Nejla

Yes, belly dancing has a stigma.

There have been some truly talented dancers who deserve recognition despite the stigma. While we in the scene seek to elevate the artistry, we also, on some level, must admire those who took it, no holds barred, and ran with it.

Erring on the side of sexual rather than sensual, selling images of flesh rather than images of motion, this nod towards the marketing and industry of women as objects often makes it difficult to promote belly dancing as a legitimate art.

It is, indeed, an art, which takes much time to study and practice, and takes no less devotion than learning how to play a musical instrument.

The 1950s star Nejla Ates, photographed more frequently with pasties than without, was a tiny bit of dynamite recognized as an amazing dancer.

An athletic and entertaining performer, she was featured in the Broadway musical "Fanny!" and was on numerous album and magazine covers.


In 1965, when she was 32, she overdosed on barbituates in New York City.

Her suicide saddens me most because people, even fellow dancers, don't recall her playful athleticism, her distinct stylistic technique, her feline grace.

Pasties are not for me, ever, although I can recognize what amazing freedom of movement they would have allowed.

Plus I can admire the ferocity of self-assuredness it must have taken to perform, so scantily-clad, on Broadway in the 1950s.

Shoot

I don't really like my photo taken, because it never looks like me.
It's my fate to have the jelly face of a born mimic, and I can impersonate Jack Nicholson, Elvis, the Queen, Beavis, Brittney Spears, etc.

I'm even guilty of brief comedic skits, like Flock of Seagulls guy tries to be a gangsta. But that's usually the gin mixed with wine mixed with the richest chocolate cake on earth egged on by other drunk peoples' laughter.

So. Photo shoots are hilarious. Keep a straight face?
I have a tendency to smile like the cat who ate the canary, eyes all squinty and pointy teeth showing.


Look off in the distance? And I think dum-da-DUMMMM! Supergirly!
I just need a black cape.



Stop smiling we're being serious here, pensive, seductive, demure.
Quit giggling.

Okay, okay, try looking at your hip.
Just... move around a little.


Be natural. Relax your shoulders.

And of course when anyone tells you to relax you know it's useless. You might as well just roll around on the floor.

From the Hip

I got there early and watched the two ballet divas, and they deserve the right title, go through their routine. Scrutiny revealed things I had forgotten, and spinning with the thighs squeezed together like there’s a piece of paper between makes so much sense.

My students arrived before the ballet class finished, and we talked in respectful hushed tones about how the ballerinas could dance without music.

They exited and we entered, and I had my work cut out for me. I had anticipated something entirely different from what I encountered. This was no intermediate level course, but basic beginning level.

They needed a lesson in bodily grace: shoulders back, let the sun shine on you! And when you kick, please, point your toe. Walk with strength, you are a regal dancer and a proud woman, not a bag of laundry!

They needed a speech about not succumbing to gravity, they needed help with the planes of their physical selves.

Some things I cannot tackle in just the span of an hour. Control, posture, strength, balance. Breathe, breathe, breathe.

But we smiled and laughed and I broke it down carefully, with their genuine smiling and lightbulb-over-the-head-clicking-"on" appreciation. We took it a step back, here’s the technical element for each isolation.

Gain control over just this hip, move only the hip, tuck it up to the ribs, slide it out to the side, drop it down below neutral, bring it back up. Draw a circle. Don't drop your pelvis. Don't twist.

They loved the workout, and we did sweat, we shook it like an earthquake, we did a whole lot of moving. They followed with enthusiastic shyness, still uncertain, unprepared, but loving what they learn, and that’s the most important part.

Paisley Girl

St. Patty's Day dance, green and blue and purple beads.

I danced first although I had been signed up as last on the list, which makes for a late late show. Nine dancers means it goes until eleven at night, and I had to get S from the library at 10. Easy enough to switch with another dancer, but perhaps-perceived cattiness rankles. I'm uninterested in confrontation.

I whipped out my impromptu song and drum solo, got the crowd clapping, even saw some smiles.

Audiences here are funny; people will sit stock-still and stare, unsmiling, and later approach and tell me I'm enjoyable and fun to watch. Or I get questions like, "You don't have any back problems, do you?" and "So how many years does it take to learn how to do that?"

I've read, and felt, that the rush of performance lowers inhibitions as much as a couple drinks of alcohol, so I never know what's going to come out of my mouth. I get sassy, and try best to edit it, but sometimes I laugh and tell people I just made it up as I went along.

