Why Men Should Dance

December 2009

One of the great benefits of living in a warm weather climate in a resort like atmosphere is that women friends like to bond by pools during the day and by dance floors during the evening. They rent a larger condo; leave the frigid weather and their families to connect with their childhood/working place/SUV driving sisters. I get it. Most men don’t.
A man’s idea of bonding includes hunting, fishing, golf, ball games, card games and beer. I NEVER see a group of guys hanging out at the pool. We always have more women at our pool than men. My sunglasses like the variety.
Four Canadian women arrived at Paraiso a couple of weeks ago. They worked together in Vancouver years ago, but the years scattered them to new jobs and cities, but they stayed connected with skiing trips to Whistler. This year they ventured to Mazatlan. My sun glasses saluted this decision. Jaime concurred.
As another green flash less sunset painted the sky with Mexican oranges and reds, someone at the palapa innocently asked me if my birthday was tomorrow. This provided Linda, Annikka, Barbie, and Jane all the ammunition to turn a relaxed evening into a tequila shooting romp. After Jaime closed the palapa at eight, Nunez started to transition into Sophia to compete with our four new amigas. We opted to dress up for The Mambo Café (where the hot and restless go for live salsa music and dancing) for Thursday night’s no cover charge for women. Whoooppeeeee. Five women and me……happy birthday to me….happy birthday to me…. The girls even paid my cover charge.
In my previous life someone always could score on a five on one break. But the fumbled pass manifested itself in Annikka’s rag doll like stupor. I took her outside to encourage some semblance of sobriety. After forty-five fruitless minutes we poured her into the car and drove home. My top highlight of the evening focused on the parade of young Mexican women in high heels, tight pants, and scanty camisas. Annikka not puking in my car came in a distant second.

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Three of the Canadian girls left, but Linda stayed for another week and Margaret flew in from northern Calgary to join her. They married brothers some years ago, yet both had divorced them. The sister-in-laws stayed friends. Ya gotta love women. Men can be dispensable, but women friendships, not so much.
My long time friend Jerry arrived the same day as Margaret. Margaret is single. Jerry is still single. Match maker, Match maker…. Who should play a bigger role? Linda or White Oprah. Oh why don’t we go downtown in a red truck (a Toyota small truck with a canopy top and cushioned benches in the back that can sit ten adults)? So Sharon, Larry, Margaret, Linda, Bruce, and another couple who had made a return trip to Mazatlan, Shelley and Philip. We asked our driver to crank up the rock n roll and take us to Puerto Viejo, a bar on the Malecon a couple of blocks from Plaza Machada. We had so much fun rocking on the ride that several suggested that we just pay to be driven around all night with stops for beer and los banos. In stead, we stopped for garlic shrimp and cocktails. We boarded another red truck and rocked to Gus Gus (pronounced goose goose in Mexico) where an outdoor band plays rock n roll and old gringos dance badly. And dance we did except Jerry who professes never to dance.

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This matchmaking thing hadn’t quite lived up to any of our expectations. So Sharon, Linda, and I joined our project for another evening out. This time we ventured to Mazatlan’s oldest sports bar. Unlike the sports bars that many may conjure up, this one has no TV’s, but it does have a combination basketball/tennis court. Sometimes it is open for games, but usually it isn’t. This night the court doors were chained. A three piece band plays Mexican ballads until the crowd demands the music that drives them to the dance floor. When the elderly gentlemen belt out the ballads, most folks at the tables stop talking and sing along. We nursed a couple of Pacificos and headed down the street to Plaza Machada to eat at the Hotel Machada where they serve Mediterranean meals.
Plaza Machada on a Friday night is a people watching, music listening, and food eating trifecta. Families wander through and shop at the tables teeming with an array of crafts. Margaret found a sculpture of elephants that made her evening. In every corner of the plaza live music competes with each other. These aren’t wandering minstrels. They play on stages with mongo speakers. This doesn’t mean wandering minstrels are unwelcome. They play in a steady competition for any peso handouts possible. The restaurants all have tables outside, so this plaza is mystical and magical. A woman looks naked without a long stemmed rose here.
After dinner and a few laps around the square, Sharon and I decided to take a risk and introduce this group to Son Sin, a truly Mexican experience. From the plaza it’s one block north, three blocks west on narrow streets built for horse carriages and sidewalks not built for spiked heels (Linda wore them, not Jerry). I consider Son Sin a Mexican interpretation of a karaoke bar. A singer hosts a piano with sheet music with lyrics. Patrons step up to the mike and belt out the ballads. Everyone else dances, sings along, or smokes. The woman who bar tends, sings, and owns the joint is part snake and part nightingale. A cigarette dangles from her mouth except when she sings. Then she holds it with her left hand while the right holds the mike. When she tends bar, she carries a riding crop that she wields with considerable enthusiasm. If a patron crosses the line, WHACK she hits the bar and everything stops. Eyes seek out who had had the audacity to bend one of her rules. They aren’t written down mind you. But you live in fear of her riding crop.
This particular evening we made quick friends with a table of six who are part of a political organization that meets every Friday evening at Son Sin. Five are men and Sara is a doctor of chemistry. Sara can sing. She trills like a song bird, but she is no match for the owner.
Since none of our table could sing and we didn’t smoke, we danced except for Jerry. The Mexican men loved our table and the women danced each and every song when they realized that neither Jerry nor I would be offended. The two of us did tower over the others. We bought beers for our new friends, laughed, told lies, and danced. I wasn’t sure if the girls would ever want to leave given the hot blooded attention of these Latin men. That is until Margaret said, “it’s time to leave. Felipe rubbed his woody on my leg. Let’s go.” We paid our bill, said our goodbyes, and walked out into the night. I couldn’t help but think as I walked towards our car that Jerry’s experiences with Margaret may have been enhanced if he had danced with her, and it had been his woody rubbing up against her.