It finally happened. After months of scribbling ideas on café napkins, pacing around my apartment, and pestering venue managers who probably now screen my calls, I’ve locked in my first proper dance event in Barcelona. Not just a casual workshop or one of those “bring your own speaker” gatherings—this is an actual, ticketed, grown-up event. And yeah, I’m mildly panicking. Actually, more than mildly.
The venue is this beautiful old hall tucked just off Passeig de Sant Joan. It’s got that perfect mix of charm and function: high ceilings, exposed brick, slightly creaky wooden floors that practically beg for dancers to mess them up. The first time I walked in, I could already picture it—packed with people, music bouncing off the walls, that hum of energy you only get when everyone’s moving together. Of course, that vision lasted about 30 seconds before my brain switched straight into logistics mode.
Planning an event is like trying to lead a dance you’ve never learned: you sort of know the steps, but you’re faking half of it and praying you don’t trip. There’s the fun stuff—choosing the live band (a killer swing group from Madrid, by the way), reaching out to guest teachers, figuring out how to make it feel less like a formal event and more like one massive, joyful jam session. Then there’s the list that keeps me awake at 3am: permits, insurance, sound system rentals, schedules, online ticketing, and the constant background fear that nobody will show up.
My parents, bless them, are trying their best to be supportive. My mother keeps asking if I’ve hired a “proper security person”—as though I’m putting on some giant rock festival where crowd control is a major concern. My father, ever the pragmatist, just says, “Don’t lose too much money.” Thanks, Dad. Really inspiring stuff.
What’s been surprising though is how quickly the dance community has rallied. I posted the first teaser online and within a couple of hours, people I’ve met from Madrid, Seville, even a few from Lisbon, messaged me to say they’re coming. A few friends from my mad Lindy weekend in Valencia have already booked train tickets. That sudden wave of support is both terrifying and weirdly comforting. Apparently, I’m not the only one craving a night like this.
I keep reminding myself why I’m even doing this. Dance isn’t about perfection. It’s not about flawless choreography or fancy lighting. It’s about connection. That moment mid-song when you and your partner both botch a turn but burst out laughing anyway. The sweaty hugs at the end of the night. The friendships that form because two strangers happened to step onto the same dance floor.
There’s still a mountain of work ahead before the first beat drops: marketing, last-minute rehearsals, and of course the inevitable mini-crises that seem to come free with every event. But for now? I’m leaning into the nerves. Barcelona’s about to get its first taste of my crazy little vision. Whether it’s flawless or slightly messy (probably messy), it’s happening.
Let’s dance!