But that's not entirely untrue, not only because it's an impromptu, not a choreographed performance, but also because it's like figure drawing, first you have to memorize the anatomy, and then forget it.

Louis Armstrong said he practiced scales all day long, but when he got up on stage, he'd forget all that shit and just blow. Words to live by.

The most rewarding part of my performance came at the end, as I swept down the ramp, a little girl crawled in through the bars in front of me, and flung her arms open for a hug. I happily obliged, folding her up for a giggling moment in my veil.

The adoration of children, her smile alone, is the reason I truly love to dance in public venues.

A dancer I very much respect told me it was the best she'd seen me dance, and that meant a lot to me.

Many of my students came, and I also encountered one former student from the first class I taught, three years ago. I recognized her, and approached her with compliments after she performed with her troupe. She immediately apologized for not continuing with my classes but I waved her apology away and told her the only important thing is that she keep dancing. And then it was easy.

I don't understand the jealous possession some instructors have for their students.

In fact I like to recommend future instructors to my students.
Go, learn, dance.

I wore this sparkly paisley costume, paired with a gold-green veil. White sheer skirt over gold harem pants. I created this beaded strappy thing out of a $10 shirt I found at the second-hand shop. Recycled "clothing" has definite merits. Lined with sueded silk and it's a pleasure to wear.

An Almeh Performing the Sword Dance by Jean-Louis Gerome 1870

Sword dancers are fierce beasties, don't let the sweetness of their smiles distract you.

Saturday the nightclub was packed, a myriad of anticipating and curious faces in the dimly lit room. The band strummed and tuned, exotic sounds of kanoon, ney, djembe, tabla, harmonium.

That night, what I loved best was the table next to ours. There were five Middle Eastern men there, enjoying the evening's performance. The band played traditional songs, and these men sang along, and clapped.

Their clapping was not just clapping on the downbeat, all together now, a marching beat. No, it was offset, even from each other, musical, following or anticipating the drummer's flourishes. One would clap fast, one would clap slow, one would add three short claps at opportune times. It was thrilling and exciting and made the show into something real.


Shelle and I had already put on makeup in preparation, theatrical eyes with black lines extending far beyond the eyelids. My darling S raised his eyebrows and shook his head, not one for so much makeup, but later said it looked great under the lights.

We pulled on our costumes in the little bathroom with cold tile floors, and had to walk barefoot through the restaurant to get into the nightclub, health code be damned.

Much to my dismay I discovered my belt was too loose, and would surely show the top of the skirt underneath it. But worse than that, I feared further slippage during one of our many level changes; bending knees down to the ground could possibly expose my bellydancer butt. Probably not quite as unappealing as plumber butt, but I didn't want to flash anyone, people were eating. This thought followed me like an annoying little dog.

The band played while we sat and sipped wine before we were invited to perform. When our song started we maneuvered through the crowd, just the drums playing slow tempo, we smiled hello at everyone.

When we came back to the center of the room we "noticed" each other, came together, and started our dance. It's a steady rhythmic song, unvarying in its trancelike 6/8 waltz. The flute and kanoon add the melody.

A series of turns, palms joined back to back, undulating motion that transitions into heavy stepwork. Turn and backbend, angled so I’m still behind her we lean forward, back, forward, back, serpentine and sensual.

She pivots so we're facing. Hip drop, don’t forget the accent. Hip lift, accents belong to first me and then to her. Write the letter M with our hips, eyes locked on each other.

A casual turn away, bye bye darling, we face the band, slowly turn around to the audience again, I knew without looking at her not only where she'd be but also what a joyful and playful grin she'd have on her face, and found my face aching with my own silly smile. Hip slide so she’s in front of me. She bends low, and our arms rise up and make the shape of a lotus flower.

We completed our routine and then did an improvised drum solo. It was her first live improv, and she loved it. We shimmied and danced and said goodbyes, returned to the center, bowed, waved, gave a final zaghareet, and exited the room while the band pounded with their drums.

Thankfully, my belt stayed up, and I didn't let loose the cracken. And she, most cursed with such problems, didn't have a costume malfunction either, however her costume bra fell out of her bag and she left it there under the table. The band leader called me on Monday to let me know it was being held for ransom.


After exiting the room, We changed clothes and stayed for the three other beautiful dancers.

First the lovely demure and severe redhead in green satin with incredible stage presence.

