Dancing With the Shoes

Since moving here, Izabela and I have been picking up the pieces of our old life in California and trying to fit them into this new one. One of these, and one of the most romantic parts of our relationship according to us, is dance. In the States, we took classes in East and West Coast Swing, Country Waltz and Two-Step, Salsa, Cha-cha, and Argentinean Tango. The classes and events were queer friendly, consisting of almost all women, and it was great being enfolded in this community of kind, experienced dancers who were becoming more and more like friends. Our teacher, Zoe, was an international gold metal winner in numerous dance competitions. She wore wigs of every color with her glamorous dresses, came from Wales, and had the kindness and self command of a high priestess. She called her events “Dancing With the Queers,” the sound of which, I thought, gave queerness a magical ring. After this amazing experience in California, we, and I especially, hesitated to pick up dance here, knowing that it would be easy to make unfair comparisons. We were both concerned too about how a group of straight people in a homophobic country would respond to a gay couple. If they were mean, what would we do—leave? Keep dancing? Respond somehow? But once things were more or less on track with the stove, my assistant, and Izabela’s teaching, Izabela thought we’d better start dancing again before we forgot everything we’d learned, and I knew she was right.

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The club we found in Sopot, the affluent town not far from us, was, in my words, yuppified, or full of young professional people. The atmosphere was what you’d expect of an upscale nightclub, although the patrons were competent dancers as we were. The sense of glittery hype intrigued me, since, if anything, it was the thing I would have enjoyed a little more of in California.

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Here, for the first time, I was compelled to learn from someone speaking in Polish. The DJ kept teaching step after step, many of which we’d done before. Still, I felt out of practice, and wanted to follow his instructions like the good student I am. At first, Izabela translated a few words, but within minutes, I found myself, or maybe it was my feet, magically listening to the DJ’s words. I couldn’t help being a little proud of myself—here I was, able to speak almost no Polish, and yet I was learning along with everyone else.

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Dancing, at least for us, gets addictive. We danced Cha-Cha and Salsa over and over because those were the themes of tonight’s party. When “Smooth” by Santana came on, we started throwing in a few West Coast Swing steps, and I confess to feeling a little smug because no one else seemed to know them. No one seemed to notice us either. At the back of a dense crowd, two women dancing together, neither overtly gay, didn’t cause a stir.

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At home at our kitchen table afterward, I was still high on the thrill of dancing all night. I was willing to go back, and Izabela said that she too, up to a point, had enjoyed herself. “I think we should keep looking for a gay venue though,” she said. “There was a lot of heterosexual pressure at that club.” I was bewildered. If there was so much pressure, why had the people around us not commented?

It turned out that Izabela had been talking particularly about the DJ. Apparently, when he had asked everyone to find a dance partner, two men in the front row had jokingly embraced each other. “The DJ looked at them and used a word that translated as something like ‘we don’t do that gay stuff here.’” In the moment after she spoke, it was like the high-on-dance feeling had drained away, leaving the room a few degrees cooler. I didn't even know this was happening. I felt almost guilty
that Izabela had to be the bearer of this news. We decided, then and there, to keep researching gay spaces.

Fortunately for us, a gay club just opened up in Gdynia. We had heard about it, but not being club goers normally, we hadn’t put much thought into it. But now Izabela emailed the owner, and found out that yes, the club welcomes women, and though they hadn’t had parties themed around dance so far, they were interested in the idea. He also mentioned that they would be hosting a couple Christmas parties, and said that if we came in time, he’d be happy to sit down and get to know us a little. Izabela also discovered a new-years event organized by a man who, like Zoe, had competed in dance all over the world. The clip of him dancing we saw online showed a bald man walking on stage carrying a suitcase and wearing a suit coat, which he took off. He also took off his shoes. He next proceeded to dance wearing hardly anything next to a woman with another suitcase and red heels. Clearly, more dance adventures awaited us.

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Soon after our initial attempt at dance, the Christmas season started in earnest. I love everything to do with Christmas, especially the music which, as I discovered last year, includes quite a few East Coast Swing tunes—think country and jazz arrangements. But the beauty of the proliferation of Christmas music, although I know some people find it annoying after a couple weeks, is that there’s a song to fit just about every dance step. Last year, in the bottom-floor bedroom at my mom’s house, I danced to them all, but only by myself, wishing that Izabela could enjoy the zany festivity of it with me. This year however, I wasn’t sure how much access she and I would have to Christmas music outside of the grocery store as we don’t have a stereo system or TV.

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A few days ago, we found ourselves surrounded by the trappings of Christmas as we made our usual Sunday visit to Real, what I call the Polish version of Wal-Mart. All the time we were buying chocolates and festive drinks and other more practical things, I couldn’t help but notice the Christmas music playing overhead, and once we reached the shoe section, our last stop, I couldn’t keep the excitement in any longer. “Listen, Christmas Music,” I said to Izabela. She started speculating on what dances could be done to the song in question, a version of “Jingle Bell Rock” by someone I didn’t recognize. I started stepping in place, then, unable to resist, took Izabela’s hands, and we started dancing. We two stepped to Tammie Wynette’s “White Christmas,” danced East Coast Swing to Mariah Carey’s “Santa Clause Is Coming to Town,” and waltzed to John Lenon’s “Merry Christmas.” We danced on and on, practicing as seriously as if we were in a class or our own living room. No one interrupted us, and one little boy was particularly intent, unable to take his eyes off us. “Maybe he thinks we’re connected with Santa,” I said. “Or maybe he’s gay,” said Izabela. It was a little like Zoe’s parties—music of all kinds, a wonderful atmosphere—lots of people. But this was our own ballet kingdom, where magical female lovers danced for the thousands of boots and heels, slippers and Christmas shoppers, all gathered to adore them and drink in the sight. When we finally left Real, a heaviness seemed to have lifted. We were determined to practice more often, insuring we would be ready for whatever song played next.

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Tomorrow, though I can hardly believe it, is Christmas Eve. We’re going to the gay club after the sumptuous Polish supper Izabela has planned. Then, on New-year’s Eve, we’ll meet the bald, suitcase-carrying DJ. We don’t know what will happen, but you can be sure that once the music starts moving, so will our dancing shoes.