Putting On My Dancing Shoes

Last night, a late spring evening walk turned into an occasion for me to wander down memory lane. Back to a spring trip to Ulm (southern-ish Germany) to visit N. and her ballet company friends. Back to a time when we’d all go out dancing after they finished their nightly ballet performance.

We’d dance through the nights in a crowded, loud, smoky, sultry, sweaty disco. What was the name of the place? What was the name of the bartender we became friendly with? I don’t remember anything other than the vibrant, wild abandoned pleasure I experienced: music and movement to free my spirits and make my feet sore.



It was a time when copious amounts of drugs and alcohol were consumed, but I didn’t need either to lose myself in the music and dance. We’d literally walk into the disco and onto the dance floor and did not stop dancing until we decided to leave for home.



We’d wander through the streets on our way from the Stadttheater to the disco just as the last evening light was fading. Hours later, tired, but with a lightness of being, we’d make our way home from the disco just as the early morning light was appearing.



We’d pass the local bakery and smell the bread baking in the ovens behind closed window shutters. We were jubilant to be the only ones walking along the streets. Walking home barefoot, one hand holding our shoes, and the other some flowers we’d picked from the gardens of the homes we passed.