Cumbia Connection | Conexión Cumbia
"Two women from different countries bond over their shared love of cumbia and find rhythm in each other"
Cumbia Connection
Conexión Cumbia
Colombian cumbia and Mexican cumbia are different—ask anyone from either country. But to me, they were both just cumbia until I met her.
"That's not how we dance it," she said, interrupting my practice.
"I'm Mexican. This is how we dance it."
"I'm Colombian. You're doing it wrong."
Her name was Lucía, from Barranquilla, where cumbia was born. I was from Monterrey, where we'd adopted it and made it ours.
"Cumbia belongs to everyone," I argued.
"Cumbia started with us," she countered.
"It evolved."
"It got diluted."
We couldn't agree on anything. Except that the music made us both feel alive.
We kept running into each other—cumbia nights at clubs, festivals, workshops. The community was small; collision was inevitable.
"You again," she said at a dance class.
"You following me?"
"You wish."
But when the music started, we ended up partners. The instructor paired us—different styles, different approaches, same passion.
"You're not terrible," she admitted after our fifth class together.
"High praise from a Colombian."
"We're very critical."
"I noticed."
"But you're learning." She smiled. "Maybe there's hope for Mexican cumbia after all."
She kissed me at a festival, both of us sweaty from dancing, the band playing something that felt like fate.
"This is unexpected," she said.
"Is it?"
"I thought I hated you."
"Same. But I was wrong."
"About what?"
"About everything except the cumbia."
We dated across cultures—Colombian food at her place, Mexican at mine. She taught me the traditional steps; I showed her the evolution.
"We're fusion," she observed.
"Best kind of music."
"Best kind of love."
"Move in with me," I said after six months.
"Which cumbia plays at home?"
"Both. Alternating. Fair compromise."
"That's either brilliant or chaos."
"Probably both."
She moved in. Our apartment became a cumbia museum—Colombian records on one shelf, Mexican on another, our combined collection growing daily.
"What are we?" she asked one anniversary.
"Cumbia lovers."
"More than that."
"Cross-cultural ambassadors."
"Still more."
"Each other's." I pulled her close. "We're each other's."
Cumbia connection—where different rhythms merge, and love sounds like music from home.