Winston-Salem, NC
Wednesday, February 28th, 2007“Did you talk to the person we’re staying with tonight?” Lisa asked me, as we approached the Winston-Salem, NC dance.
“Oh, not yet,” I replied.
“Do you even know who we’re staying with?” she persisted.
“Ummm… no,” I said, rather surprised at the situation myself.
“What are we going to do?” she said.
That was the question on both of our minds as we pulled into the parking lot of the Vintage Theatre, Winston-Salem’s dance venue. We stepped inside and were confronted by our own images staring back at us. A mirror covered the back wall, giving the playhouse the feel of a ballet studio.
“Howdy,” greeted the woman at the door. “Five dollars please.”
“Um, hello… yes…,” I stammered as I reached for the money. “You see, we’re from…”
“Oh, are you the folks from up North? Welcome! I hope you like what you see,” she said, then added. “I’m one of the organizers; I’ve been getting your emails.” We shook hands.
As we walked inside, Lisa leaned in to whisper, “does that mean she’s found us a place to stay?” I realized that this hadn’t been resolved.
Just then, the caller, Adina Gordon, started the dance with a contra. A dancer came over to greet me as Lisa put on her shoes. “I don’t recognize you,” she said, “Are you new to dancing?” I answered “no” and we walked out to the floor.
Along our line, neighbors said, “Ah, you’ve done this before,” as I balanced and swung them. I later learned that most of them danced there every week and easily picked out my unfamiliar face. Each looked ready and eager to teach me how to dance, and excitedly commented on my dancing when they found I was experienced. Lisa told me one of her partners shouted, “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about!” when she executed a twirl.
The opening dance had a promenade, which the North Carolinians performed differently from the Virginia dancers: with both hands in front. Another state, another promenade, I thought to myself.
The hall contained a fair number of people early in the night, but a few dances in, about 25 students from the University of Ohio stepped inside, and none of them had ever danced before. Without hesitating, the caller instructed the two sets formed to integrate the new folks into the lines. The dancers were happy to oblige, breaking themselves up to provide experienced partners for the newcomers. Three lines, with students interspersed throughout, resulted.
The regulars were very friendly with one another, and frequently had quick conversations with their neighbors as they passed through. Skilled dancers, this was rarely at the expense of a move. “You coming afterwards?” was a common question, which I learned referred to the weekly tradition of going to IHOP after the dance was over. One of my partners extended an invitation to Lisa and I. We decided to accept, but we still weren’t sure where we were going to stay.
At the break, a brief affair which featured recorded music for dancing, I approached the organizer again.
“Yes,” she assured me. “Of course you’re both taken care of. You’ll be staying with… hm… I don’t see her. She’s young and has short black hair. She was here a minute ago.” I looked around the sea of people. “Well, you’re all set anyway. Don’t worry.”
As we talked, the organizer informed me that a different band played for them every week, and the music was always good. This week’s band, Rich and Tolly, was local: an old timey duet with a blind fiddler. I was very impressed.
During the announcements, it became ever clearer that this was a close dancing community. Birthdays were sung for, cake was brought in, and the organizers named the upcoming dances with local callers, many of whom were present. The only downer was the notification that the dance admission would be raised from $5 to $6 starting in April.
The second half found me dancing mostly near the mirrors. It was fun to watch the twirls and other fancy moves the dancers performed in duplicate. It was here that I spotted the short, black hair of a friendly looking neighbor–I had found our host at last! “Hi, I’m Dave,” I said to her, as we passed one another. She met my eye and nodded cryptically, saying nothing. Was I mistaken?
After the dance, I nervously confided in Lisa that all might be lost, but a moment later, the girl with short, black hair approached us. “I’m putting you up for the night,” she said, “you just need to give me a ride.” After getting lost several times on this trip, having a local navigator was welcome news. “You coming to IHOP?” she asked. Eleven of us crowded around a table, exchanging contra stories late into the night over pancakes and omelets.
-Winston-Salem, NC
