Last night I headed through a typical damp and chilly Portland night to get to Reed College. It was a blind-date of sorts and it was for some research I’m doing on a top secret project. Hopefully, if all goes according to plan, it won’t be so top secret at all. Anyway, I was headed to Reed College because I found out that there is a social Folk Dance group that meets there every Sunday night and I wanted to find out who they were and how they got there. I had no idea what I was going to encounter.

Those of you who know me, know that I started out dancing as Folk Dancer at Brigham young University who has an extensive dance program and an amazing Folk Scene. In fact, I would never had been a dancer to the extent I am now if it hadn’t been for this program. And as, I have continued to explore more and more into artistic dance, my first love has always been folk dance. Why? I guess because I’m enamored by the exotic. I love languages. I get weak-kneed exploring the differences and similarities between people. And as a dancer, I can learn all about those people by trying their moves on myself. It’s my way of listening to centuries of trials and triumphs boiled down into a 3 minute phrase of movement that everyone does in unison. I love it.

So last night I show up, a little anxious about not knowing anyone and a little nervous that I seem to be the youngest person there, by decades. They seemed a little apprehensive themselves but were welcoming and Cricket (I kid you not, that’s her amazingly disarming and charming name) asked me join a Bulgarian line dance. I think this was my initiation because once the dance was going and we are all chained up she leans in my direction without skipping a step and says, “I think you can get through 2/3 of this dance but you may have to step out after that.” Aha, this was just the challenge I was looking for. And sure enough, 2 minutes into that song, the pre-recorded musicians amp it up and start playing double time and suddenly before me is a complex Bulgarian rhythm—usually some absurd meter like 17/8 or 11/65—and an odd foot pattern to match without throwing the whole chain into chaos. With eyes trained firmly on Cricket’s feet and trying to send the visual clues into my own feet I get it and jump in with fervor. As the song ends, the immediate dancers applaud and gather round and one be-dirndled lady goads, “Well, someone’s a quick study now isn’t he?” After that I was in. Each new song from the gentelman’s computer in the corner was an invitation to hang on and follow until the end.

The evening lasted until 10pm. I couldn’t believe that they do this every Sunday. I met Mary, a bright face with an even brighter smile, who was wearing a beautifully embroidered traditional Austrian dress but was Irish by descent. Rosalind and Dick who made sure i was aware of all of the future events. And I met Gene who proudly informed me that his father was an earler partner of Ann Miller, danced in old musicals, and was the tap teacher of Bob Hope. There was one lady, who’s name I didn’t catch, was 93 years old and kept going most of the night. I couldn’t believe it. My only complaint of the evening is that the students of Reed College are oblivious to this weekly event taking place on their campus and it’s a real loss to not have that interaction.

I loved learning the steps, I loved hearing the strange names and trying to figure out which country it was from and what that dance taught me about the people. I loved holding their hands, men and women, and joining in the focus of moving as a single unit with a single mind. I loved the comradarie and the community of it. And—this is where my age may suddenly sky-rocket beyond those of my dance partners—I think that the invention of Rock-n-Roll has created a world where people dance in clubs, introverted and self-centered, never learning how to guide a dance partner, join a circle or engage in a conversation while whirling around the floor. I guess I’m an old Folk at heart. Opa!

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