<p><strong>Published in Women's E-news, 22 June 2008</strong></p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>When I arrived as an expat in Uruguay almost four years ago, I was suffering from the combined symptoms of culture shock, menopause, and being away from my children for the first time. However, I did my best to drag myself out and get involved in activities.</p> <p><br />I heard about circle dancing at an expat spouses' meeting, when Rosa, a psychologist, was trying to drum up support. She explained that danzas circulares are traditional dances from all over the world. Some are ancient; others are modern: they all have simple, repetitive steps, and are performed in a circle. She was using the technique successfully to help Uruguayan families cope with the absence of relatives who had moved abroad. The movement, the relaxation, the bonding experience, were all therapeutic.</p> <p><br />One woman at the meeting asked &lsquo;Es una secta?' - &lsquo;Is it a sect?' It sounded faddish to me, but appealing. After all, I thought, I have time, I'll do anything to pull myself out of my miserable state, and I miss my children. Plenty of reasons. So I decided to try it.</p> <p><br /> A few days later I cycled to my first session. It was a bright, crisp fall day, and the ten-minute bike ride was invigorating. When I arrived, there was a candle in the middle of the floor, and a fire blazing. The atmosphere was welcoming, and we greeted each other the Uruguayan way, warm kisses on cold cheeks. The participants, from Holland, Colombia, Mexico, and the U.K., waited nervously until Rosa encouraged us to stand in a circle around the candle, holding hands. <br />First we warmed up, moving freely around, waving our arms and twisting our bodies. Then the dancing started. For each dance, Rosa explained the steps, then we all joined in with the music. I felt anxious, with my two left feet, but I tried to relax, breathing deeply. I found that if I concentrated too much, I clamped up and tripped, and if I concentrated too little, I lost track. After a while I found the right balance.</p> <p><br /> We did a Celtic dance, one from Turkey, two gypsy dances, and a Greek one. The music was new to my ear, varied and melodious. We didn't talk. We just danced. I felt progressively calmer, and my mind drifted into semi-meditation. After the dances we lay on the floor for a ten-minute relaxation session.</p> <p><br /> Later, I asked myself &lsquo;What was that all about?' I tried to find some connection in my mind. Clearly, all cultures have traditional folk dances, but who had put together this therapeutic package? We had performed dances from countries and cultures that hated each other, and had little connection with any of us in the group, yet there we were all holding hands and dancing around in circles like children playing. Who started this trend? And why? <br />But I felt peaceful and centred. And curious. At home, I did some research, and found that in the 70s, Professor Bernhard Wosien, a German dance master, who had collected hundreds of worldwide folk dances, initiated the practice in the Findhorn Foundation Community in northern Scotland.</p> <p><br /> Further research revealed that circle dancing - as I had already experienced after just one session - is truly beneficial to the whole person: body, soul and mind. As well as reducing stress and physical, emotional and mental anxiety, participants learn to relax in the movement, and each person is centred in a personal space which generates self-respect and respect for others. You become more flexible and relaxed in both body and mind, because you learn to go with the flow in harmony.</p> <p><br /> &lsquo;Anything will sell these days', my sceptic inner voice said.</p> <p><br />My real me voice retorted strongly: &lsquo;Hey, don't be so cynical. Take whatever works and enjoy it.'</p> <p><br />I was hooked, and continued dancing with the group. Most dances are gentle and meditative; a few are lively and energizing. All of them make you feel at one with yourself and with your companions. Very soon, my feelings of anxiety and lack of self-worth faded. After a few months, I felt renewed, ready for the challenges of my new life.</p> <p><br />And recently, I had the most wonderful experience: a friend of Rosa's has set up an organization here in Montevideo, aimed at helping people realize their dreams - not fancy, expensive dreams, but simple, beautiful dreams. I was lucky enough to join in when one of the first dreams came true: a middle-aged lady wanted to dance on the beach, so the group invited friends to a danzas ciculares session on the beach in central Montevideo.</p> <p><br />There was a strong breeze, but it was warm. Of the forty participants, two were men. I hardly knew anyone, but I immediately felt a unifying bond as we held hands around an arrangement of flowers and candles.