📍Medellín, Colombia, 3/4/22

It was one of those nights I had nothing to do and nobody to do anything with.

As I stared out at the city lights from the rooftop of my hostel, a tiny ember of energy rattled within me. I was feeling… social??!!

I usually loved having nothing to do. I could lie in bed and write. Or wander. But not tonight. Tonight, I was going to make something happen.

I picked up my bag and set out into the darkened streets of Medellin, no idea where I was going.

One hour later, I found myself holding onto the broad shoulder of a Colombian man as he counted off- 1, 2, 3, 4- moving together to the best of the music. I was learning how to salsa.

I had found the Bogota local at a hostel in El Pablado, one of the upscale neighborhoods of Medellín. We were both sitting by ourselves as foreigners rushed around spilling drinks and laughing over the DJ’s picks. Bonding over the fact that we were both alone and a bit reclusive, we quickly became friends.

Nico was tall and handsome. A 28-year-old working in private equity (or something like that). He was easygoing and quite fun to talk to. The words bounced back and forth between us like a pinball machine, rapid and energetic. Our chemistry was insane.

Not only that, but we shared the exact same humor. When he laughed at my jokes, I actually felt funny. Ha! He made me want to talk about myself, which is rare. I’m usually the questioner–the listener. With him, I discovered that I have way more funny little stories than I ever realized.

I told him about my travel blog as we sat in chairs, sipping rum & cokes.

“Will I be featured in your blog?” He asked, grinning.

I pretended to think about it for a second. “You’ll probably be an anecdote in there somewhere.”

And he burst into laughter.

After sharing a couple of drinks and a lot of banter, we set out to a Salsa club with a mission–to teach me how to salsa.

Nico was a good teacher. Even when he pulled me close to him, he was gentlemanly about it. I don’t usually enjoy physical contact with near strangers–but with him, it didn’t feel weird. I was being taught how to dance. And it was wonderful.

We flounced around in the salsa club, even though nobody else was dancing. It was just us on the floor, spinning between tables. He twirled me into chairs and against walls, and we laughed it off. In the end, I learned all the Colombian variations of salsa. Magnifico.

Deciding to take our night up a notch, we crossed the street to the busiest club on the block. A long line trailed out the door, but we didn’t have to wait long.

Immediately after we stumbled into the club, Nico was cornered by some friends whom he’d met earlier that day. Dragging us over to the bar, they bought us both shots.

They called it “hot water”– some type of Colombian alcohol. I stared at the enormous shot glass with wide eyes. No way I was taking the whole thing. Not in Colombia, anyway, with people I just met.

But Nico wasn’t impressed that I didn’t take the full shot. He shoved it back into my hand, ordering me to drink the rest of it.

I didn’t like that.

Taking the shot from his hands, I stared him directly in the eyes as I poured the rest onto the ground between us.

His ‘what the fuck’ look gave me immense satisfaction.

So did his apology.

Maybe it was a bit extreme of me, maybe not–I don’t care. I got my point across.

The rest of the night was spent dancing in that tightly packed club until I decided I was over it and made Nico walk me back to my hostel.