“Play some spanic music,” Paula said, her hands resting on either side of the DJ booth, leaning in to Andrew with wide, pleading eyes.

“Some spanic music?” he grinned, mocking her Ecuadorian accent.

“Jou know what I mean. SPANIC.”

“Hispanic?”

“Whateber,” she said, waving her long fingers in his face. “Just dooo it.”

I drew circles in my vodka-cranberry with my straw, and giggled at her demand. It was my first time in the basement “lounge” of this local restaurant, the owner and DJ of which was best friends with Paula’s husband, Chris. All night long, he’d been fielding our requests, and her latest one, laced with an accent, was the funniest of the lot.

But I was tired, too. It had been a long day: My godson, Alex, had just celebrated his first birthday, and Paula and Chris had gone all out for the party. Held at Chris’s parents’ house, it began at noon and had extended well into evening. As was always the case at the home of Paula’s in-laws, I was the only non-Spanish speaker there, and had spent the day feeling guilty that everyone was speaking English at Paula’s request, because of my presence. But, as was also always the case, I felt enriched by being there. There’s this element of celebration in their family that just doesn’t exist in the caucasion family that I call my own. Everything’s a party, with more food than eight or ten people could possibly ever eat, with free-flowing wine and liquor and beer. And the music. Aaaah, the music.

Paula’s extended family was really my frist taste of a Latin household. The talking, and the food, and the passion for everything. Certain members of my family have been known to erupt into spontaneous dance, but never was it as common place in my life as it was in Paula’s. Every gathering I attended with the lot of them, at one point or another, resulted in a few or all of us getting up and dancing to songs infused with the kind of beat that only a Latin song can deliver. And there’s something incredibly fantastic about watching as the older generation of their family rises from their seats and begins those first few tentative, old-fashioned dance steps. It’s usually preceded by some form of boasting, “Let us show you how to dance,” and then they bust out the hip movements and fancy turns, while I sit back in amazement that this is how they all grew up.

Alex’s first birthday was no different, except that this time, Paula and I looked at one another at the end of the night, and decided that our need to dance had not been filled. Dancing with your family is fun, but one dances differently in front of their in-laws and friend’s family than they would in, say, a dance club. So Paula and I cornered Chris and begged him to find a place that we could go. Begging wasn’t necessary, though. As soon as we mentioned that we’d like to keep dancing, he suggested Andrew’s restaurant; Paula talked her mother-in-law into keeping Alex for the night, and off we went.

The lounge portion of Andrew’s family’s restaurant was located in a basement, below a family-style Italian restaurant and resort no more than ten minutes away from the homes of Paula, her in-laws, and my own. The restaurant has been there for well over twenty years, and it shows. Updating has been, apparently, absent in their budget, so the resort is locked into a late-seventies/early-eighties timewarp. The restaurant is home to many a silk flower and yards of paisley carpet. The basement is no better; the steps that lead down into the lounge offer a faint musty smell to accompany the descent, and once inside, the lounge is dark and small. Mirrors cover all of the walls in an effort, I suppose, to make it feel bigger than it really is. The whole lounge is L-shaped, so that the customer walks through a maze of tables before she is allowed to turn the corner to the bar/dancefloor. But it’s all open, and cozy, the perfect place for a small nightclub.

Before that night, I’d no idea that it even existed. But I, apparently, was the only one. The entire lounge was packed, with couples and groups sharing tables, a full dance floor, and not a seat empty at the bar. The DJ/Owner, Andrew, was playing hip-hop as we entered, and I knew at that moment that we’d have an excellent night.

Because Chris was best friends with the owner, we were treated like VIPs. Drinks were free and plentiful. Snacks were provided. And any music we wished for was played. And as the crowd thinned, our demands grew. With each song that played, Paula and I thought of five more we’d like to hear. Before we knew it, everyone but Andrew, Chris, Paula and I were gone.

Neither Chris nor Andrew showed much interest in dancing themselves, but preferred to watch as Paula and I danced for ourselves in the mirrors. Sometimes dancing together, sometimes breaking off into solo performances, we moved our bodies through hours of music. And then, finally, Paula wanted to hear her music.

“Spanic music it is,” Andrew replied to her request, and he mixed 50 Cent in with Daddy Yankee, and before we knew it, “Gasolina” thumped through the lounge.

It wasn’t a song I’d ever heard before, and I didn’t understand a word of what was being said. But there was something in that frantic intro, the quick Spanish words over the music, the way it built and then exploded in that first beat; I was in love. I couldn’t help but move.

I have a theory that every girl thinks she can dance like Shakira when she hears a Shakira song. It’s an epidemic, really: Girls with no apparent sense of rhythm or movement, suddenly shaking their hips with reckless abandon, certain they look just like Shakira does in her videos. And it’s not their fault, really, music like that just overtakes you, makes you think you have the Latin blood that comes inherent with moves like that. But they don’t, and from the outside, it’s kind of sad and embarrassing, but to that girl, at least for that three-minute segment of time, she was Shakira. And this is not a phenomena to which I am immune. It happens to me during Shakira songs, but it happens to me especially during Gasolina. When I heard that song for the first time, and every time since, I believe that I was born somewhere within Latin America. I have luscious brown skin, and eyes so dark, they’re almost black. In my mind, I have the legs and hips that allow for the sort of movement made for, and by, Hispanic Music, and they move me accordingly. I don’t know how I look on the outside, but I don’t care. Which is the beauty of music: It allows you those sort of fantasies.

That night, when Gasolina came into my life, I watched myself in the mirrored walls of the lounge as I transformed from Anna the Gringo to Anna the Hip-Shaking Latino. I was lost in my own little world, thinking I looked fantastic, amazed at what my body was doing without my willing it.

And then I looked at Paula.

She has the luscious brown skin and the nearly black eyes; she owns the blood, the legs, and the hips that let her move in a way I can only dream of. I’d never seen her dance before, not this way. My hips tried to hit every furious beat, where hers only found the ones that mattered. My show was overtly sexual, begging for attention. Hers was smoldering, garnering attention without even wanting it; she had that sort of quiet, self-assured sultriness that women like me only dream of. She moved in a way that told whoever was watching that she didn’t even want their gaze, that she was dancing because she just felt it, because her body just had to. She’s always been a sexy woman - with long dark hair, a long, narrow body that somehow supports enormous, natural breasts, all below an incredible face, with big, round eyes, a slim nose and full, supple lips - but she’d never been sexier than right then. Because she just didn’t care. She watched herself move in the mirror, but not in a way that reeked of conceit; more like she was entranced by what the music was making her do. Just like I was.

I’ve always been proud of how well I can dance. Rhythm has been in my bones for as long as I can remember. I’ve never in my life felt like the stereotypical flailing white girl portrayed in movies and sitcoms. I can move, and I do. But suddenly, I realized how much I had to learn. How there was more to dancing than finding a beat and moving to it.

I tried not to make it obvious that I was watching her; I didn’t want to make her uncomfortable. So I tried to slow down my movement and match hers without being to obvious. But I just couldn’t. What the song did to me, and what it did to her, were just different.

The song ended, and she ran her fingers over her now-sweaty hair. “Anodder one, Andrew!” she called out.

Andrew leaned in to the mic. “More spanic music coming right up.”