Dancing is one of my favorite hobbies. I’m not saying I have enough talent to end up in a Marc Anthony music video, but I can at least move around without causing medical emergencies.
And when I first arrived in Germany, I made the mistake of assuming that a party was a party everywhere. Loud music, people dancing, someone making a fool of themselves, and someone else convinced they’re irresistible after two beers.
How naïve I was.
Apartment Parties
The first time I was invited to a German WG Party, I was excited with a level of optimism that I now consider irresponsible.
I picked my best outfit, practiced a couple of moves in front of the mirror, and mentally prepared myself to destroy the dance floor.
But when I arrived, I discovered something disturbing.
There was no dance floor.
There was a couch.
There was cold beer.
There were people calmly discussing university, cars, holidays in Mallorca and, most likely, taxes.
Everyone was sitting comfortably, looking strangely happy, as if they were attending a human resources meeting, but with alcohol.
Meanwhile, I stood there, confused and very Latin, waiting for someone to shout “salsa,” play some old-school reggaeton, or at least get up and embarrass themselves with dignity.
Nothing.
Apparently, you had to socialize first.
In Germany, even fun seems to require a preliminary approval process.
To be fair, many of these parties eventually move to a nightclub.
And that’s where I discovered something important.
Germans dance too.
In their own way.
But they definitely dance.
Free-Style Dancing
Have you ever been afraid of looking ridiculous while dancing?
I have.
Many times.
Especially when it feels like everyone else was born with coordination while you’re still occasionally mixing up left and right.
But something changed when I went to a German club and decided to stop overthinking.
I stuck to my classic Latin basics. A little hip movement, flexible knees and a diplomatic smile.
Then I looked around.
Some people danced as if they were fighting invisible wasps.
Others seemed to be repairing an imaginary printer with one arm.
A few looked like they were experiencing a moderate electrical malfunction, but somehow enjoying it.
And that’s when I understood something beautiful.
In Germany, nobody judges you for dancing weird because everyone is busy dancing weird in their own way.
It was liberating.
Since then, I’ve embraced the philosophy of free-style dancing.
I invented moves such as sweeping the floor, grating parmesan cheese, changing a light bulb, the hurried duck and the rebellious puppet.
Looking good was no longer the goal.
Having fun without asking permission from embarrassment was.
And surprisingly, it works.
Salsa and Professional Wrestling
I’ve always enjoyed dancing salsa.
I’m no expert, but I can lead well enough to prevent my dance partner from ending up embedded in a wall.
That’s usually enough to survive socially.
However, something curious happened several times in Germany.
I’d start leading a salsa dance and suddenly the woman wanted to lead too.
At that point it stopped being salsa and became an international negotiation over control.
Something between Roman wrestling and Caribbean music.
Eventually I learned that many dance schools have far more women than men, so many women learn both roles.
Which makes perfect sense.
The challenge appears when both dancers decide they should choose the next turn at exactly the same moment.
Then you’re no longer sure whether you’re dancing salsa or participating in a debate about leadership, consent and tropical machismo.
The Latin Macho
At some Latin parties I noticed something interesting.
Some German women seemed slightly tense when dancing with me.
At first I assumed I smelled strange, was sweating too much, or simply looked like an emotional problem waiting to happen.
One day, however, I asked directly.
The answer surprised me.
Many had experienced Latin men who treated bachata as a form of territorial expansion.
And when the women showed discomfort, those men would respond with the most dangerous sentence in the budget seducer’s handbook.
“That’s how we dance in Latin America.”
Wrong.
In Germany, unless a certain level of trust already exists, that kind of behavior is often considered invasive and unpleasant.
The famous stereotype of the Latin macho.
The man who believes bachata grants him artistic rights over someone else’s body.
Since then, I’ve adopted a habit that initially felt ridiculous.
I simply ask whether close-contact dancing is okay.
And surprisingly, it works.
It builds trust, breaks the ice and often makes people laugh.
I discovered that asking permission had an unexpected side effect.
It worked better than many dancers who considered themselves irresistible.
The Advantages of Knowing How to Dance
Some time ago I watched a TikTok where a Latin guy claimed that knowing salsa in Germany practically guaranteed German women would fall in love with you.
Allow me to doubt that with considerable intellectual force.
I’ve seen far too many failed experiments to buy into that scientific theory.
What I do believe is that dancing helps people connect.
Dance is a strange language where conversations happen without words.
And in Germany, surprisingly enough, that language is highly appreciated.
Here, dancing is often treated almost like a sport.
It’s taught in dance schools, universities and clubs.
It’s not just partying.
It’s discipline, technique and social activity.
Very German.
Even when Daddy Yankee is playing.
The Group Feeling
Personally, I’ve always preferred partner dancing.
I enjoy that direct connection with another person.
But Germany introduced me to something else.
Group dancing.
And I was not prepared.
One night I was dancing peacefully in a Latin bar when a woman grabbed my waist from behind and gently pushed me forward.
For a few seconds I assumed it was some experimental dance move.
Perhaps a Bavarian variation of cumbia.
It wasn’t.
Without realizing it, I had become the unwilling leader of a giant human conga line that had formed behind me.
There I was, moving through the bar like the accidental conductor of a Latin-German train, without having signed any consent forms or applied for the position.
I won’t lie.
It was fun.
Although I still prefer partner dancing and the possibility of preserving at least a small amount of dignity.
Conclusion
There’s a common idea that Germans either don’t dance or dance badly.
Honestly, I think that’s false.
They dance.
Sometimes differently.
Sometimes with less Latin flavor and more individual freedom.
Sometimes with movements that challenge every known law of biomechanics.
But they dance.
As I write this, I’m sitting on a four-hour train ride after spending the weekend at Berlin’s Carnival of Cultures.
I’m exhausted.
Sleep deprived.
My legs are destroyed.
And I’m probably carrying several kilograms of temporary international cuisine.
But nobody can take away what I’ve danced.
And perhaps that’s one of the best definitions of adult happiness.
