So Blite On My Feet

Nothing says "I'm not from here" quite so well as trying to dance a traditional dance with people who are from "here."
Though my feet have many times been strangers in a strange land, they have never found a "here" to call their own. Forever misfits, they have come to subscribe to a variation of the adage about stupidity: Better to sit still and be thought a clod than to move one's feet and remove all doubt.

And so when one of my colleagues at the college (Eszterházy Károly College) sent me the above flier recommending that I attend and see a little bit of traditional Hungarian folk dancing, I thought, sure, watching might be fun. When I suggested that she join me -- not as dance partners, just "friends" -- she suddenly remembered that she had to do her hair that night.

With no hair of my own to do, I went alone, trudging in the dark up the steep hill to Hallgatói Klub, the school's student union, arriving some time around 9:00. Inside, in a plain, pubbish room to the right, two fiddles and a stand up base provided the music for a spinning and swirling mass of couples, all of whom were following (or so I imagined) the dictates of Gyula Bécsi, the táncot tánit mentioned in the poster.

Gyula had things well under control. He commanded; the couples acted. He also whistled -- short, stacotto whistles -- I guess as a way of helping the dancers punctuate their steps with verve.

Taken as a whole, it struck me as similar to our own kind of square dance, where a "caller" calls out various steps and configurations to which the dancing partners respond. As Gyula's breathless couples all wore smiles alternating with the excited looks of "what will he call next?!" it was clear that their tánit was providing a good time.

Gyula was tall and trim, maybe early forties, blond, his sweat glistening against clean-shaved skin, and he wore black jeans and black boots with wood heels, needed for occasional traditional clopping. He also wore a white silk-screened t-shirt, expressing what I didn't know, though I did soon discover that others in the dancing crowd, and some seated along the dance floor perimeter as if in waiting, wore identical t-shirts. So, either they were a gang of some sort -- one of those traditional folk dancing gangs marauding the Hungarian countryside --  or else they were his dance troops, foot soldiers in the battle to get unlearned dancers to learn steps and step right. I settled on the latter explanation for the Ts.

I also settled on a beer, a) because I could get one from the little bar, and b) because I thought holding a big stein of beer in my hand would signal my intention to remain still. That, coupled with the fact that I had shed neither my coat nor my hat (notorious from my Jó Reggelt! day; see February 18), I took a seat at the opposite end of the dance floor, sipping and watching, knowing I would be left alone.

One of the jobs of Gyula's dance troops is to not leave people alone, and so within seconds of having plopped myself down a young women, in white t-shirt, black skirt and stockings (white ace bandage over one ankle), and cloppy shoes, stood before me, there to pluck me up. Her arm and open palm extended in the international language of "take my hand," and, after a short deliberation, I did.

I will confess that I was swayed, in part, because she was cute. Dark-haired, fresh-faced, and about thirty years my junior. My thinking: will the stars ever align themselves like this again? Answer: No. Better dance while you can! 

I was also swayed by her demeanor, which, signaled that, despite the fact that she was about four feet tall, she wasn't going anywhere without me. So, I smiled sheepishly, put down my beer, shed my coat and hat, and took her hand.

She may have been better trained dancing, but I was significantly older, with a lot more experience on, and of, my feet, and I knew both their promise and limitations.

So that: Over the years, I developed a simple two-step, which, to my mind, works well in a pinch, regardless of song, tempo, etc, and so I now thought, country. I call it The Smooth. In reality, it is not so much a "step" as a weight-shift, from one leg to the other -- very subtle, so as not to attract to much attention -- but noticeable enough so that anyone keen enough to spot it would say to themselves, "Now that's smooth!" Here are two pictures of me doing The Smooth. On the left, step one. On the right step two. (Both as seen from the perspective of my dance partner). Follow my feet (if you can!).

The Smooth, Step One

The Smooth, Step Two

As you can see, the dance is very subtle, very muted, most unflamboyant. It is the kind of dance that calls very little notice to itself. In fact, one time, as I did The Smooth in a room rigged to motion detectors, the lights went out. 

