Last Friday evening, we went for an incredible dinner at the Pump House in Hotwells with two other couples. It was amazing food (I won’t mention the half cooked mackerel – still can’t figure out if they meant to do it that way or not – either way, without any real complaints, they took it off the bill. That is really unheard of in a British restaurant.).
Food coma and bottle of wine later, we headed out to a club I have never been to before. I opted for the couch to discuss engaged life with my newly engaged friend, Anna – despite having to scream very, very loudly over the obnoxious music. I also opted for water for the duration of that visit. I just can’t hang with the young folks anymore.
Or perhaps, it’s the old folks I truly am a kindred spirit with.
I’m not sure when they entered, or if they were there the entire time, but all of a sudden, I noticed a large group of older Spanish people (mostly women, but a few men too) behind me. Whereas no one in the entire club was dancing, they were screaming, dancing and laughing. I looked at my watch – 1AM. When did that happen?
And, what were they doing up?
As soon as the group erupted into circular formation, I had had enough! Of the couch. I jumped up, and much to the surprise of my British friends and of the Spanish group, oh, and of myself, I joined them. I linked my arms in one man’s and another woman’s and danced.
I’m sure the water wasn’t spiked. I’m sure I had never met these people before, but I’m also sure I desperately needed them at that moment. These random, soul-filled Spanish strangers doing the mamba in a seedy, Bristolian club got me out of my seat. I danced with them. They laughed at me. My British friends looked on in curious, non-judgmental anticipation.
The Spanish took me into their wing. These women more than twice my age were having the time of their life, and I wanted to be a part of that. Their souls chirping and high on the bad music. Bad music didn’t matter to them – it was music, after all. It was meant to move to.
I tried to speak the little amount of Spanish I do know, and they just smiled in that way that says “I have no clue what the hell you are saying, but you are a sweetheart.” We didn’t need to speak the same language.
As much as I might not physically look like the Hispanic community – it’s in me, after all, I am half Cuban, and spiritually, I relate more to them than I do my white polo shirted other half. And, it’s moments like these that it comes out – as if the voices of my ancestors are screaming at me to let those full Cuban hips shake.
When the lights in the club came on, the sweat was wiped from everyone’s brows and it was time to go home – every single one of those women and men hugged me and gave me a kiss on the cheek. I felt so accepted, and for that brief moment I was home.
