Dance like an octopus

Once, I was afraid to dance. Well, not afraid, exactly. Just hyper-aware of how bad at dancing I was. I’m relatively musical—I was the lead singer for a rock band for a few years. I have a good ear and a general sense of rhythm.





How, then, is it possible for me to be so terrible at dancing?

A friend I met in Costa Rica fondly tells me that when I dance, I resemble the little octopus in the film Finding Nemo. You know, the one who twirls to hide her malformed tentacle. It’s an apt description.

About halfway through my marriage, a childhood friend got married. Her wedding reception had a dance floor, and a cheesy DJ insisted on playing songs like the “Electric Slide” and “Macarena” to get people moving. I remained resolutely at my table, sipping a margarita and jiggling my foot in time with the beat. This was all I ever did when there was dancing. Over time, the songs became less forced, but the revelers remained on the floor, bodies writhing and jiving with abandon.

My husband begged me to dance.

“You know I don’t dance,” I admonished him.

“Come on. It’ll be fun,” he wheedled. “I promise no one will laugh. Just have some fun.”

Well, I couldn’t argue with that and still be the fun-loving person who didn’t care what people thought of her, which was who I thought I was. I relented. He took my hand and led me to the dance floor. The music changed and AC/DC’s “Thunderstruck” came on. Perfect! One of my all-time favorites. When I was five years old, I had played it on a tinny portable tape deck to make it rain for my gardener mother who complained about droughts. The familiarity of the song loosened me up and I began to dance. Self-consciousness restrained my movements from being too big or wild, but hey, I was trying. The pinched tulle of my lilac dress chafed as I pumped my arms over my head and grinned like a fool.

The first verse was not even over when my husband leaned in and shouted into my ear, “Wow, you’re really not good at this, are you?”

My heart plummeted into my stomach, and my stomach plummeted to my knees. A sick wave of shame and embarrassment washed over me, grabbed my self-esteem, and ripped it out in a fierce undertow as it receded. I felt winded as if I had been punched. I stopped dancing, dumbstruck. It dawned on me that I was even more noticeable standing motionless amid all the pumping, whirling bodies, so I retreated. I slunk back to my table and my margarita. No words could convince me to leave that chair again the remainder of the night.

I did not dance in public again for the remainder of the time I lived in the States. No matter what the occasion was, who the company was, or how many drinks I downed, I could not be coaxed onto any dance floor.

Until after.

It was an accident, really. It happened about three weeks after I moved to Costa Rica. My new flatmate was eager to meet some Ticas and talked me accompanying him to a bar. It was my first experience with Ladies’ Night in Quepos, and I was not prepared.

Ladies’ Night in Central America is the embodiment of rape culture boiled down to its purest form. Usually it means there is one prepared drink women can order for free. Free all night. They fill women up with free liquor until they can barely stand, let alone say no. Men circle the bar or stand outside on the street like sharks who have scented blood in the water and are waiting for the chance to snap up easy prey.

This night was “vodka” and soda. I still don’t believe that the cheap, strong liquid was vodka. Bottom-shelf guaro, maybe. I ordered my first and watched the bartender fill my clear plastic cup three-quarters full with liquor. He splashed a bit of dark cola on top, more for decoration than as an actual mix. I drank these like regular cocktails. In no time, I was full-on borracha—drunk. I am embarrassed to say I did not exercise a single iota of self-control, downing one drink after another. We were in the nightclub in Quepos called Republik. Ear-splitting dance house music roared to the pumping of fog machines, strobe lights, and lasers. The place was packed with sinuously convulsing bodies.

Republik, Quepos, Costa Rica

At the bar, a girl and I started chatting. She was at least as tipsy as I. She told me she was a belly dancer and asked me to come out onto the dance floor with her.

“Oh no,” I said, splaying my hands in the air. “I’m a terrible dancer.”

“So?” she asked.

So?! My mind grappled with this crippling argument. She had a point. What did it matter what people thought of me? Why did I care how I looked?

Before I knew it, I allowed her to drag me out into the mess of flailing bodies. I proceeded with the most atrocious crimes against dirty dancing ever committed in the history of displays of stupidity. We ground against each other, bellies rolling and hips thrusting. My arms waved like octopus tentacles in the fake fog.

I had fun. Way more fun than I would have had on the sidelines. After about two songs, I forgot to worry about how dumb I looked. I laughed—okay, I chortled. Sweat poured off my skin. I danced until the threat of dawn.

Since that night, I'm no longer afraid of dancing. If the music hits me, I dance with abandon. I am still a terrible dancer. I move my body as if I rented it for the weekend and still haven’t figured out all the tricky bits. I look like a twirling octopus.

But the difference is this:

I do it anyway.

I no longer drink much or often (and never again will I succumb to Ladies’ Night), but it still takes some courage and a chiliguaro or two to work up the nerve.

But I dance.

I dance despite the fact that I am rubbish. I dance even though I know someone in the room is probably pointing and laughing at my antics.

It’s one thing to say you don’t care what other people think. I’ve been saying that since I was a Goth teenager. But to live it, truly, takes a little courage.

I’ve decided that, sometimes, I just want to have fun for me.

This became a lot easier when I decided that I would no longer subject myself to the company of insecure and judgmental people. ✌

At my favorite dance spot in Boston, Massachusetts: Club Havana in Cambridge

At my favorite dance spot in San José, Costa Rica: Area City in La California

Do I dance every time there is music?
No.