Then the sassy but elegant dancer with gorgeous back muscles in brown velvet pants and gold beads.

Finally the evening's star, impeccable and joyful, boisterous and fun, dressed in a gold beaded bedlah, with leopard-print skirt and gauntlet gloves.

Consummate performers, all.

Interesting how personality shines through when people let it. The individuality of expression is what I love best.

The audience interaction, the clapping, the singing, the dancing, the wine, my beloved and good friends, these simple things help me to forget the troubles of the world.

I sold a costume this weekend, a fellow dancer who had attended my class bought the one I made out of a black sparkly one-sleeved dress. The fabric of the dress had copper and iridescent-colored glitter paint in a swirl pattern.

My additions to the dress, to make it into a dance costume, included long black fringe at the angled bottom hem, thumbprint-sized orange and yellow flat-backed jewels in strategic places along the top of the neckline, along the sides of the slit, and carefully placed on the hips, belly, and back.

I also added a layer of wide elastic stretch black sequins around the neckline, and a black sequin armband for the side missing a sleeve. It looked great with a black velvet shawl with black fringe wrapped around the hips.

Flamenco/flapper/disco. All I can say is she with her copper hair looked smokin.

The only way I can stretch some of the muscles in my legs and hips is if I roll around on the floor doing all the things my Grandma told me not to do when I was young.

Knees out to the sides, heels tucked against ham, little kids sit like this. To stretch I slowly rise, then slowly drop again.

I’m the king of bongo baby I’m the king of bongo bong

Heh heh! This is a funny song!

Did he say that? If I listened to the song again would it be there buried under one of the layers of sound, the kind you only hear when your mind is relaxed and receptive, focused on the motion of the body and absorbing the sounds it hears?… or did it come from the kitchen!?

Hey look at this bacon, this is really good bacon. He did say this. He waved the raw slice.

Yes, let’s cook it. Hog jowls is good. Served with fried eggs and sesame bagels, coffee brewed to perfection.

(Please be ladylike and sit with your knees together.)

I can do front-back splits, and almost do side-to-side splits.

What wild woolley mad-professor hair, I like to bury my face in it, feel the tickle of soft auburn curls, inhale the clean salty good smell of his scalp. His hair grows straight up. It’s fabulous.

But he’s less approachable when he’s waving around a raw slice of bacon.

(Don’t bounce. Sit quietly. Either cross your legs, or fold them together to the side.)

I can walk around on my knees, turn a full circle, fast, in 8 counts, without bouncing, without rug burns. I can dance while on my knees, and will have to demonstrate to the wild-haired bacon-waver how this ability might be useful sometime soon. Ladylike, sure.




You are a Cabaret Belly Dancer! You're what people
think of when they hear the words "belly dancer" -- the beaded bra and belt, the
nightclub routine, the doumbek and the zills. Equally at home in a restaurant or at a
hafla, your routine is a crowd-pleaser no matter who's watching! Keep shimmying!


What Kind of Belly Dancer are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

She and I ask each other What? a lot, and I think it’s because we have similar thoughts that we express in completely different terms. She was born in New England but lived in Osaka for years, her English is full of idioms I don’t understand, and I get the feeling she thinks in Japanese, that there’s something lost in the translation. It’s not that I don’t hear. It’s not that she doesn’t listen.

I stood halfway in and out of an elevator’s doors and we gave each other a laughing hug, on the dull grey second floor of the parking garage, while slushy rain dripped down the outside walls and spilled into the open stairwell and through the open walls. She was going up. I was going home.

Choreography classes the past two nights and my mind is full of possible combinations of moves.

In the advanced class on Tuesday we worked on doing an improvisational drum solo. Our fabulously fun teacher provided the framework, and then each of us offered input about what we’d do during different phrases of the song. We learned it fast; she works us hard and we love to sweat.

We practiced it well, and we ended the song with the cheesiest possible jazz dance pose, left knee pulled up, right arm up and the left arm back and down, like Superman flying through the wild blue yonder. Or maybe Mighty Mouse.

We giggled at our silliness, we grinned like we were Vegas showgirls, strike the pose, va va voom. I don’t understand those who take themselves super-serious. There’s one thing to saying “this is my life,” and another to saying “this is my life and it’s not funny.”
I attended class last night, too, different teacher, she’s a co-conspirator for a trio dance entertainment project, and she teaches a beginning-intermediate level class. I’ll be covering the class while she makes a trip to Japan at the end of this month.

