¡Azúcar!

On the way to work, I stopped by the morning market for some fruit. I whiled away a few minutes watching the always-entertaining chicken vendor. She snapped a bird’s neck in one brisk motion and dropped it into the automatic chicken scalder, a washing-machine-like contraption that quickly batters the feathers from the carcass.

I know how the chicken feels. Almost a week after the salsa festival, my neck and shoulders are still sore from two solid days of Afro-Cuban movement.

As a disciple of Terpsichore, I am a slow learner. Fortunately, male dancers in Taipei are far outnumbered by salseras, an arrangement entirely to my liking. That and my other good qualities—still a little young, pretty convincing comb-over, no paunch, wash my hands after using the bathroom, brush my teeth after meals—make me one hell of a catch.

So Friday night has come again. Sore muscles or not, I’m off to give the ladies what they want. (Squashed toes, sweaty hands, and elbows to the head, apparently.)