But more recently I've come to realize that cultural barriers don't matter - or at least that you can leap them with a good shimmy. In San Francisco, where I live, Asians, Indians, Germans, and Brits dance salsa alongside Latinos and Chicanos. We take dance classes from short, charismatic teachers who swivel their shoulders in bolero jackets and glide on their wingtips until you want to laugh. The schmaltz is part of the appeal. As in other forms of pair dancing, in salsa you can be a leader or a follower.
Leaders employ a mental stash of dance patterns they've perfected over the years.
I haven't learned enough yet, so when I try to lead, I concentrate way too hard, staring vacantly past my partner and trying to see where the move will end up. But the suave salseros in their double-breasted suits seamlessly spool their partners from one move to the next. I'm better at following, when I can dance mostly from instinct. When I register one of these signals, I must sense where my limbs and center of gravity should go, and then get there pronto. I throw in the occasional flick of my arm and toss of my head.