Many of my former beginning-level students are in the class, and when I arrived it was a slobbery hug-fest. I’m looking forward to teaching at a more intermediate level. Much as I love the beginners, I believe the best method of practice is to teach.

We worked on combining basic motions into a simple yet fast-paced choreography. I followed easily and looked around, noticed the looks of concentration, the frown lines, the determined set of their jaws. The last time we danced through it, she made us all smile, and the change of mood in the room was remarkable.

I liked how she had us end class facing each other in a circle; I’ve only been in a few classes that do this, and I think I’m going to incorporate it during my next Saturday class. Facing each other changes the focus; instead of looking in the mirror, we have to look at one another, and acknowledge we, too, are being seen. I have five students interested in performing in a student show in June.

Learning to perform is its own thing. There are born performers, but by and large, the ladies who attend my class come for the exercise, the camaraderie, the fun. I think dancing for one’s fellow classmates is harder than dancing for a general public audience. Perhaps, for just a ten-minute taste of it, we’ll each dance inside the circle. It’s an important exercise, so why do I feel like I’m rubbing hands together and smiling with a wicked grin?

Claudette Cleopatra

Claudette Colbert was Cecil B. DeMille's Cleopatra in 1934.




MARK ANTONY
She is cunning past man's thought.

DOMITIUS ENOBARBUS
Alack, sir, no; her passions are made of nothing but
the finest part of pure love: we cannot call her
winds and waters sighs and tears; they are greater
storms and tempests than almanacs can report: this
cannot be cunning in her; if it be, she makes a
shower of rain as well as Jove.

MARK ANTONY
Would I had never seen her.

DOMITIUS ENOBARBUS
O, sir, you had then left unseen a wonderful piece
of work; which not to have been blest withal would
have discredited your travel.


Since I know you have nothing better to do, read Shakespeare's Antony and Cleopatra.

See it in the dancer's eyes. No indication what she'll do next; often she doesn't know until she does it.
Light and shadows, shapes and lines, or does it represent the things beneath the surface? Staged, costumed, imaginary, or the genuine article? What would you like to be today?

An evening conversation

We’ll dance this Saturday, Shelle and I, a duet with a live band at a downtown nightclub. We’re the duet act, and there are three other performers, each with distinct and remarkable style. I anticipate a fantastic show to a sold-out crowd.

Last weekend we practiced prior to rehearsal with the band, and during our practice together we didn’t have the music, so as we danced through our choreography she sang the rhythm and I sang the melody. We were both surprised and amused at how quickly it turned into the Oompa Loompa song
oompa loompa oopedy doop,
which then turned into surfer music
da-da-da-da-da-da-da-daaaa,
which then turned into schmaltzy Broadway
laaaa, la la la la la laaaaaaa.

We quickly devolved into silliness while feigning seriousness, chins held high and nostrils flared, smiles suppressed in attempt to not disrupt our dancing.
We vamped and pouted and flirted.

My darling S, seated on the couch watching us practice during a break in his studies, found our antics comical and between laughs suggested we work such silliness into our routine for performance.
Someday, someday.


This time it’s about timing, about how our bodies move differently but the same, this time it’s about the complimentary motions and the connection between us. She and I have been dancing together for so long now we can not only follow but even anticipate the other’s next motion. Anyone eavesdropping during our brainstorms would hear an enthusiastic conversation consisting of half sentences,
“At this point we can…!”
“Yes, oh but what about this?”
“Oooh, and then we could…!”
“Hey, I know, why not…”
“No I want you forward…”
“Let’s count it from here…”
“What if I…?... is that cool? And then you?”

Our creation takes on a life of its own.

The dance we do is all about shapes—patterns in the air drawn with hips, or arms, or bodies, circles and figure eights and ellipses. We travel across the floor in lines, in curliques, in diagonals, crossing and weaving, parting and coming together again.

But someday, yes, I can imagine a comedy dance routine, especially with her. She’s a whirlwind.

We’re working on our costumes, which are silver, black, and magenta. I designed and constructed them, and think I’m getting pretty good at making such things from scratch. I have to finish mine; I completed hers, but it needs minor sewing in some places so I gave it to her to stitch.

