I don't know how successful we are going to be with our dancing plans, but a week before New Year's Eve we began to practice again. Since I'd made notes on almost every step we thought we were never going to forget, we managed to reteach ourselves all of what we used to know about West Coast swing, most East Coast swing moves, and every bit of cha-cha and salsa that we had ever mastered. We even reconstructed our ochos learned at the introductory Argentinian tango class we took in San Francisco last year. Thus prepared, dressed to kill and glamorized, we went to the New Year's Eve event advertised by the local salsa school.
The school was run by champions in less known Latin dances, and we planned on approaching the man we hoped would become our dance teacher. In addition, this was the only place that didn't charge hundreds of złotys for the New Year's Eve party; quests were expected to arrive with their own food and some dancing skills.
Although our teacher didn't need to be perfect, we still hoped he would be as charismatic as Zoe and worthy to replace her, at least temporarily. But Mr. P proved to be socially clumsy. With the music playing in the background, he came to our table to greet other guests, students from the school, and I waved him over.
At the sight of Lilly-Marie in her midnight blue dress and a silver mist shawl, he looked quizzically at her and addressed me in Polish: "Nie widzi?"
I froze and nodded but failed to say that although Lilly-Marie indeed didn't see, she certainly heard and wouldn't appreciate being omitted from the conversation, particularly when it concerned her.
Then he spoke to her in English: “We have another student who is...” He noticed me flashing my eyes at him, stumbled, and concluded: “...another student just like you.”
Lilly-Marie's face suddenly flattened and took on the quietude of a sea before the storm. Mr. P didn't mean to say that another student was just as beautiful and sophisticated, or just as sociable, witty, and easily-mannered, or just as well read in contemporary American literature, or just as enamored of sequined dresses and drop earrings.
From what I'm learning about living with disability, nothing is just as bad as being marked -- reduced to this one aspect of your self.
I don't recall what Lilly-Marie said in response, but later on, whenever this man attempted to talk to us again, I'd see her pull back. Later on, when the dance began, he came over to suggest a simple dance routine he thought we might like.
“Try this instead,” he said to me. “It's easy."
"We are doing night club 2 step," I told him.
He asked what it was, and I said, amazed, “They dance it in clubs in California.”
"Ah," he said and swiftly slunk back to the DJ podium.
“What did he want?” Lilly-Marie asked a second after Mr. P left us alone.
“Do you remember barn dance? He was showing me the basic step of the barn dance and wanted us to try it.”
“What? He touched you. He put his hand on yours.”
We were on the dance floor and the music was loud. I assumed he didn't want to startle me. “He just wanted to talk.”
“So what? He could have talked to you without touching you.”
Whenever things become out of balance, nothing is more beneficial than Lilly-Marie extending her protection over me.
Earlier at the party we had met a colleague of mine, Gosia, an adjunct in the institute of British Lit. She was a kind-hearted, thirty-something single woman. While we had eaten dinner at home and brought only a few chocolate cookies and a bottle of wine to the party, she set out miniature hen egg salad and herring in raisins, in quantities sufficient to serve a platoon. We accepted her invitation to join her at the table. She also arrived with her own bottle of tequila, a bag of sliced limes, and an intention to get sloshed right after midnight.
In this, she wasn't alone; other guests too brought serious alcohols, and the table was soon stocked with XL-size bottles of whiskey, bourbon, and scotch. For the first two hours or so everybody kept eating and imbibing, the dance floor remained empty, and it seemed as if the actual dance would never begin. When it did, right after midnight, the DJ was done playing anything but salsa, which became kind of boring after a while. At least for us who are used to alternating styles and proud to come up with a few fitting steps to any tune.
When Gosia heard that Mr. P wouldn't work out for us, she quickly brushed him aside and advised us to contact Monika, a woman who co-owned the school and whose English was so much better anyway.
I exchanged a few emails with our prospective new teacher. She seemed fine with the gay thing and the idea of teaching in English. Because in the meantime we had a mother drama, we met with Monika in the beginning of February.
The day was cold, which was nothing new, and our trip to see mother in the hospital took longer than we expected. Afterward, I steered us right to the taxi stand. Once ensconced in the back seat, I considered the driver's suggestion of a shortcut. We had to drive by the empty lots most likely already sold to supermarkets to arrive in the center of town. But instead, the road dead-ended, and we followed the sidewalk cutting through snow-covered fields, tunnels and overpasses, which, to my consternation, must have been built in the last twenty years of my not living in my hometown.
At last we arrived at the dance school. We walked to the second floor by a series of hallways and staircases which had the allure of dreamlike scenery from a cult movie. The dance studio door opened to the an entryway painted a livid purple. The receptionist ushered us toward a black loveseat, but as soon as we sat down, Monika, the director of the school appeared. She wore cabaret stockings, black boots, and a minuscule black skirt put on just so she could say she had one. On her forehead, wisps of black hair were tightly plastered to her scull, Lisa Minelli style. She reminded me of a tropical bird which, due to an unexpected evolution, could wear only black. I sensed the admirable control she had over her looks, her clothes, and her surroundings.
We sat facing her from the other side of her director's desk. When we began to describe our needs, she cut in.
"You wouldn't want to study competition cha-cha," she said. "I'd suggest you learn Cuban-style cha-cha which allows your body to move more naturally."
To tell Lilly-Marie that something, like a hair dye, would make her look natural, is the surest way to put her off. On my end, any attempts to make me act natural would have made me feel too nervous to appreciate them.
Still, we had nothing better to do than to continue explaining ourselves. We told Monika that although we wanted to learn competition style dance, we weren't astute dancers; in fact, it took us a long time to learn a new step. In the end, she seemed to get the idea. When we asked about the price, she said it was the same she charged for one person, 150 złotych per hour. Now, my university salary is 2280 zł per month. A class in one-on-one English conversation costs 50 zł. The cost of heating the house in the winter as harsh as this one runs up to 1000 a month.
"How long is your hour?" Lilly-Marie asked in a flash of prudence.
"45 minutes," the teacher leisurely replied. "The same length as a university class."
As soon as Monika left the room to bring our coats, we quickly reached an agreement, and when she returned we told her we couldn't afford her.
She was mildly surprised but suggested one of the teacher in her school who liked teaching ballroom and whose lessons were more reasonably priced. We returned through the hallucinogenic hallway into the cold.
"I'd rather we set up cameras in our living room and ask Zoe to teach us via Skype," I told Lilly-Marie on our way back.
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