“Who here has their boyfriend?”
“Who here has their girlfriend?”
“Excellent,” beams Edi, our short and slightly rotund middle-aged dance teacher, who is atonishingly fluid of the hip.
“In my classes we make romance. Sometimes we make marriage.”
Fat chance Edi, fat chance.
The warm up for his salsa class was not too bad. A few steps forwards and backwards. The odd hip wiggle. A few wonky turns.
The setting for the 20 or so of us was also extremely pleasant, clustered on the veranda by our school, Simon Bolivar.
The music was fairly enticing and I managed, heaven forbid, I managed.
Things went mildly downhill when he told us to make pairs, but luckily I ended up dancing with Pippa and being the man.
The latter has benefits, because men don’t seem to do the complicated swirls, they just, well, keep time and look macho.
Pippa managed the turns pretty well and aside from the pair of us being a little fast for the beat and careering into the path of two German girls, the lesson passed without incident or injury.