It had been a long night of son dancing in Santo Domingo. At 2 a.m., we were still making the rounds on a whirlwind tour of dance halls in the Dominican Republic capital, all of them specializing in this intoxicating genre of Cuban music. While my fellow soneros and soneras — as son dancers are known — were still raring to go after six hours of dance-hall hopping, I had fallen asleep on the tour bus.

Earlier that day, while flipping through the local paper, I'd read about La Ruta del Son — a fast-paced tour of 10 son dance halls around the city. I had been living in Santo Domingo for more than a year, writing, teaching and exploring my familial roots. My Dominican father was a musician, and during my childhood in the U.S. Virgin Islands and New York City, I had come to love calypso and salsa. I had danced salsa and merengue but not son. So I signed up for the tour.

Despite its Cuban origin, son dancing, which blends African and European forms, has been a staple of the Dominican music scene for decades. In fact, within some groups, it's nearly as much a part of the Dominican identity as merengue, the country's signature rhythm and dance. In 1997, it was propelled into the U.S. mainstream following the success of the Grammy-winning album Buena Vista Social Club, which featured a number of veteran and largely forgotten Cuban artists. Among them were pianist Rubén González and the late singer Ibrahim Ferrer, a maestro known for his reedy interpretations of Cuban son standards such as Candela, featured on the album. An acclaimed documentary film of the same name appeared two years later. Son became an overnight sensation.

La Ruta del Son tour that night found me among 40 or so soneros and soneras led by our local host, Bacho. The itinerary took us through six barrios scattered within this metropolis on the sea with its 3 million inhabitants. Our list included popular son clubs in the tourist zone but also included holes-in-the-wall known mostly to connoisseurs in areas you might think twice about exploring without a Dominican friend to guide you.

At about 8 p.m., we met in the historic Colonial Zone — the first city in the New World, where some Spanish colonial houses date from the early 1500s. We walked to El Sartén, a small, dimly lit bar. An aging, bow-tied waiter served me a cuba libre (rum and Coke) as I settled into my seat to watch the spirited motion on the compact dance floor, led by a sonero called "Gordo," also part of our group. Though he earned his nickname because he was a little, well, fat, that didn't stop him from dancing like a son pro. The Caribbean Latin step most closely resembles salsa, and the spotlight is on the man as he shows off his own fluid footwork — as Gordo was demonstrating. The woman occasionally breaks away into graceful and sultry moves but, eventually, the man twirls her back into step with him.

At our second stop, the Cubanía Cultural Center, also in the Colonial Zone, the scene wasn't as lively, so when Gordo, who was now commanding a following, decided to move on, I followed. We ended up at the grand opening of a clothing boutique (coincidentally featuring son music) that we initially mistook for the next tour stop. The hostess didn't seem to mind that we had crashed her somewhat staid party and invited us to dance. I volunteered to be Gordo's partner, eager to prove that this gringa had rhythm, knowing that if I danced well, I'd seal myself a partner for the night. He grabbed me, I fell into his step, and Gordo and I became a team.

Together we walked to the next, and newest, son bar on our itinerary. Mexican-run Los Jarochos may not have been the most authentic experience of the bunch, but it had excellent cuba libres and tasty soncocho (a play on sancocho, a hearty meat stew that's a Dominican specialty). A Mexican trio sang karaoke-style over recorded classic son. As many locals do in the Colonial Zone, we sat on plastic chairs on the sidewalk, enjoying the stew and the music filtering into the fresh nighttime air.

At 9:30, still early by Dominican partying standards, we boarded the two buses that would take us to the other side of the bridge — where things really swing. The "other side" is local shorthand for the area of Santo Domingo that lies across the bridges spanning the Rio Ozama, a river that divides the wealthier western part of the city from the denser, more working-class eastern side.

Our first stop in East Santo Domingo was Chino Mendez Etnia Musical, a glitzy dance hall on the renowned Avenida Venezuela, where both sides of the strip are lined with discos and clubs bearing bright-light marquees. It was here where Gordo and I really cut a rug. To him and the others, I was beginning to establish myself as an unusually rhythmic extranjera (foreigner) who, despite not being a native Dominican, clearly has Latin blood coursing through her veins. The step isn't difficult if you have a good sense of rhythm.

I was already learning that there are essentially two ways to dance son. Afro son, which originated among the Cuban peasantry, depends on its nimble footwork. The much slower-paced son bolero, on the other hand, is a highly stylized form that developed after Afro son was adapted to the ballroom-style dancing of Cuba's upper-class, European society. I prefer Afro son — stripped down and heavy on percussion and improvisation.

At the next stop, at nearby Campo Verde Discotec, an enormous thatched-roof bungalow, we clicked our heels to classics such as Anabacoa and Yo Soy Tiburón. After, we headed to popular El Monumento del Son, with its large dance floor.

But my favorite spot was in the gritty neighborhood of Villa Consuelo. El Secreto Musical resembled what I imagined a real son hall in Havana might look like: a clapboard structure with a dance floor the size of a nickel, packed to critical mass with dancers. I temporarily dumped Gordo to dance with a man of about 70 who was flowing with the agility of a 21-year-old. He noticed my fascination with his feet and, with a nod of his head, invited me to join him on the floor. The sonera in me couldn't resist.

Bacho, our tour leader, had to give me an ultimatum — "Get back on the bus, or we'll leave without you" — to pull me away from El Secreto Musical. On the bus, I encountered a slightly teed-off Gordo. We patched things up, though, by the time we reached our eighth stop, the Hotel Santo Domingo.

Although I promised to catch up with Gordo in a few minutes, I dozed off in the bus, only to wake up and discover that my manicured toenail had been victimized by my exuberance. My big toe resembled what my vain amigas later compared to that of a ciguapa: a mythical hoof-footed woman said to inhabit the Dominican mountains. The injury signaled that my dance night was over, so I made my own way home. As to how late the others stayed out, I have no idea. With two more stops to go, though, they may well have greeted the dawn. ©