...and dancing, too

To be perfectly frank, neither I nor anyone I was with - Ethan, Jon, Courtney, Jackie - were particularly thrilled to find ourselves on the way to a Scottish dancing event. We had no one but ourselves to blame; after all, we had raised our hands when Dave Becker asked how many people were going so that he could buy tickets. But that had been almost a week prior, and circumstances had changed slightly: the five of us had just spent the entire day at the London A Cappella Festival, watching groups perform and taking part in a three hour vocal workshop with Voces8 and The Swingle Singers. In addition, the festival was on the other side of town from where we were staying, which meant that by the time we made it back on the tube, we were tired and hungry, and the debates about just what haggis really was - the main course at the Scottish dancing that night - did little to increase our enthusiasm. And it didn't help that a performance of Mozart's Requiem was taking place simultaneously at St. Martin's In The Fields. In our minds, the evening in front of us was going to be about as fun as talking to a telemarketer.

We walked into the basement of St. Columbia - a giant stone Scottish Presbyterian church - about fifteen minutes late, due to the vocal workshop and closings on the tube line, and found the place to be packed with about a hundred and fifty people - some of whom were younger, but most of whom looked to be anywhere from their late forties to their early nineties. Calling it a "basement" offers the wrong connotations, however. It was, in truth, a cavernous hall, lined with towering arches along the side and a stage at the end, which was occupied with the band: a fiddler, accordionist, pianist, and drummer. We had scarcely arrived, removed our coats, and taken a glass of wine than the dancing started. And, at first, it seemed as though our misgivings about the whole endeavor were correct. The emcee stepped on stage, announced the name of the dance, and motioned to the band to begin playing. With the exception of Rachel, who dove happily in, the Lewis & Clark students - about twelve of us total - all stood hesitantly off to the side while the rest of the occupants of the hall all plunged straight into what looked to be intricate, involved movements that involved dancing backwards and spinning each other around. At one point, Dave and Kathy attempted to slip into the line of dancers, only to find themselves completely at a loss and practically overrun by a sea of swirling red and blue kilts.

With the next dance, however, things began to turn. Rachel came bounding over, encouraging everyone to get out onto the dance floor; several older men - who, judging from watching the first five minutes, had been dancing since they were eight years old - also came over and offered their hands to the girls. And before the music began, the emcee walked through the steps of the dance slowly: step three forward, hop; step three backward, hop; take your partner's hand, step away, towards, away, towards; polka around; repeat. And, broken down like that, the complexities of the dance faded away, replaced by that sudden rush which comes when the music starts and you are suddenly swept away by the excitement and immediacy of it all. By the third dance, everyone had joined in dancing, and remained there for the majority of the night, thoroughly addicted. Four hours passed by at a rate I didn't think was possible, punctuated only by a dinner break: mashed potatoes, carrots, and haggis - which, for the record, is rich and meaty and flavorful. Then, the music began again, and we threw ourselves back into the dances - intoxicating, exhilarating. For when you are out there, in the middle of the hall, surrounded by the music and a hundred other people whooping and skipping and waltzing, it's impossible to focus on anything else. There are only your feet, and your partner's hands, and the four walls beyond, spinning around and around and around.