Each time i go to Guatemala, some well-meaning friend of one of my cousins tries to teach me how to dance. I always warn them – My hips DO lie. This is not Havana nights! Out of politeness and kindness, they always try … and it is always terrible. Yet, liquored up on glasses of white Botran rum mingled with 7 Up, Coke or tonic water flavored with squeezes of lime, it is not so bad. I close my eyes and remind myself that no one really expects the gringa to know what to do. I have carte blanche.
Carte blanche. The idea is, as always, tantalizing. And, for the first time in years, it is about to be a reality.