing with Salvador. He stood near me, showing me the steps. I watched his feet and tried to follow him.
The steps grew more complicated. I became lost; my mind wandered.
What have I gotten into? Who is this man?
Salvador is a short, thin man, in a worn, faded, long-sleeve red shirt with curling collar tips, black dress pants, and well-traveled black patent leather shoes. His grey hair was slicked back; his pencil mustache was neatly trimmed.
I asked him how and when he got into danzón, and how long he‘d been performing. He shook his head and shrugged. “As long as I can recall.”
I asked him if his wife dances with him.
“My wife does not like danzón,” he said, sighing. He tilted his head to one side and shrugged. “Ni modo.” (Nothing I can do)
I looked down at his shoes. His feet must be very lonely.
He explained the steps to me rapidly in Spanish. I shook my head in confusion, but that just spurred him on.
“More explanation is what this gringo needs,” he seemed to be thinking.
I wondered what else he had going on in his life besides this. The golden age of danzón is long past, but I saw the flame of its past glory burning in his eyes.
He kept telling me, “It is simple. Just follow the eleven steps.”
Eleven steps? Most dances have three or four. He sees my dismay. “No paso nada,” he says, waving off my worry. (No problem. Don’t worry about it.)
“Look, it is muy facil” (very easy),” he says. “This paper will show you all the steps.”
Out of his shirt pocket, he takes a chuleta, a long list of the 12 different routines of the florecita version of danzón. Then he produces pieces of masking tape and tapes the worn cheat sheet to a metal pole.
Then he resumes demonstrating. First, we make the cuadro, a box. Three steps, then un pauso, (a pause), then three more steps, another pauso, then the final three.
“Next, the paseo,” he says. An elegant walk. We line up side by side, facing the same direction. We, the men, go forward; the women retreat.
Except there are no women. Just me and Salvador, advancing toward invisible women. I could be locked up in some states for doing less than this.
The next series is the Helice Doble Giro. A double spin. Big trouble. Then, forgetting about the invisible women, he does a Vuelta de Hombre.
A man-spin.
The man lets go of the woman’s hand and prances in a full circle, like a peacock. He wants me to prance around in a circle, alone, my left arm raised. ¡Ole!
You’ve got to be kidding me!
There are 12 subroutines, times 11 steps each. I calculate mentally that I have to learn 132 dance steps, and then repeat them flawlessly.
Simple.
This would be fine if I could count to 11 while dancing, but I cannot.
I stumble through various steps and begin to grumble. He looks at my face and raises his eyebrows.
“You will learn to love it,” he says. ”Danzón is elegant, sensuous...”
Mentally, I add, “Maybe so, if I were dancing with a woman...”
After half an hour of dancing with Salvador and glancing over my shoulder to see if I could spot Paloma, I finally asked Salvador if she was coming to the lesson.
He assured me, “Yes, except she is in a cooking class now, over there.” He pointed to a building nearby. “Her class will end in a few minutes.”
Paloma must have told him she would be late. Why hadn’t he told me?
Once I began to get the hang of it, I heard Paloma say hello. Finally! I turned around. There she was, smiling.
I smiled back.
“Very soon,” I told myself, “I will be holding her hand and dancing.”
Seeing me swoon, Salvador intervened, “Take her right hand with your left, and hold it up, this way (he demonstrated shoulder high)!”
She was so close; it distracted me. I was counting my heartbeats, not steps.
How do I tell her I haven’t been this close to a woman in years, without sounding like a crazy hermit from an old wood cabin deep in the woods?
Her face was inches away. The attraction pulled me in, a romantic force of gravity.
Unlike my old, shy self at a high school dance, when it pinned me to the wall.
Finally, he started the music.
I heard the seductive opening strains of a classic danzón tune, Florecita, by famed Cuban bandleader of the 40s and 50s, Mariano Merceron.
The music sounded sweet and sultry; it filled me with yearning. He caught it.
“Hey, no yearning!” Salvador said. “Do not look in her eyes. Look past her.”
Busted!
Her left hand rested in my hand, my hand was on her waist, and her right hand was on my shoulder. She was too close for me to count.
Or breathe.
I started confidently, but got lost after a few steps.
Salvador shook his head and said, “No. Stop! Try again.” He reset the music.
How embarrassing! I asked for help. Salvador demonstrated the routine with her.
He performed the routine flawlessly with her. With the discipline of decades on the dance floor, he maintained his poise, staring past her at some distant point.
He presented her hand back to me. “Now you do it.”
I grasped her hand. The sultry clarinet riff began.
Off we went!
I tried to copy their moves, but soon missed my cues.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “You’ll get it.”
Salvador said, brusquely, “Concentrate-on-the-steps.”
We resumed dancing; only our hands touched. It was enticing, tantalizing, and maddening.
Soon the practice ended; the music stopped. We stepped apart; I looked at her and smiled, then at Salvador.
Salvador nodded at me and said, “You’ll learn.”
For Paloma, I will!
How do I wind up doing such things down here? This doesn’t happen at home.
Maybe it’s magic. Yes, that’s it.
Mexico is like a magic mountain. I feel myself tunneling into it. The power of music and dance penetrates walls of once-solid rock; they begin to crumble.
My life, once cold and lonely, grows warm and inviting. Anything seems possible. Even learning to do 132 dance steps perfectly.
Did I mention that we have to perform on Friday? After just three lessons?
¡Viva Mexico! ¡Viva danzón!
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Bravoooo, disfruta de tus clases y de Paloma. Saludos
Someone mentioned a video ….?!