Without Reservations_ The Travels of an Independent Woman - Alice Steinbach [72]
I don’t know what I expected, but somehow this stuffy bare room with its out-of-date sound system was not it.
Barry, however, was the greatest disappointment. Short, potbellied, and balding, Barry appeared to be in his early fifties. He wore a short-sleeved, wildly patterned Hawaiian shirt that stopped just beneath his pot belly. When he spoke, his accent was coarse and unpleasant. Despite all this, Barry exuded self-confidence. He seemed to see himself as Fred Astaire: dashing, debonair, and charming.
To my surprise Barry started us off with a lesson in the waltz. The married couples who’d come along had no trouble stumbling through their steps together; they after all had been partners for years and were used to one another’s mistakes. For those of us who were single it was more difficult. I felt especially timid and retired to a corner chair to watch.
It was interesting to observe the two married couples who’d chosen dancing over Chopin. They were really enjoying themselves, enjoying the physical pleasure of dancing. From my window at Brasenose I’d watch both of these couples walk across the quad to breakfast. They were always holding hands. I watched them now, laughing and touching on the dance floor, and couldn’t help but feel a surge of envy.
It was only then that I noticed Albert. Albert, who off the dance floor seemed quite reserved, was a sensational and exciting dancer. Tall and elegant, he turned into a different person when he was dancing.
By this time, everyone was having fun. Except me. I had accepted Albert’s invitation to dance, but for some reason felt extremely uncomfortable dancing with him. Within minutes I found myself reverting to my awkward high school personality. Excuse me. Was that your foot? Sorry. My fault. My cheeks burned with embarrassment and humiliation.
After a brief turn around the floor, I thanked Albert and returned to sit on the sidelines. I didn’t know why I felt so uptight; there were quite a few people making fools of themselves on the dance floor. So what was stopping me?
A man’s voice interrupted my thoughts: “It’s time you got up and danced,” said the voice. It was Barry. Before I could say no, he pulled me out of the chair and onto the center of the floor.
“Now, with the aid of my partner,” Barry announced to the class, “I’m going to show you how to do the quickstep.”
Oh my God, I thought, he’s going to use me to teach the quickstep to the rest of the group? The only thing I knew about the quickstep was that I’d seen it done a few weeks earlier in a movie called Strictly Ballroom. And that it was, well, quick.
“Barry,” I said, “you’d better get another partner. I can’t do this.”
“Sure you can,” he said. “Just follow me, lovey.”
What can I say? It was like watching a caterpillar turn into a butterfly. Barry was Fred Astaire: incredibly light on his feet, graceful, gentle in his touch but firm in his lead. After a few minutes of tension I relaxed and gave myself up to the dancing. And to Barry.
Through the quickstep—Quick-quick-slow; quick-quick-slow—I let Barry lead me. And the cha-cha: One, two, cha-cha-cha; one, two, cha-cha-cha. Then the foxtrot and the samba. By this time when Barry told me to do something I did it.
Once again I was the sixteen-year-old girl at the Latin American Ballroom, uninhibited and in touch with my body. I arched my back. I pointed my toes. I turned my head, first to one side, then the other, dipping as I did so, just like the ballroom dancers I’d seen on television. It was almost laughable that I, who did not like to be given directions, who liked instead to do things my own way, was so willing to do exactly what Barry told me to do.
For hours we