saturday night

red carpet productions used to premiere here. cushioned seats lined the balcony and five dollar italian sodas were sold just inside the ornate entryway. today, we still wear our finest to its guarded doors. we have to, or we're turned away. we queue up outside and exchange bills for tickets at miniature glass windows. but now we must be twenty-one. now we arrive at ten o'clock. now we come caffeinated, for a two hour flick is not why we flock here. we come to salsa.

a three-tiered stage stands where the screen used to hang and few wallside stools replace the endless rows of plush, rockable, side-by-side chairs. but the walls of The Mayan are still etched with columbian runes. the ceiling is still a handpainted sun-calendar. save for the giant swinging disco ball, we could be trapped in the depths of some great archaeological find.

i couldn't possibily be in southern california.

benny leads me out to the floor as the salsa band picks up its pace. skirts, so many skirts, spin out around me. millions of men. and heels- 3 inches, platforms, stilettos- pose a danger to everything but the feet they cling to. a minute ago, i was clickclacking down a cement alley between the lakers' staples center and cheap hot dog kiosks. a minute ago, illuminated skyscrapers- self-proclaimed properties of various money-centric accounting firms- sprung up at my sides. now i am underground in latin america. now i am a spanish cinderella kidnapped by cannibals. i am a meringue goddess. dip me, flip me.

but i am in l.a.

when the early morning curtains close and the gilded guitars close themselves in cases, i grab the grey wool coat that followed my mother around in her twenties. i live under eversunny skies and when night arrives, i don't care if it is only 40 degrees, i shiver. so the coat and my five fellow dancing friends find our way above ground, hop into imported cars, and drive on north up the 405, another night of dancing under our belts and under our skin.

want to come next time?