KIZ Dialogs - Part 1

Dear reader,
This story was born out of conversations between Sergei, Yuriy, and a mix of other voices: famous and not-so-famous teachers, passionate social dancers, leaders, followers… all united by one thing: Kizomba.

But every story needs a beginning. So let’s say it started like this:
Once upon a time (because why not?), Sergei and Yuriy met up in a cozy café — just for a coffee and a bit of casual chatting. At least, that was the plan.

But somehow, as it always happens with dancers, the mood shifted…
Memories started bubbling up, the coffee cooled down, and Sergei leaned forward with a smile:
“Yuriy, do you remember how your Kizomba journey began?”

And from that one question, a whole dialog came to life…

Yuri:
The journey! My journey into the world of dance… which I stumbled into thanks to you, Sergei. I’ll tell it like it is — raw and real, but with a few punchlines.

Do you remember how it all began? The first steps, the emotional rollercoasters, mental meltdowns, and that constant look of utter confusion on my face?

Sergei:
Oh, absolutely. You looked like someone who’d accidentally walked into the wrong room.

Yuri:
I remember it perfectly: you dragged me into it almost by force, with the kind of determination people usually reserve for signing someone up for a mortgage. But seriously, thank you!

You were the one who introduced me to my teacher, Elena.

If it weren’t for the two of you, I’d probably still be doing something "useful"... like binge-watching shows on the couch!

At first, it was a disaster. I didn’t understand anything.
Basics? What basics?!

Musicality? God… for me, it was like "astronomy in Swahili." I’m still trying to catch that elusive “beat,” but it keeps dodging me like someone avoiding taxes.

I was angry, frustrated, resisting everything — like a kid being told to wash his hands before dinner. But the worst part? No one explained the rules of the game.

Sergei:
Yeah, rules are kind of important…

Yuri:
Exactly! Without rules — come on, you get it: it’s like playing chess, thinking the rook moves diagonally.

Why didn’t anyone explain? Because 180% of teachers in Catalonia don’t follow any kind of structured method. Yes, 180%! Because it genuinely feels like some teachers explain things in a way that makes them less clear.
Can they dance? Sure.
Can they explain? Only if you count “just copy me and don’t think” as teaching.

But without structure — it’s all a gamble.
And without rules — it’s not even a game.
And without the game — what even is this dance?

What little I do understand today, I owe entirely to Elena and to you.

So let’s go back to the beginning.
Remember? After our second-to-last project, you just up and left. Russia? Estonia?

Sergei:
Russia

Yuri:
And I was left in Barcelona — like a retired grandpa on parental leave: alone, confused, and a little salty.
When you came back in 2021, you were already deep into salsa and bachata. All smooth and musical.
And that’s when your mission to conquer my poor soul began.

First, you dragged me to a salsa class.
Result? Nothing. No chemistry. Nothing fluttered inside.
Next visit — bachata. Again, nothing. I was showing up, nodding along, but inside? I felt like a bear being taught yoga.

Then, during your third visit, you played your trump card.
You put on Kizomba Fusion and Urban Kiz music, showed me pictures from a festival…
And something clicked.
My body froze, eyes went wide, brain just… blissed out.
This wasn’t just music. Not just dance. It was… a silent drama in an embrace.
I joked: it’s like a vertical orgasm! 😄
And I knew: that’s what I want to try.

And so, on January 13th, 2022, you took me to my first Kizomba Fusion workshop.
And it was like jumping into cold water — fully clothed — with a backpack full of bricks.
The woman leaned in slowly… hugged me…
And I?
I didn’t know who she was, where I was, or what the hell was going on.
My brain hit full "dance Windows Error."

Sergei:
But hey, you looked okay from the outside 😄

Yuri:
My heart froze, my legs gave out, my brain took a vacation.
But right at that moment — lost, but embraced — my real dance journey began.

Sergei:
Oh, I remember it all, Yura! Those were golden times: sun, beaches, and you — resisting like a cat being lured into a bath… 😂

Yuri:
Yeah, well, I resisted for a reason — it all felt weird and unfamiliar.

Sergei
When I got back to Barcelona, I was dying to see how they dance salsa and bachata in the land of passion! Naturally, I had to show you the world I’d dived into — like it was a place with free food and music 24/7.