Anyway, once my diminutive partner placed my hands properly behind her shoulders, and hers behind mine -- we kind of formed a human box -- and I caught the band's rhythm, I fell into The Smooth. Lean right -- gently!, lean left -- gently!, repeat. I had no choice but to ignore Gyula, as I didn't know what he was barking for us to do.

Apparently, for the sweet creature who hauled me onto the dance floor The Smooth was a little too subtle, too nuanced -- dare I say, sophisticated? Immediately she looked down at my feet, and though I don't know what she was commanding them to do, it seemed to me that she was very scolding in tone, very sharp with my feet. I became a little defensive toward them, as you can well imagine. 

Contrary to the pasting she was giving them, I thought Imy feet were doing quite well, all things considered, what with the music so unfamiliar to them, and Gyula shouting and whistling, and all those other couples dancing and occasionally clopping. I thought we maintained our composure quite well under the circumstances.

My partner differed. Her frustration mounted with each fiddle screech. She continued to raise her voice to my feet and then, fed up with their incorrigibility, she began whacking the insides of my knees, as though somehow they were responsible. 

If I had known how to say ouch! in Hungarian I certainly would have said it. But I don't know how to say ouch! in Hungarian, so instead I said what I do know how to say, but with fierceness. "Jó Reggelt!" I said, quite sternly, sure that although "Good morning!" would not precisely capture what I wanted to say to her at that moment, and that it might in fact befuddle her, the tone with which I said it was crystal clear, you can be sure of that. Lay off the knees, sister! 

Now, I don't know about you, but when someone starts knocking my feet and whacking my knees, they become less responsive, not more. Why? Not out of belligerence, but rather out of self-consciousness. And as that self-consciousness struck again, my little drill sergeant  slapped my knees and spanked them with indignance, as though they had said something fresh. Then she started kicking my shoes as they were doing The Smooth, apparently trying to get them to spread apart a little more, or move a little more, perhaps clop some like Gyula occasionally did. Or maybe just because. 

 "Jó Reggelt!" "Jó Reggelt!"

She paid me no mind, kicking at my feet and smacking my knees, and I was just about to box her in a completely different way when she suddenly stopped. Why? Not out of kindness nor mercy, I can assure you. No, it was that the music stopped, and the whole dance floor came to a halt as Gyula (apparently) called all dancers to form a circle, shoulder to shoulder and arms around each other -- I resisted putting my "teacher" in a headlock, much as I would have relished it -- after which we all shuffled as one, a step to the right and a step to the left, slowly, subtly, almost smoothly, around this happy space in the middle of our circle across which "we" sang a traditional song. Of course, I didn't "sing" anything. Occasionally I piped in with some vowel sounds and clearly misplaced and mistimed consonants, but that was it. I also thought about what the little dominatrix might do to me once the singing ended.

Maybe that's why I contributed so robustly to it. I don't know what the song was about, but in retrospect I am sure it was directed at me, perhaps even about me: "When Jerks Can't Dance." "He Dances Like a Goat." "Stupid, Stupid Feet." Something like that. Because it seemed like people were looking at me from all angles, and smiling. Smiling or laughing? I couldn't tell. But I am now sure the little witch tipped off Gyula to get everybody to sing a song mocking me. And to think, I was even taking part!

Too soon the song ended. Everyone clapped, the band picked up, and dancing resumed. And me, my feet, and my knees -- we cringed. But nothing happened. No slapping or kicking resumed. Instead, we had been orphaned. The little monster that dragged me onto the dance floor in the first place and submitted me to corporal punishment there had simply abandoned me, left me standing there. And when I spotted her only a second later, she had already taken up with some Hungarian dude, whose feet were better listeners than mine and whose knees, from her perspective, weren't bleating and didn't warrant a beating.

Wounded, I slinked back toward my beer. It had since gone flat, much like my spirits. Still, I sipped at it to restore them. And as I slouched down in the chair, the dance floor, still buzzing with Gyula's barks and whistles, like out of something in the movies, seemed to be drifting away, getting smaller and smaller and smaller.

I finished my beer and left. And when I got back home I put on some music and me, my knees, and my feet, we did The Smooth, just as we have always done, and we were cool.

P.S. If you'd like to see how some people think Hungarian dancing should be performed, go to Traditional Hungarian, yes; but is it smooth?