The Language of Dance

by Carly Renaud (United States of America)

I didn't expect to find France

Forward, step, back. Back, step, forward. I breath in the instructor’s chants, and my feet and hips translate the dance. Though it is my first salsa lesson, it seems I already speak the language. Rhythmic counting, always to eight, then again and again. The language of dance and music, an intrinsic energy, gives me much needed confidence. I push my hands out in a circular motion, rising above my head. “Wow. You’re good!” says a student from the advanced French class, struggling to match the steps to the Latin beat. If only we could share knowledge. Split it 50/50. I would give her my left foot. Choreography for conjugations. As the class ends, our dance instructor, Marie, invites us to her favorite salsa club here in Aix-en-Provence. We all agree to join her later that night, but my nearly fluent friends insist that they will only watch. Moi, je veux danser. I want to dance. I tell my friends how I grew up taking jazz, tap and ballet classes. Each year ended with a dance recital infused with hairspray, flaming red lipstick and elaborate costumes. Stage lights blocked out the audience, but you knew everyone was out there watching. I have never experienced stage fright on an actual stage. Now whenever it is my turn to speak up in French class, I choose the wrong combination of words and stumble through the phrases. Tonight, rather than regretting my monolinguistic childhood, I can feel grateful for my pirouetting past. We meet up after the late summer sun sets and walk through Aix, heading north towards the Atelier de Cézanne. The boutiques and cafes along the winding streets are closed. Only the city’s famed fountains are still at work. Dolphins, lions and cherubs churning water into a calming spray. But there’s another source of movement churning in this city that my friends and I weren’t aware of until today. On an otherwise sleepy street in the heart of Provence, a first floor apartment serves as a lively weekend salsa club. The sound of drums and trumpets spill out onto the sidewalk as someone opens the door to come out and smoke a cigarette. The friction inside creates excitement among our group, new to this effervescent Latin dancing world. We enter. An oversized room devoid of furniture has become a make-shift dance floor. Couples dressed in hipster clothing are scattered around, eyes locked on one another, but dancing for themselves. They amplify the basic dance steps we learned earlier with added twirls and dips. With trepidation, we move closer in and clap to the music, or perhaps our fast-beating hearts. Marie introduces us to her friends. One guy named Freddie with Buddy Holly glasses asks if any of the ladies would like to dance with him. I scan the room to gauge the intimidation level. About a seven. I smile through my trusty red lipstick, accepting his offer with a half-nervous smile. Buddy…. I mean Freddie…. is a strong leader and I soon find the moves. With each spin I release my frustration. I may forget my past-tense predicated verbs, but I dance in the present. Every few eight counts we speak, commenting on the heat of the room or the change of song in a mélange of French and English words. Neither of us feel a barrier. Our minds and bodies speak salsa. I see more and more of my group on the dance floor as the night goes on. It doesn’t matter where any of us come from, what language we speak, or how well we dance. --------- It’s our last day in the South of France. My friends and I gather at the pétanque courts. What starts out as a traditional bocce-like game while sipping pastis ends in an impromptu salsa session. A classmate plays his guitar as we all shimmy and chassé. We rustle up the dirt with our dancing feet, quickly throwing off our dusty sandals. We found this city to have a knack for cutting loose anything that constricts, be it shoes or self-judgement. We say au revoir the way we learned how, with a dance.