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“I’ll drink to that,” I say, raising my glass again.
The cab pulls up to the club and the area is desolate.
“Um, there’s no one here. Are you sure we’re in the right place?” Melida asks.
“This is the address I found.” The building displays the number of the address I have written down, but the lights are dark and there are zero people in front of the door or at the neighboring establishments.
I ask the cab driver if this is the correct place, which he confirms it is. Before getting out of the car, I ask him to wait a few minutes while we check the club because we don’t want to be stuck in this unknown area with no ride.
Melida and I walk to the address I have written down and we both draw our eyes close to the window attempting to peer inside and catch a glimpse. It’s empty and there are chairs strewn about the vacant room, tables tilted on their side or stacked one on top of the other. Hmm, must’ve been an old online listing that hasn’t been updated yet.
“Guess the information I found was outdated,” I say, and start walking back toward the cab. Once there, Melida and I climb back into the vehicle.
“So much for one of the best places in Miami,” Krissa says, before she howls in laughter.
“Sir, do you have any recommendations of where we can go dancing tonight?” I ask the cabbie when we’re back inside the car.
“Yes,” he responds, in a thick accent. “I like Ball & Chain. It’s a restaurant with dancing. You will like, many locals go there.Es muy típico y con música cubana en vivo,” he says. “Typical Cuban music that’s live,” he repeats.
“Perfect, take us there please,” I tell him.
The cab drops us two blocks from Ball & Chain and as we walk toward the entrance, I notice the line stretches down the block.
Ball & Chain is located in the Little Havana neighborhood of Miami, or onCalle Oche, as it’s often referred to. Known for its Cuban exile community, thriving cultural scene, brightly colored murals, and music, the iconic stretch of road is full ofbodegas, local food spots, and nightlife.
“Melida, go work your magic and see if you can get us in quicker so we don’t have to wait in that line,” I tell her, gesturing with my chin toward the front of the club.
Melida has always been the one amongst us to sweet talk the bouncer at the clubs and get us in. When we were younger, we would go out to the clubs in Boston three or four nights a week—so much so we became regulars and were let right in whenever there was a line. But even when it was our first time at a club, Melida would walk right up to the bouncer and whisper with him to somehow get us in. It worked each and every time, no matter what club or city we were in. It was impressive to watch her do it—still is. When any of us asks her what she says to get us in, her response is always “I don’t give away my secrets. We’re in; just thank me.” And she sticks to her guns; she never tells any of us what she says to these guys who let us waltz into the place as if we were the queens of the night.
“There she goes again,” Jestine chimes in. “I’ve seen her do it a million times and no matter how many times I watch, I’m always in awe. How she does it we’ll never know.”
“We’ll be sixty and still wondering because she’ll never fucking tell us,” adds Krissa. We’re standing several feet back from Melida while she whispers into the bouncer’s ear, her words causing a grin to spread across his face. The women in line waiting to be admitted inside the club whisper to each other and shoot her dirty looks as they do. If Melida sees them, she’ll probably make some snide comment before sashaying her way into the club.
“Come on, girls,” Melida hollers, gesturing with her hand for us to follow her inside.
The room we walk into is a large open space with a massive teardrop shaped wooden bar in the middle of it. The place is full, but not jam-packed as I would expect based on the line of people waiting to get in. At the far end of the bar there is a walkway to another area in the back, which is crowded since that’s where the live music and dancing seems to be happening. The eclectic clave beats of the salsa music penetrate me and my hips start shaking to the rhythm.
“What are you drinking?” asks Jestine.
“I’ll have a Cosmo,” I respond.
With drinks in hand, we work our way through the crowd toward the back area of the club. Once there I notice the dance floor is under the stars—an open-air club. The large band is playing on a small stage, the rounded top resembling a pineapple with its stem, its members lively as they dance while singing. I’ve attended my share of live music shows, but I’ve never heard live salsa music.
The band is huge; there are a bunch of people on the platform. There’s a trumpet, trombone, saxophone, conga drums, guitar, and a few other instruments I can’t identify. I think I even see a cowbell. In addition to the main vocalist, there are also several backup singers. How incredible! What I love most about the musicians is most of them are dancing in unison to the beat of their music.
The rhythm is fast and to my left I see a group of people dancing in a circle, all with each other and in unison. It almost looks choreographed. The partners spin and when one of them calls something out, they move to the next person and continue dancing, never missing a beat.
“What kind of dancing is that?” Krissa asks, pointing to the group of people dancing.
“Not sure, it’s the first time I’m seeing it but it’s so cool. Look how their bodies move, their motions are fluid as the partners turn and dance with others in the circle.”
“Let’s dance,” Melida says, grabbing Jestine’s hand and dragging her toward the crowd.
“I’m gonna finish my drink first,” Krissa responds.
“I’ll stay back with her,” I say, sipping on my drink.
Krissa and I are watching Melida and Jestine spin and twirl to the beats as we’re swaying to the music. Three songs later Krissa is finished with her drink, and we decide it’s time to join the ladies on the floor.
