I was bored, not just bored but mind-rottenly fed up. I like Cuban music, I like the irony of its optimism and its innate rhythm. This was grating on me like fingernails down a blackboard. The bar was packed out, the lights low, the vibe was hot and heavy. Any other night, I would be having the time of my life. There were almost wall-to-wall women all looking for a man, any man that could dance Salsa.
I couldn’t dance Salsa.
The bar was located in a salubrious and picturesque commuter town full of City types and their progeny, this was a target-rich environment. It was a place so genteel that the door didn’t have a brace of bouncers keeping out the undesirables. As the only town amidst acres of countryside and chocolate-box villages, this was the closest thing to big city nightlife.