An American Girl in....

Otherwise known as... Setting the Dance Floor En Fuego

A couple of months ago GDA told me that we had a baby shower to attend on May 5th.  Ok... what time?

I don't know.  I have come to accept that when it comes to Latin events, time is somewhat relative.  I put the shower on my calendar, and blocked the day.  I had no idea whether it was a morning, afternoon, or evening event... although baby showers, typically are not evening events.  This, however, was a Latin baby shower.

Anything (or should I say any time?) goes.

A couple of weeks ago, GDA received the actual shower invitation, which he shared with me.  The shower was from twelve to six p.m.  12 to 6.  In Miami. 

I was really glad I hadn't made any other plans for the 5th.  It wasn't lost on me that I was about to spend my first Cinco de Mayo with GDA... the whole of Cinco de Mayo... with a group of Latinos.  Oh my. 

As if that wasn't enough, last weekend GDA asked me what time I could get off work on Friday.  We're spending the night?!

Ay carumba. 

GDA and I drove to Miami Friday night, using my iPhone as our GPS.  Usually this is no problem.  Usually.

When I got to GDA's house on Friday afternoon, I was so intent to get on the road that I neglected to enter the address into the GPS, leaving it to my sweet. 

Let's just say GDA is not quite as detail-oriented as myself.  Long story short, we found ourselves in the middle of a very scary neighborhood.  The kind of place where folks have bars on their windows, their front door, and a low iron gate around the front yard. 

I was in some kind of barrio.  The scariest kind.  Worse yet, GDA kept saying, Pull over... pull OVER!  There was no way this cute youngish single girl was going to pull her cute youngish sporty Scion over.  No way, no how.  GDA wanted to get a better read on the GPS.  Then he called Harlan, his friend whose house we were supposed to be staying in for the weekend.  He wants you to flash your lights.

He wants me to WHAT?!  Nonetheless, against my better judgment and while sitting at a stop sign because I had no idea where I was going and the road was about to run out... I flashed my headlights.  And started to drive again.

Thankfully, we were in the wrong neighborhood (I suspected as much).  Who knew that 112 Street could be so different from 112th Terrace?  We did pull over, in the first shopping center parking lot we came to, put the new directions in the phone, and drove fairly uneventfully to Harlan's house, aside from telling each other rather tersely that each of us was not mad at the other person.  (I really wasn't mad at GDA.  I just wasn't about to pull over in the scariest place I had ever driven my little car!)

But that was Friday, before arriving at our destination.

When we got to Harlan and Michelle's, whose house was in a decidedly less frightening neighborhood, I was treated to the best tostones of my life.  My life, I tell you.  And I don't say that lightly. 

Michelle is a teacher from Puerto Rico, who peppers her stories with mira and chacho.  Harlan is a body man from the Dominican Republic whom GDA met in the first shop where he worked when he came to America from Argentina.  Harlan and Michelle are having a baby girl in 14 days.  Michelle is 40, glowingly about to deliver her first baby.  She gives me hope.  I have no doubt that they will make a lovely family.

On Saturday, GDA did the grilling at their party, and I chatted up the English-speaking guests, mainly a couple of teachers that Michelle works with.  When the music started, GDA took my hand and we danced a couple of fun merengues.  When the music switched to salsa, we took our place on the dance floor, solo.  Harlan's friends asked him, Where is she from?  They could tell I wasn't a Latina, but I could salsa.  Harlan told them, She's American. 

I was an American girl in my birthplace, Miami, a city now claimed by immigrants.  I wore short khaki shorts, cute brown sandals, and a bright coral blouse-- Miami-style.  We drank mojitas, and enjoyed the cool breeze coming off the water.  It was won... der... ful... 

When the deejay switched the music to bachata, we showed the Dominicans a thing or two.  It was really fun.  I knew for a fact that the many hours I've spent taking dance lessons paid off.  That evening, as the deejay put his equipment into his Escalade, we told him how much we enjoyed his music.  You two set the floor on fire.

I beamed from ear to ear.  What a compliment!  

GDA and I got home last night after our big adventure in south Florida, and danced more bachata together in preparation for prom this coming weekend.  I really love dancing with my sweet.  Dancing remains exhilarating, helps me grow in confidence, and quite literally keeps me on my toes.

Just like my love.