Wind your way past the throngs of skinny-jeaned teenyboppers, up the escalator to the third floor. There, across from the movie theater snack bar, is a dimly lit bar. Inside, the dance floor is tiny, made of mosaic marble ideal for spinning. The rotunda ceiling is painted sky blue with white clouds. By 11 p.m. on a Friday, this space is filled with writhing bodies — thrusting hips, glossy red stilettos, metallic belts, greased hair. The people sweat and sparkle as if with one breath. The DJ, speaking only in Spanish, feeds the frenzy, spinning crowd-pleasing salsa, bachata, merengue, and reggaeton. Almost no one is stumbling drunk or leering. Dancing is the only thing that matters here. Beginner salsa students shyly pair off beside the people who were born to move their hips this way. Newcomers watch, mesmerized and breathless, as the best couples compete in impromptu contests. Stand on the sidelines long enough and someone will take your hand, clear a space for you on the floor. You dance until you're exhausted. Then you stumble back out into the air-conditioned theater, wondering how anyone could watch a movie on a night like this.