It was approximately five AM and I’d lost everyone I came to the bar with. I’d managed to obtain a free gin from the barman by telling him an appalling joke, I was already a few gins down and I had inadvertently wandered into what appeared to be a Spanish stag do.
The aforementioned laddy lad collective was deep in conversation until suddenly the DJ dropped ‘Mi Gente’ (for possibly the third time that night). Without putting down their drinks or any form of preparation, the entire group burst into what appeared to be an elaborately choreographed dance. I’m not talking about a sloppy ‘YMCA’ rendition or a half-assed attempt at the Running Man. These guys were good.
‘Are they dancers?’ I asked one of my friends, who had appeared as if by magic from the smoking area.
‘No, they’re students,’ she said, bemused. ‘One’s in some of my classes,’.
Everyone who knows me is aware of my magical transformation into Chris Brown after a few drinks (minus the dark past and male appendage). But damn, everyone in Spain puts me to shame.
It’s a fact of my new life that I’ve yet to meet a Spanish person who can’t dance.
Go to a student bar and even the most plastered of individuals can still shake it. Dance with a boy and he’ll twirl you around the dancefloor without being too corny (most of the time). Regardless of the music genre on blast at any given time, it seems everyone here can bust a move, even old people.
In the UK, it’s a bit of a different story. Of course this is a massive generalisation but in my experience, it’s rooted in fact – people in the UK are, by and large, not great dancers. Fellow white people, I’m talking to several of you. We get by at weddings and formal events with an awkward offbeat shuffle. On nights out, we give it a couple of rave hands and we’re done. In my student days, most of us actually weren’t able to dance due to the amount of alcohol consumed. Dancing isn’t really a priority for us, we’re just trying to get through the day without offending anyone.
Once, years ago, I went dancing with a bloke I’d been on a couple of dates with and he actually HOPPED ON ONE LEG for the entire evening. He had another leg, he just didn’t use it for dancing purposes.
In my first week in Salamanca when a boy asked me to dance, we actually danced. I felt like I was in an episode of Strictly Come Dancing (Dancing With The Stars for my friends across the pond). The boy may have been a foot shorter than me and wearing questionable shoes but I temporarily fell in love with him.
Here, even the awkward dude in the corner still has rhythm. Even the Inbetweeners-looking guys, sneaking into the bar past their parents’ curfew, can smash out a few decent moves. As someone who loves to dance, it’s a revelation – I’ve never been anywhere else in the world where the ability to drop it like it’s moderately above room temperature is so universal. France, nope. America, forget it, they’re as bad as us. China, heeellll no.
I’m going to continue my study into why everyone in Spain can dance, to see if I can find any exceptions to the rule (haven’t yet). It’s becoming a bit of an obsession – I was teaching my class of five year olds numbers last week and I accidentally taught them to say “seVEENN” in a Len Goodman style. You can take the Brit out of London…