By then, I was completely infected — like I’d caught the dance virus with no cure. I was doing classes every day. Sometimes six, even eight a day. With a lunch break, of course — I’m not completely insane. Though honestly… it was close. 😄

Yuri:
I admire your stamina! I would’ve died from that kind of schedule 😄

Sergey:
I’d get home like an action movie hero — wounded, but proud.
And in the morning — I’d rise like a zombie… but a zombie that dances bachata. 🧟‍♂️💃

What really shocked me: In Spain — land of passion, flamenco, and red wine — dance classes were rare. I was visiting studios like a crazed fan, and they’d say:
“Yes, we have class… once a week. On Thursday. Maybe.”

Total shock. After St. Petersburg, where the schedule is like a university timetable and skipping is basically a crime, this felt like dance starvation.

Yuri:
I remember thinking it was strange myself — classes here felt like a lottery.

Sergei:
Back in St. Pete, we trained 3 hours a day, 2–4 times a week. One hour salsa, one hour bachata, one hour kizomba. My brain was literally melting. After a couple of kizomba classes, I said:
“That’s it. Enough. I’ll come back to this when my brain is usable again.” 😅
I was doing dance bootcamp like I was training for the Dance Hunger Games.
I even got a certificate for the number of classes and parties I attended. No joke — I still have it somewhere.

Yuri:
A certificate? Now that’s elite-level dancing.

Sergei:
Then I came back to Spain.
The dance hunger was gnawing at me from the inside.
That’s when I remembered kizomba — and figured: if there aren’t enough classes, I’ll just supplement with other dances.
I’d even done a few classes back when I lived in Estonia.
I even went to my first kizomba festival — but that’s a whole other story (almost a comedy sketch). 😄

Yuri:
Yeah, you mentioned that… We’ll come back to it.

Sergei:
And of course, you ended up in the line of fire.
I invited you to parties, wanting to share my discovery. I wanted you to feel that dance is not just “one-two-three,” it’s a whole universe.
But you were looking at me like: “Is he really talking about dance, or is this some weird cult?” 😂

Yuri:
Exactly. I thought you were recruiting me into a secret organization.

Sergei:
I remember when we went to your first Kizomba Fusion workshop.
You walked out looking like: “Who are these people, what just happened, and why were they hugging me?!” 😅
That was your true starting point. And honestly — it was great.
Because you didn’t just dip your toes in — you dove deep, started digging, analyzing, searching for structure.
And like you said: most teachers here operate on a festival-workshop basis. Consistency is… elusive.

Yuri:
Exactly. That’s one of the reasons I spent so long searching for the right approach.

Sergei:
But that’s a whole separate conversation.
About Spain, the dance scene, and why people here seem to dance based on moon phases — we’ll definitely get to that. 😉

By the way, I’m really curious: what do you remember about our first kizomba class in Barcelona?
You’ve got the memory of an archivist. 😉

Yuri:
Oh, I remember everything about that first workshop! Thankfully, my memory’s still working fine.
First of all, I understood absolutely nothing.
And when I say “nothing” — I don’t mean it metaphorically. I mean literally nothing. Maybe even less.
They showed us some exercises and moves that looked like choreography from another planet.
I watched it all like I was staring into a funhouse mirror.
The teacher moved their left foot, and me — all eager — copied with my right.
So of course, everything came out backwards, twisted, tangled into a knot. And the worst part — I had no idea why.

Sergei:
Oh yeah, that’s classic — when your brain can’t keep up with your body.

Yuri:
And then something even more intense happened.
My partner at the workshop, who seemed taller than me, or maybe that was just fear magnifying everything, leaned in, hugged me…

And in that moment, I no longer knew who I was, where I was, or what the hell I was supposed to do with this woman. My brain exploded.

And right there, at that first workshop, I had my second revelation. Not a passing thought — a soul-punching realization that stayed with me throughout my first year of dancing:

In dance, you either can lead and dance, or you can’t. There’s no middle ground.
And nothing saves you. Not charisma, not your résumé, not your eloquence. Doesn’t matter if you’re an engineer, a therapist, an artist, or an astronaut — all of that disappears in an embrace.
You become emotionally and socially naked.
Not literally, but as if someone stripped away your suit, diplomas, trained speech, confident poses, and go-to lines.
And what’s left is just you — no mask, no script, no shield.
Like a child holding the broken pieces of a rattle, not knowing how it ever worked… or how to put it back together.

