I said I would be back, and so I am. I thought I'd just say a little big about dancing on Friday night. The evening coordinator happened to be a girl that met my sister-in-law a few weeks ago. The Friday before last I went with her and a Multnomah student to a swing dance in downtown Portland. I was ready to go again. Two nights ago it was myself, this girl Erin, and my brother and sister-in-law. So the stage is set. As we drove down, my brother relayed to me the story of his latest purchase: A heavy-bag (he believes he's going to be a boxer now), and how I'll be helping him hang it in his garage. I wasn't really thinking about the fact that this would be the first dance he and I ever attended together, even counting two years of sharing schools which sponsered dances. We arrived at Norse Hall (the same place I went dancing a year and a half ago while visiting here) to a very empty parking lot. I wasn't worried because the previous week brought together more swing dancers than I cared to share a floor with. Around the building we walked, Erin stopping to pet a black cat, me sauntering ahead to the sound of a live big band. And things became more interesting.
First I should explain Norse Hall. It's at least as big as half of the Crown gym. Maybe as big as the Old Gym. Square, with nordic flags stretching from the walls that reminded me of growing up in a C&MA church. Plenty of room for a few hundred people, and a good dancing floor besides.
The man at the door asked us if we were members of Norse Hall. We said no. He asked us if we were Norwegian. I looked at Dave, and his Slavic face went quizzical. The doorman finally said that we should just say yes and get the discount, and then sign our names and pay the fee. So we did. But we were already noticing the peculiarity. Not the emptiness of the hall, though it was empty and we were over an hour after the first lesson and beginning of the dance. No, we were outsiders, not because we weren't Norwegian, but because we weren't ready to join AARP. There were just over a dozen couples, none younger than mid-forties, most into their sixties and seventies. And us. Great.
Now, I am automatically intimidated at a dance, usually by people my own age. This was a new feeling of inadequacy, and I don't often have those. New ones, I mean. These people had been dancing longer than German had been reunified, or even split apart. So they were pretty good, mostly, and the best part, they danced a lot slower than our peers, so I watched closely and caught some new moves. Erin noticed, surprised I could learn dance moves in a few minutes of watching elderly couples. Also, things were more relaxed since nobody really danced with anyone but their spouse (except in my case). No worries about asking some stranger to dance. Besides, it takes a long time to watch a girl to make sure she only dances with guys worse than me before I can ask her. I did dance with my sister-in-law. And the dance instructor, the youngest person there at a balmy 40-something. She snatched me from the side of the floor and kept saying "just dance" with a thick slavic accent.
Now, it's one thing to dance when you know what you're doing, somewhat. Totally different when they throw a half dozen different types of dance at you. We did swing, but Erin and I worked on a little cha cha, I tried to remember the tango, and then Erin tried to teach me to waltz. We had plenty of room usually (sometimes any of the four of us youngsters would stand out in the middle of the floor and not have any feeling of obstuctionism [if that's a word]) and I discovered I could totally do it when my eyes were closed. We were gracefully sliding across the floor when Erin slammed into a sixty-something woman who didn't give a very understanding look at my learning predicament. I didn't waltz much after that.
I guess this was all much funnier telling the story to Anne this afternoon.
Who's up next? I didn't come back here not to try and rally the troops to take another hill in the war against apathy and time and space. We're fighting a lot, time and space being most of the physical reality we live in. Fight. Blog. Banjo. Yes.
First I should explain Norse Hall. It's at least as big as half of the Crown gym. Maybe as big as the Old Gym. Square, with nordic flags stretching from the walls that reminded me of growing up in a C&MA church. Plenty of room for a few hundred people, and a good dancing floor besides.
The man at the door asked us if we were members of Norse Hall. We said no. He asked us if we were Norwegian. I looked at Dave, and his Slavic face went quizzical. The doorman finally said that we should just say yes and get the discount, and then sign our names and pay the fee. So we did. But we were already noticing the peculiarity. Not the emptiness of the hall, though it was empty and we were over an hour after the first lesson and beginning of the dance. No, we were outsiders, not because we weren't Norwegian, but because we weren't ready to join AARP. There were just over a dozen couples, none younger than mid-forties, most into their sixties and seventies. And us. Great.
Now, I am automatically intimidated at a dance, usually by people my own age. This was a new feeling of inadequacy, and I don't often have those. New ones, I mean. These people had been dancing longer than German had been reunified, or even split apart. So they were pretty good, mostly, and the best part, they danced a lot slower than our peers, so I watched closely and caught some new moves. Erin noticed, surprised I could learn dance moves in a few minutes of watching elderly couples. Also, things were more relaxed since nobody really danced with anyone but their spouse (except in my case). No worries about asking some stranger to dance. Besides, it takes a long time to watch a girl to make sure she only dances with guys worse than me before I can ask her. I did dance with my sister-in-law. And the dance instructor, the youngest person there at a balmy 40-something. She snatched me from the side of the floor and kept saying "just dance" with a thick slavic accent.
Now, it's one thing to dance when you know what you're doing, somewhat. Totally different when they throw a half dozen different types of dance at you. We did swing, but Erin and I worked on a little cha cha, I tried to remember the tango, and then Erin tried to teach me to waltz. We had plenty of room usually (sometimes any of the four of us youngsters would stand out in the middle of the floor and not have any feeling of obstuctionism [if that's a word]) and I discovered I could totally do it when my eyes were closed. We were gracefully sliding across the floor when Erin slammed into a sixty-something woman who didn't give a very understanding look at my learning predicament. I didn't waltz much after that.
I guess this was all much funnier telling the story to Anne this afternoon.
Who's up next? I didn't come back here not to try and rally the troops to take another hill in the war against apathy and time and space. We're fighting a lot, time and space being most of the physical reality we live in. Fight. Blog. Banjo. Yes.
