You get forró night at the Guanabara Restaurant and Nightclub.
Forró is a traditional dance that originated in the Northeast region of Brazil, but later took the rest of the country by storm. Less furious than samba but far more romantic than the polka, forró is danced in pairs to the tune of music that touches on feelings of sadness, longing, passion and jealousy. Choreographically speaking, the man and woman hold each other close, the man's right hand on his partner's back and her right arm around his neck, with the other two hands joined at the side as in waltz. Hips are hugged and harmonically move together, such that any slip of the feet will usually result in a sore toe issued to one's companion. As for the movement itself, it's no matter of complication: there is a basic step that is sexy enough to stand on its own, and a series of swings and twirling motions that can be added for effect.
Nobody really knows where the name forró came from. The most likely explanation is that the word derives from the term forrobodó, meaning commotion, but a second school of thought exists which credits the name to a bastardization of the English number 40 (four-oh), which was emblazoned on a railway car that used to run the tracks in Northeastern Brazil. Whatever the root of the word, it's almost impossible to pronounce phonetically in English, thanks mostly to the accented 'o'. My best advice is to say foh-HOE, but let the 'e' drop a bit such that the end result is halfway between HOE and HAW.
Background aside, I had a little bit of a problem when I arrived at Guanabara and stepped up to the dance floor to watch the throng of Latin boys spin their girls around like whirligig beetles in a veritable ballet of sensual fervor. The problem is not that I ain't Brazilian – there were plenty of other gringos out there doing just fine. The issue is that I am male, and that as male, I am expected to lead. How, pray tell, does one lead a female in a dance that one is not familiar with? How, furthermore, does one even get started when the dance floor is already going at full throttle?
Easy. You get your girlfriend to teach you. And to assume the male role for the night. Isis, who swears with her hand on the bible that she doesn't know the dance well enough to instruct it, got me started, and after a few stumbles and several trips to the hospital (just kidding), I was beginning to get the job done. Like many Latin dance styles, forró can be as simple or as complicated as you make it, and there's no rule that coerces you to deviate from the simple step if you don't wish to. For the beginner, this is life-saving. One look at some of the arm swings kept me in check - you could really take an eye out if you didn't know your stuff properly.
I'm pleased to say that it was a successful evening enjoyed by all. Isis' teaching left nothing to be desired, I had seven caipirinhas to inhibit my inhibitors and add swagger to my step, and by the end of the night we were looking like two people who had forró'd before. Or at least, she was... and I was managing to keep up just enough.
But it's not over yet. Guanabara opens its doors every Sunday night, and next weekend I will be returning, this time with my sister in tow. If you arrive early enough, around 7pm, then you can take a brief lesson to prepare you for the fury of the later hours. I figure it'll be enough for Leigh and I to get our footwork down, so that later I can sit back and watch her get invited to dance by dozens woman-thirsty, pheromone-oozing Brazilian men. Dad, I'm about to throw your daughter to the lions.
Don't worry though, I'm pretty sure she prefers French guys anyway.
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