The costume style borders both gothic and old-fashioned American bellydance style, with belts adorned with coins, long flowing skirts, and sequined bras with the same coin decorations as the skirt. Ribbons drape from the center of the bra down the belly and around to the sides of the belt, which makes our torsos look longer and adds an air of 1920s

I cannibalized from three thrift store dresses, two metal belts, and a pair of black and silver pants that I bought a year ago, washed, and hung outside because they smelled like nasty menthol cigarette smoke and butt sweat. After swinging outside for a year in the rain and the sun they thankfully no longer smell, but I’m playing it safe, I cut the fabric into long strips for edging along the skirt panels.

The black fabric from the formerly stinky pants has silver metal in it like pseudo-Assuit, and I took the skirt off this 1970s sequins and chiffon number no doubt worn for dancing. That dress? Was gross. It had the dry-cleaner’s tag in it still, but there were three spots on it of questionable ancient white milky substance. I’m praying it was milk or maybe baby formula, but who can possibly say.

I want to eventually add more sequins and chains to the whole ensemble, but the decorations will suffice for the show on Saturday.

Dance class tonight, and again tomorrow, then practice with Shelle, then band rehearsal, then performance. My nights are booked.

She and I danced again, practice counting backwards, four, three, two, one. Step left right left, pause, right left right, pause, left right left, pause, right left right.

The problem with starting at one and counting up resides in the question of will it be four? or eight? Wait for the phrase to cycle around again, and it might even be sixteen.

Counting time is a curious thing.

Time passes, some great ship that rolls beyond our reach, the liquid swell catches us and up we roll along the sides of the wave, then down again into the trough, another surge and another and then calm water again. Time leaves emptiness in its wake. History remains entirely intangible. We can touch and smell and see only the material remains, visual images, poems and stories, relics which inspire our own lives and creations.

"Valuable" and "meaningful" fulfills a subjective construct about the past. We can't know the names, daily pastimes, feelings, hopes, and dreams of the people who left no trace. Ancient songs, primeval dances. If we could see them as they were -- humans living lives hauntingly the same and also completely different as our own lives-- then perhaps we could uncover and demystify the origins of culture and art.

I find it curious that every culture in every corner of the world not only created musical instruments but also developed dance to accompany the music. Sound is the only sense which activates the response of physical motion. We all feel it. We all feel it differently. Sometimes the motion is head-bobbing toe-tapping, sometimes ferocious, wild, vigorous, flailing. Sometimes the elicited response is of curling into a ball on the floor and sobbing, or throwing the head back and laughing.

One thing I love about dance is its immediacy. The artist and the medium are one and the same, inseparable. But the immediacy of dance, the ephemeral quality of the act, especially impromptu emotional dance inspired by the sound of music, this poses a problem of re-creation, of preservation. Choreography attempts to record the motions, professionalism seeks to attain perfection with each performance, but neither can account for all factors of a dance.

It is the same as stepping in a river.

As dusk folded into night we drove across town to the banquet hall at the culinary school. S accompanied me, for which I am grateful; he provided the warm hand to hold and the ear for whispering comments and the baggage-carrying shoulder. The most prestigious word-of-mouth dinner, prepared by graduating students, had chosen a Middle Eastern theme for their semi-annual gala. And what is an essential element of a Middle Eastern theme? A belly dancer.

C’est moi.

Given the cost of admission, the excellent reputation of the meals prepared, and the chance to attend, when the event coordinator contacted me two weeks ago I had arranged to dance for our dinners rather than receive payment.

I knew it was A Big Deal, but knowing hadn’t prepared me for the size of the venue. Men and women wearing black and white made their way around the reception lobby carrying platters, and patrons were snacking on delectable stuffed pastries and pita and dolmadas. We used that time to meet the M.C. and the event coordinator, and scope out the banquet hall. We found a huge room, thirty tables set with sincere formality, eight seats per table, white linen tablecloths, alternating red and black cotton napkins, four forks, two spoons, and two knives.

I gave the cd to the DJ, and then clarified my methods of entrance and exit. Rather than use the main entrance, which seemed banal and expected, I discovered a way from the bathroom, through a “staff only” side hallway next to the kitchen, that came through a side door into the banquet hall. So sneaky, highly dramatic me.

We were seated at a table next to the small stage, where a young man played classical guitar during the entrance and seating of all guests. The M.C. made his speech and thanked people for their work and generosity. The older ladies and gentlemen seated at our table with us made note of the program, which included that tantalizing phrase “belly dancer.”