Do I wish I were more graceful?
Of course.

But I’m comfortable being me now, no matter how ridiculous “me” is. I realized I don’t have to impress the whole world to be happy with myself.

Let your freak flag fly, baby.

(I know. "Dancing in public" is a pretty vanilla "freak flag." But back then, it blocked me.)

I never learned how to dance.
I just learned to dance.
And it’s so silly that it took me so long.

Disheveled and happy, post-dancing

Boston: Plymouth

On Thursday, October 13, we made a little road trip to Plymouth. As probably everyone in America knows, Plymouth was the site of the colony founded in 1620 by the pilgrims of the Mayflower. Plymouth is where New England was first established. It is the oldest municipality in New England.

After arriving and obtaining a map from the tiny visitor center, we walked to see the Mayflower II, a full-size replica of the original ship. The ship was built in Brixham, England, in 1956, and sailed to Plymouth across the Atlantic Ocean in 1957. It is still seaworthy. It was hard to imagine 102 passengers and about 30 crew members aboard the small 100-foot ship and cramped spaces. The pilgrims endured a lot to get here.

On our way from the Mayflower II to Plymouth Rock, we stopped off and did a tasting of the wines at Plymouth Bay Winery. We bought a few bottles and had them shipped home.

Next up was Plymouth Rock. Traditionally, the rock is said to be the disembarkation site of the Pilgrims, though it can’t be proven. Plymouth Rock became very famous after its identification as the supposed landing site of the Pilgrims, and was subsequently moved to a location in Plymouth Center. During the process, the rock split in two. You can see where it was repaired in my photos. It was later moved to Pilgrim Hall and then to a location under a granite Victorian Canopy, where it was easily accessible and subject to souvenir hunters. The rock was finally moved back to its original location along the town’s waterfront in 1921.

We admired the statue across the road of Massasoit Sachem (c. 1581 – 1661), who was the sachem (leader) of the Wampanoag nation. In March 1621, three months after the founding of Plymouth, an Abenaki named Samoset entered the town and exclaimed in English, “Welcome, Englishmen!” He announced himself as the envoy of Massasoit, “the greatest commander of the country.” After some negotiation, Massasoit came in person and was received with due ceremony. Massasoit negotiated a treaty guaranteeing the English their security in exchange for their alliance against the Narragansett. According to the English, Massasoit prevented the failure of Plymouth Colony and the almost certain starvation that the pilgrims faced during the earliest years of the colony's establishment.

We also marveled at the huge list of names of those pilgrims who died in the first year of settlement.

We took a leisurely walk under cloudy skies through a garden and under a bridge to the Jenney Grist Mill, a working mill established in 1636 and rebuilt after an 1837 fire burned the whole place to the ground. We enjoyed the tour by the proprietor, who was dressed in a tri-corner hat and explained the workings of the mill.

Afterward, we headed to Plimoth Plantation, a living museum. In the 1627 English Village section of the museum, interpreters have been trained to speak, act, and dress appropriately for the period. These historical interpreters interacted with their “strange visitors” (us) in the first person, answering questions, discussing their lives and viewpoints and participating in tasks such as cooking, planting, blacksmithing, and animal husbandry. If we asked them any question about something that happened or was discovered after 1627, they responded with confusion and bewilderment.

It also includes a re-creation of a Wampanoag site, where modern native people from a variety of nations (not in period character, but in traditional dress) explain and demonstrate how the Wampanoag’s ancestors lived and interacted with the settlers.

We had the best dinner of the trip at Isaac’s on the waterfront. I ordered a magnificent chicken fettuccini, Mom had filet and a baked sweet potato, and Michael had the lobster fantasy with scallops, mussels, clams, and shrimp.

In the deepening gloom of night during a slight patter of rain, we drove to the National Monument to the Forefathers, which was dedicated in 1889. Standing at 81 feet, it is the tallest free-standing solid granite monument in the United States.

Then we headed back to the waterfront for a ghost tour. We were the only guests who turned up, so we had the guide to ourselves. Our guide, dressed in a tri-corner hat and cloak, walked us around the old city at night, telling us the darker history behind some buildings and sites. When we entered the cemetery, he handed me a K-II meter which went off twice as we wandered the headstones and listened to stories about the dead. It was one of the best ghost tours I have ever been on.

Feet hurting and exhausted, we made the drive back to the hotel and crashed. We all loved Plymouth.

Boston: Museums

On Wednesday, October 12, we went to Finagle a Bagel at a friend’s recommendation. My breakfast was a New England melt, which was divine. Michael had a bagel with salmon spread and Mom got the traditional. Then we headed off to the Boston Museum of Science and explored the exhibits. We particularly loved the Pompeii exhibit, and left a bit teary-eyed.

After we had worn ourselves out and ridden a space travel simulator, we made our way to the Museum of Fine Arts and enjoyed the amazing permanent pieces, especially Impressionism and ancient Egypt.
We had lunch at the American Café, the museum café. I had a disgusting veggie lasagna, Michael had ceviche and asparagus, and Mom had chicken salad.

We left the museum too late to go to a restaurant, so we went back to the hotel and, after soaking in the hot tub for a while, we ordered falafel, chicken quesadillas, and an Asian salad from the hotel restaurant. Culture burst! It was a fun day.