The night sky is inky, the heavy air has softened, and the palms are rustling in the light sea breeze. We are in the zocalo, Veracruz’s sprawling open-air living room, where every evening friends gather to drink, to chat, to look, to stroll, to dance, to flirt. Bordered on one side by the apricot-colored 17th century Palacio Municipal, the zocalo, or town square, is the heart of this colonial city. It is the site of Los Portales, where you can relax at one of several venerable cafes, quaff an Indio beer and listen to competing marimba bands. The 18th century cathedral, Nuestra Senora de la Asuncion, is here too, as are legions of cigar-hawkers, jewelry vendors and Indians selling hand-woven belts and embroidered clothing.
Tonight, as always, the atmosphere is lighthearted, A meandering circle of orange plastic chairs has been set up near the ornate bandstand. The chairs are for the danzon, and if you sit in one, anyone can ask you to take a turn on the marble-tiled floor. A stately couples dance with a tropical lilt, the danzon migrated to Veracruz from Cuba in the late 19th century. Eventually it became the dance of high society, though today it is for anyone who wants to keep the tradition alive.
A woman with a yellow daisy in her hair tells us that a host of dance clubs have gathered for tonight’s danzon. Women of a certain age are wearing tiny tank tops, metallic gladiator sandals, flowers tucked behind one ear. Lips are rouged, skirts are short, hoop earrings dangle. The men, in slacks and shirts with rolled up sleeves, seem more relaxed, though for many, this is the high point of the week.
We wait. A wiry grey-haired woman walks by, swinging a glass case with three shelves of creamy custard. “Flanes, flanes,” she intones. A cluster of metallic balloons bobbles across the square like a giant aluminum cloud. A man saunters along with a day glo plastic lizard creeping down his shoulder. I buy a handwoven belt, which everyone tells me is just what my clingy beige and white dress needs. Babies cry, lovers kiss.
Just before 9 o’clock, the band launches into the lilting strains of Augustin Lara’s 1936 classic “Verzcruz.” Almost in unison, couples slip comfortably onto the dance floor. Although I have heard the danzon described as “smoldering” and “sensual,” tonight it seems elegant and graceful. The dancers scarcely touch each other, hands resting lightly at the hip and shoulder, and there is at least eight inches of air between their bodies. Their movements are measured but fluid, as they glide along in a smoothly executed box step. At a musical prompt, all the couples pause and turn to face the band, then resume the dance.
A man in a blue shirt, with crinkly laugh lines and silvery hair slicked back, approaches Susana, He has the best pick up line of the night: “Yo soy Jesus de Veraxcruz. Los Jesus de Alvarado huelen de pescado. Pero yo soy Jesus de Veracruz.” (“I am Jesus from Veracruz. Men named Jesus from Alvarado smell like fish. But I am Jesus from Veracruz.”
They edge onto the dance floor. She laughs as he shows her how to move through the steps of the danzon. Overhead the moon is rising.