Here’s my second truth:
Dance doesn’t lie — it reveals.
It puts you face to face with yourself.
It scrapes away the fake… and leaves only the real.

Sergei:
That’s very accurate. I’ve felt something similar too — when dance suddenly strips you bare and forces you to face yourself.

Yuri:
So you also went through something that terrible and emotionally chaotic? Or was it different for you?

Sergei:
It was completely different for me. I came into kizomba after salsa and bachata. I was already a seasoned “dance veteran,” having braved the salsa jungles and bachata swamps. Kizomba seemed pretty straightforward at first — steps, direction, pause, step again… Just a dance, right? Only later did I realize it was a trap.

The real surprise was up close. Literally — the embrace. So close that you start wondering: “Do I even smell clean today?”

On one hand, enticing, I admit. But on the other — you really feel the moral and technical responsibility settle on you. It’s not just dancing, it’s like going to a job interview… but with your body, and no words. 🫣

Yuri:
Exactly! It feels like an exam where you're not allowed to make mistakes. It really is serious.

Sergei:
Our first teacher in St. Petersburg said it outright:
“In kizomba, unlike salsa or bachata, you can’t fake it — you can’t hide mistakes, the follower will feel everything.”

That’s when I realized:
“Whoa. This is serious. This isn’t just dancing — it’s almost a spiritual discipline!”

Honestly, that strictness is what made me step back from kizomba at first. I wanted instant impact, beauty, wow-effect — music, hugs, and people whispering: “Damn, he must’ve been born somewhere between Angola and Olympus!”

But instead, you’re calmly told:
“Nope. First — basics. Slowly. For years. No tricks or fireworks.”

Yuri:
Exactly, and “slowly” isn’t just a word. It’s like a marathon without a finish line.

Sergei:
And what do you do? Naturally, you're drawn back to salsa — where you can just bring some vibe, throw in a couple of (sometimes accidental) improvisations — and still get praised!
Like: “You’re so musical, so alive, so expressive!”
Meanwhile, you just forgot the next step and did something from the heart.

By the way, that’s exactly what many teachers fear — especially in Spain, where dancing is often seen more as a way to unwind than a path to self-improvement. The student came for good vibes, not homework.

So the teachers try not to disappoint:
“You’re already a hero for showing up!”
But saying: “You’ll have to work, a lot” — that’s scary. What if they get upset, scared, and go take up yoga instead?

Yuri:
Totally relatable. Sometimes it feels like everyone’s dancing to avoid working. But then you realize — no pain, no gain.

Sergei:
I also remember falling into the classic beginner trap: learning as many tricks as possible to impress the follower. Like, “Look at all this in my arsenal! I’ll spin you so hard you’ll beg for an intermission!” 😎

Though one of my salsa teachers once said something very wise:
“We learn tricks not to do them non-stop, but to occasionally decorate the dance. Not to traumatize the follower’s psyche.”
Wise words, but of course, I totally forgot that at first.

It felt more like a kid with a new toy: the teacher showed a combo — I got inspired, grabbed the nearest follower, and off I went — enthusiasm, energy, a light dance tornado!

Yuri:
Yeah, I remember those feelings. Like getting a Formula 1 car with no driving instructions. Just foot on the gas — and go! 😎

Sergei:
And how to do all that smoothly, musically, gently — well, who’s going to explain that?

I had a different metaphor. It felt like someone handed you a blender, turned it to max, and forgot to say: “Careful now — this isn’t a cement mixer.” 🤯

And so we all — newbies with cement mixers — went into battle. No musicality, no connection, just non-stop action. And none of the teachers ever even hinted at it: only combos, combos, combos.

Now I understand: If you’re dancing only combos — you’re not dancing. You’re rehearsing a battle with furniture. Real dancing is not a template. It’s communication. Connection. Music. Presence.

So yeah, Yura, my kizomba didn’t start with “wow” — it started with “what kind of quest is this, and where’s the checkpoint?”
And then… if I remember right, we went to some three-hour bootcamp, right?

Yuri:

No, no, no…
After my first workshop, before that infamous three-hour April bootcamp, you dragged me through several other workshops all over Barcelona!