“Your feet are, como se dice: mal?“ my dance teacher in Cuba says and asks me.

“Bad,” I say.

“Your feet are bad,” he says. I knew he meant that my feet were not in the right spot for this move; it’s funny how, when we do not have fluency in a language, nuances go out the window. Clear. Direct. It’s not necessarily nice.

I managed to comment that it was crying when I actually meant it was raining and later proceeded to ask if the Cubans drank cough water. I meant tap water. I find that going full-hog learning a language and learning to dance have equal parts excitement and humiliation.

We left our bicycle tour group after a morning cruising Havana in a few classic 1950s cars with the tops down.  It was a beautiful way to finish. Then walked 1 mile through town from the touristy to the non-touristy area, sweating & dragging out suitcases behind.  We almost passed by #64 of the non-descript studio doorway of the crumbing building on Escobar Street. Walking up the narrow stairway with a broken step, it seemed as though we had found the right place, as we could hear salsa music streaming from the room above. Happy to arrive and sit in front of a fan, we watched a German couple finish their lesson for 20 minutes. Next, a couple of the dance teachers walked us to Hostal Peregrino 12 minutes away, which was not Casa Anita, the one we had originally scheduled, as apparently it was full. Before embarking on our travel to Cuba, I found this school online and emailed them. But with Cuba’s frequent power outages, somewhat unreliable Wi-Fi, and inability to accept American credit cards, we were just glad that they were expecting us.

We are each going to take 10 hours of private lessons over the next 5 days. Our teachers are Michael & Diolis.

After settling in, we returned to the school for our first lesson. Mark had been careful to watch for landmarks and he had taught them to me – turn at the first pile of street garbage, walk past the blue bubble letter graffiti until the graffiti that said cokii, for which Google Translate does not have a translation.

I’ve been learning salsa in a scrappy way for this last year. Going to as many social dances as I can and just going with it.  I love the excitement and the connection and the music and the chaos of it all. During the first few minutes of this class, I learned that the moves actually have names. My mind has been blown.

To assess my ability, Michael takes me for a spin on the tile dance floor. For our next 2 sweaty hours, I was amazed at this 21-year-old’s rhythm.  He counts out the beat as we are spinning to the music, preps me in one breath by telling me the name of the next move, and pulls a lighter out of his pocket and hands it to someone who is asking for it, all the while getting every step right.

We are also taking Spanish lessons daily.  Michael, “In that room with Maribel, you are learning Spanish.” On the dance floor, you are learning Cuban.”

Relax! He probably told me this 30 times which was direct and clear but sometimes a challenge for me to do when commanded. Other refrains included: Pay attention.  What happened? You need to control your mind. Contour your body – no robot. He was not trying to be curt. Just clear. Direct.

In my work, I talk about the power of seeking feedback, and here was my opportunity to walk my talk. Remember: the man is the boss of the lady. And whenever I made a mistake, he’d say: never stop dancing, which perhaps is a great metaphor for life.

After a few days, they put Mark and I together. We put together a routine of dedo, 3, 4, 70, 71, Echeverria, mambo, rhumba, and mariposa. The part that made me giggle every time was when Michael said after the mambo & Mark needed to come toward me, “Attack the lady.” I was the lady and I can confidently say that I don’t think anyone has been commanded to attack me before.