They talked about other times they had seen dancers perform, and then the woman seated next to Shawn gave me and my make-up a la Cleopatra a scrutinizing, curious look and asked, “…Are you, by chance, the dancer?” I feigned surprise that anyone could have guessed, and waved my hand for secrecy.

While we ate the appetizer of lamb kibbeh and crunchy green beans in a plum tomato sauce, the ladies talked about the crossword puzzle in the day’s paper. The clue was “a belly dancer’s clackers.”

I refrained from a derisive remark about “clackers” and I also withheld the tide of possible babble about how finger cymbals are called zills in Turkey and America, and sagat in Egypt. And about how the first known zills were dated from 500 BC in Greece. And the first known dance contract, on written on Greek papyri from 206 AD, hired a krotalystrya – a dancer who played zills, or krotala --- to travel from Greece to Egypt in order to perform at a week-long festival. And I refrained from explaining that while it’s a standard part of American and Turkish shows, modern Egyptian dancers don’t play finger cymbals, they hire a band member to play for them.

The music I had selected for the evening’s performance, from Jalilah’s Amar 14, was inappropriate for playing zills. It was too fast, too arrhythmic, and the break between the one upbeat song during which I could play zills and the following slow song during which I would not play, was meant for a dramatic pause.

I left the table before they served the Moroccan carrot soup, and changed into my bedlah costume in the bathroom. Hours spent making my costume, fitting and refitting, made the change a quick on, but all the folds of cloth, the hooks, the beads must be arranged just-so.

My dark gold harem pants provided a comfortable and demure layer beneath a sheer white drape of skirt, and the bead-encrusted belt had loops of beads draping down to my knees. The matching bra completely covers me, and the strap behind my neck frees my shoulders for all sorts of rolls and percussive motions. I topped it all off with a gauze-thin white silk veil.

While checking and double-checking my costume in the bathroom, a beautiful young woman came into the bathroom. I recognized her from years ago; we had been in dance class together! We hugged and she ogled my beaded fringe, and told me where she was seated.

With time to spare, I made my way to the banquet room, where the MC announced me, the music started, and off I danced. My white silk veil stuck to my lipstick on the first swirl, which was my first “Uh-oh!” moment, but I pulled it away and I doubt anybody noticed. I worked the tables, swirled amongst the hosts standing along the wall, shimmied for the girls serving coffee.

The more I dance the less I recall what I’ve done during an improvisational performance, but I know I made use of certain parts of the melody and the percussion for accents as I moved around the room.

At the beginning of the flourish signifying the end of the first song, I realized I was dallying too long, and there was no way to make it to the stage for the final spin. That was my second “Uh-oh!” moment. So I threw my hands up and behind my head like I wanted to take flight and ran full tilt, jumped onto the stage, and spun around with the song’s crescendo and end. S said later he thought it was intentional—it drew the crowd’s attention up with me to the stage.

The next song started while the audience was still clapping. I had chosen a slow melodic piece, with a heavy oud intro during which I did belly rolls and undulations, something I haven’t really tried before.

This last year I’ve become much more aware of the importance of slow songs—they’re harder to dance to than the quick tempo sets, but I find them much more rewarding. I failed to use the combo I’ve been practicing, but the timing was essential and I knew I had missed it as soon as the musical phrase started. I did lots of snakey arms and level changes and hip isolations, and really tried my best to smile, which is something I tend to forget.

The slow song ended, more applause, and the drum solo came in, and I am so please to report it went great! I hit all the points I wanted to hit, felt very aware of the crowd’s attention, and finished with a spin.

Boom boom, I say! I left the stage, went around the crowd one more time, grabbed the veil I had dropped earlier, and left to the sound of much applause.

Quick change in the bathroom, then back to the dining room, where S & I ate the exotic Moroccan carrot soup our server had been thoughtful to reheat. They also brought us the entrée of skate on squid-ink pasta, which was simply delicious, followed by baby green salad with pear slices, candied walnuts, and pomegranate dressing.

I wanted some red wine, but the wine steward was selling it by the glass and we had failed to bring cash. I even tried my most flirtatious smile, but to no avail. The dessert was my favorite of all, a crumbly cheese cake with candied orange peel on top, drenched with honey sauce.

We left after pleasantries and smiles and handshakes, walking through the brisk early spring night beneath cherry blossoms, feeling happy and sated. Both of us were exhausted, and bed felt like a delightful cocoon. It was well worth dancing for the dinner.