1. My sister told me, “Buy the shoes a size too small. The leather stretches when you dance, from the sweat.” At the dancewear shop, I slip on a gold T-strap sandal with a low Cuban heel. I stand and feel the stiff leather cut my ankle and instep as my foot arches. But the suede sole grips the linoleum floor, and I think how my mambo will be so sweet, one-two-three-four. I pay sixty dollars for the shoes and throw them in the seat next to me in my car. I sing with Celia Cruz on the stereo as I drive away, Guantanamera . . . guajira Guantanamera.

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