(photo courtesy Creative Commons/Destinys Agent)

I just got my hands dirty with the arts.  No, it didn't involve dipping my fingers into cans of paint, nor were my palms mistaken for a Van Gogh piece.  The name simply implies involvement with an aspect of art of your choosing.

The day-long festival Hands Dirty with the Arts took place on USC's University Park campus on Saturday, January 30.  Get Your Hands Dirty with the Arts taught an hour-plus long beginner classes in areas ranging from documentary filmmaking to guitar playing to creating wind instruments.

I was feeling spicy, so I took salsa dancing.  I also chose salsa because I took one class four years ago and enjoyed it immensely.  I arrived early to the building where the class was held.  There was only one other person there waiting.  For the ensuing half-hour this person talked on his phone while sitting next to me.  He could have gone to any other part of the room, but decided to sit right next to me.

I wasn't moving, because I sat there first!  Unable to avoid overhearing his conversation, I heard him mention to his incredibly bored (must have been to put up with the talk I was hearing) friend that he would be taking salsa dancing soon.

The thought of sharing a dance floor with this buffoon almost made me run for the hills.  But the thought holding a sexy Spanish woman close to me while dancing the dance of heat kept me firmly planted on my leather bench.

Soon other participants entered the austere white-walled room with our instructor, a Mr. Jay Fuentes.  Fuentes had patience, but the disengaged attitude one would expect from somebody teaching a free beginner's dance class.  The participants ranged from undergrad age to people I estimated to be in their sixties.

Fuentes quickly threw on music and with it, us into the fire.  He told us to mimic his dance steps.  I followed best I could as he showed us the basic steps, the side steps, the back steps.  He taught us the importance of balance and how to correctly pivot turn without flaring our (my) motion sickness.

The room was meant for dance, but the sticky floor wasn't conducive to silence, especially not for my Adidas sneakers.  After a few minutes of rubber soled squeaking, I could feel sweat beading on my forehead and the buffoon emanating his inconsiderateness from behind me.

After a half-hour, Fuentes asked if we were ready to partner up.  Everybody was ready.  I locked eyes with the middle-aged woman next to me.  A mutual smile sealed the deal.

Leading with my left hand up, clasped in her right, and my right hand on her hip, we went through the basic steps together.  Fuentes soon made sure to point out that my off hand belonged up, around her shoulder blade instead.  Damn, first my Latina fantasy goes up in flames and now my cougar fantasy.

We switched partners pretty frequently and with each switch, a more advanced addition was added to our dances.  By my fourth partner, I was twirling and spinning, stepping and leading with more and more confidence.

The class went longer than planned, but few people minded.  Not when we were learning how to dance hotter than a habanero.  Salsa!