“So do you dance?” comes the inevitable question from everyone we meet after they find out about my Colombian girlfriend introduces her tall pail Scottish boyfriend. My response is now we rehearsed. I roll up my sleeves and turn over my palms to expose deathly pale white skin and say “sorry, white men can’t dance”, and then wait for the inevitable laugh. Whether that laugh comes from pity, acknowledgement of the truth, or nervousness over what I will do next, I have never quite worked out.

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