Dance, Dance, Revolution!

Short Version:
We dance the night away, just like Leo Sayer (but with less leotards)

Long Version:
On the way to the dance, we saw a bear on the side of the road. Then we saw a bear running along the road in front of us. He eventually ran into the bushes on the right, and when we looked for him we found instead a Mama Bear and her three cubs running across a field. Very cool. The car coming the other way had stopped too, and we felt a sense of comradeship with the occupants - a kinship based on having shared such a magical wildlife moment. Then we drove past them and realised that from where they were they couldn't actually see the field, let alone the bears, and that they'd been sitting patiently, waiting for us to get out of the way so they could carry on. Tragicomedy in action.

People were already lined up and learning an Irish Reel when we arrived at the dance. Blokes on one side of the hall, facing the women on the other, with the instructor-chap - a short, silvering man I'd have picked as a New York Jew had I been asked at random to categorise him - in the middle. He gave instructions and demonstrated with a counted beat, then had everyone join in with him for a while before turning on the music.

It was complete chaos, and was both wonderfully funny and marvellously fun.

Following the Irish Reel was the Old-Time Waltz, which we learned in our rows and then partnered up to dance as couples, adding a new element to the carnage, and heightening the laughter factor even further. The French Minuet was followed by the Cha-Cha, which provided one of the highlights of the evening for me when I got the move nailed (maybe) and looked to my left along the line-up of blokes. Every single one of them was doing something different. Two or three were going right when everyone else went left, some had reversed the forwards and backs, and one chap near me appeared to be doing the Twist* or the Washing-Machine. It was glorious.

During the snack break we ate biscuits and various other home-made more-or-less deliciousnesses, and met/re-met a bunch of people including woofers Stu and Danielle; Rob the giant-zucchini pirate; mountain-bikers from up in the Rockies Nick and Jailin; and a couple who hailed originally from Monrovia. Others we didn't meet included a boy in traditional Austrian garb (with added knee-length stripey socks); an ancient couple who danced only once or twice, and did so with no reference whatsoever either to what others were doing or to the music then playing**; a late-arriving group of youngsters who danced barefoot and with gay abandon; and a lady so tiny she'd've made the women of Janine's family look like giants***. The evening was completely, marvellously mad, and the post-snack dance was as close to a physical expression of the glorious lunacy as it could possibly have been; a Virginia Reel, of sorts, with people swinging on each others' arms, ducking under arches made of hands, and generally having a whale of a time, in and out of time.

The final shakedown was a free-for-all, and saw a heck of a mash-up on the dance floor. Some, like Nene and I, put into practise the dances we'd been learning, with variously-successful modifications intended to make them fit with each piece of music. Others busted out steps they'd learned goodness-knows-where: two couples two-step Amerikan country-style dancing traced pathways around grandparents dancing waltz-derivatives with children, circumnavigated the groups still frolicking their way through Virginia Reel variants, and spun through and around conversational gatherings.

All-too-soon it was time to say farewell to all those we'd met and danced with, regretfully declining the invitations to join people for after-parties. We wandered out to the parking lot, past the Oldsmobile with steer-horns attached to the grill, and hit the road homewards, past our squirrel, past the store, past the old ferry landing, past its bell on the gate. The house was warm and the dogs were pleased to see us. We went to sleep still smiling.









* = I'd overheard him grumbling to no-one in particular when the how-to instructions were being issued: "Which is it: swing hips, or stamp-stamp-stamp? Can't be both." His solution: ignore the footwork, plant feet side by side and swing hips in giant circles

** = Completely deaf, I'm guessing, although possibly completely obstinate

*** = We found out later that she climbs mountains when weather permits and plays the Alpenhorn up on the high places of the world. Apparently her husband - who wasn't present but is also, apparently, tiny - is the world's greatest French Horn maker, and to-flight orchestral French Horn players have bidding wars on each of the few instruments he makes in a year