The hardest I ever pushed myself to overcome a fear was in Havana. Allison and I picked our way past crumbling buildings one steamy Christmas morning, past spartan grocery stores and volatile street soccer to a dance studio where my new teacher sized me up.
She stretched her shoulder blades and kicked her legs, tossing her head side to side. I stiffly mimicked her, not sure what else to do, timidity tensing my lips into the grimace I could never seem to undo whenever I got embarrassed. Allison was determined to salsa, and I was determined to please her. But I was also curious to know Cubans like Alyuska.
Named after a Russian princess, she said, in some mysterious vestige of Soviet influence, she wrapped her hair up in a bandana. Her partner Herson opened the bay window to let a breeze into the studio and said to just walk, marching in place in front of Allison, flashing his smile. He said all dancing is just walking, walking is the basis of rhythm, just to find the beat and take steps. I pitied Alyuska, who spoke little and whose occasional flourishes showed just how much she was tamping down her ability in order to match a beginner who could only as yet walk. From her glances I imagined that she pitied me more but appreciated that she hid it well.
After thirteen hours of lessons, I could do every move Alyuska taught me and went to a club on our last night bristling with nerves. As the music started, I took Alyuska’s hand and looked down. “Don’t look down,” she said patiently, resting her other hand on my shoulder. I couldn’t look up as I listened and listened and listened. I made a false start. “Look up,” she said again. When I did, I caught a man watching me from the dance floor, a bottle poised at his lips. He shook his head and drank the beer to smother a scornful smile. I stepped back from Alyuska. She nodded and spent the evening next to me while Allison danced with Herson.
