On an airplane at 37,000 feet, a drunk three rows up howling—howling!—over a movie about chipmunks.
No matter. I have Pugliese plugged in my ears and a movie of my own in my head.
Two movies, in fact:
Sunday night at the Avalon. It is a Lake Woebegon night: Everything is exceptional. Magical, even. Every man is gorgeous and a fabulous lead--even the beginners. I am wearing a pretty, lightweight frock that dances with me. DJ Donna’s oddball mix sings out, You go, girl! Kari has been away for weeks; tonight we catch up on gossip. Twice I take off my shoes; two favorite leads convince me to put them back on. By Monday morning I am replete; one stiff, sore, happy girl.
Tuesday night at the Turnverein. At 7, I practice with a classmate; at 9:30 I have a lesson with Grisha. In between I hide in the ladies room, tucked in a corner of the purple velvet fainting couch. I am having a bad hair, bad clothing, bad face day, with a bad case of nerves to boot. In the lesson, I can’t do anything right. My arms are too tense, my back too weak. I walk oddly. I run away with the milonga. My timing is so far off Grisha tries a new leading technique: He says, “Go!”
La Jumba on the iPod, round and round. Movies in my head, round and round.
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