Jamaica, Round 1, Part 2, My First Party
That moment of me sitting on that couch in the middle of Kingston heat with no one to connect with, was definitely one of the most uncomfortable moments of my life. For some reason, when I've reached those moments before, it's almost as if a switch is automatically flipped and the end result of that endeavor becomes an epic experience, which is further highlighted by the fact that it started out so awkward and terrible. That's how my first trip to Kingston went.
Things slowly began to make sense after that moment on the couch. The owner of the hostel eventually came back and could not have been more welcoming. The girl that greeted me at the front invited me to go to a class with her at Dance Jamaica, the main dance studio in Kingston. The class itself wasn't super great. The teacher came an hour late, and just basically danced for us and expected us to follow her exactly without breaking down anything, but at least I was dancing...right? My friends were due to arrive in a couple days, so I thought I would make the most of my time and book a couple more classes and attend my first real Dancehall party.
My first time going to the Dancehall in Jamaica was a separate experience in itself. First of all, we started getting ready at midnight which included a routine of making an extra strong batch of coffee, caking on makeup, and wearing the least amount of clothes as possible. This routine started at 12AM, so we could make it by 2AM, which apparently was still embarrassingly early for most Jamaicans. We crammed into a taxi which sped off and dropped us at a side street flooding with people, smoking, and selling food and cigarettes. When we stepped out of the cab, all eyes were immediately on us, and never left until we climbed back in three hours later. I felt immediately out of place at the Dancehall. This party in particular was called Pepperseed Wednesdays which was known for playing Old and Mid Skool tunes. I thought I knew some moves and songs, but when I was there I felt like a stranger. For every song that played, everyone knew all the lyrics, and the dance that went with it. Charlotte, the manager of Belleh House who led our excursion, was friends with Colo Colo, one of the most well-known Old Skool dancers in Jamaica, (who could be picked out of a crowd in an instant with his ten inch long nails, black leather jacket, hiking boots, and posture that would make a retired ballet teacher roll over in her grave). He spent the night half mocking my awkwardness and half hitting on me.
As undoubtedly uncomfortable the whole night was, I was left with a strong sense of desire, (not to take Colo Colo's up on his advances), but to get to a point where I could feel 100% comfortable in that environment. Where I could be the foreigner who knew all the steps and lyrics to all the songs, and have eyes on me for the right reasons. I could see the foreigners at the party who were seasoned Dancehall tourists, and I was determined to get there. This was the moment where things really started to change. Where that moment on that couch in that hot, sweaty, lonely apartment turned into only a memory of how something magical started, and that agonizing moment at the party became the fuel.