</p> <p><br />Although circle dance groups worldwide are open to everyone, far more women than men participate. Men are more &lsquo;left-brained'; their testosterone makes them competitive, and skeptical of &lsquo;sharing and caring' activities. Women are more intuitive, and generally express their feelings more than men; they are open to visual and corporal contact, and culturally, they seek help and peace of mind outside themselves. They are also open to experimenting new ideas. Circle dancing is a very feminine, unifying experience, a quiet activity which transcends barriers of race, class, religion and culture - you feel comfortable dancing with complete strangers. You are within yourself, yet sharing, while you dance. It is a great mood stabilizer.</p> <p><br />That evening the sunset was inspiring, there were few people at the beach apart from us, and the one woman whose dream came true was the spark for a bonding event for many others.</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <div class="blog_text"> <p><strong>Winner of Grailwriters flash fiction competition (dance theme), April 2008</strong></p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>The fine indigo silk skirt, cut on the bias, hugged Pru's hips and fell smoothly to the floor. The strappy, sequined top fastened with a criss-crossing cord, leaving a couple of inches of suntanned back exposed. It was perfect for the gala dinner-dance. And she'd bought a backless bra specially.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>&lsquo;Left first. Up, press, just like a fried egg,' the salesgirl had said as she helped her try it on.</p> <p>What an odd comparison. More like a patch on a bicycle tyre, Pru thought, or a Compeed plaster on a blister. Nothing like a fried egg.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>&lsquo;Now the right one. Up, press. Clasp the two halves together. There.' It seemed to do the trick.</p> <p>The next evening, she managed to organise the new contraption between her body and her twinkling top. It felt quite comfortable.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>As she had hoped, she was seated on Professor Jean-Marie Larose Dujardin's right. The conversation was lively, mostly about food.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>&lsquo;When I lived in Tanzania,' Pru said, &lsquo;the meat was tough. I used to beat it with my rolling pin, and then put a fried egg on each slab. We called it Bismarck steak.' Fried eggs, she thought to herself, smothering a giggle and patting her chest.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>&lsquo;Why Bismarck?' asked Professor Jean-Marie Larose Dujardin.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>Pru launched into a conversation about pre-war German East Africa. She felt confident, intelligent.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>&lsquo;This dance?' Professor Jean-Marie Larose Dujardin, elegant in his white dinner jacket, stood up, taking her hand. His black patent leather shoes were over-chunky for his fine frame. Over-sensible for a dinner-dance. Definitely not French. She hoped he wouldn't tread on her toes.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>It was a tango. Pru had taken lessons. I'll impress him here, she thought.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>Professor Jean-Marie Larose Dujardin was an excellent dancer. He started with the traditional close embrace. Pru felt her bra against his chest, and was grateful for it. Their ankles and knees brushed as he led her anti-clockwise round the floor. As he began to improvise, Pru followed suit, tracing figures of eight and half-moons on the floor with the pointed toes of her silver high-heels.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>He led her to the centre of the floor. She knew what this meant. He wanted to perform some showy figures that took up a lot of space. They pivoted away from each other, counterbalancing each other's weight, and then he halted her motion, blocking her foot with this. A &lsquo;sandwich' move followed: he placed a foot on either side of her right foot, squeezing gently. &lsquo;<em>Volcada</em>,' he whispered. This was a difficult move. He rotated her; she tilted towards him, her head turned away defiantly, her free leg outlining complex shapes behind her.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>Then she heard a sound, like Velcro ripping open. She felt her left cup slide down her top, saw it emerge, and watched it splat on Professor Jean-Marie Larose Dujardin's right toe. The couples dancing around them stopped and stared. Pru froze.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>&lsquo;Bismarck steak,' said Professor Jean-Marie Larose Dujardin, looking at his shoe.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> </div>

<p><strong>Winner of Grailwriters flash fiction competition (dance theme), April 2008</strong></p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>The fine indigo silk skirt, cut on the bias, hugged Pru's hips and fell smoothly to the floor. The strappy, sequined top fastened with a criss-crossing cord, leaving a couple of inches of suntanned back exposed. It was perfect for the gala dinner-dance. And she'd bought a backless bra specially.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>&lsquo;Left first. Up, press, just like a fried egg,' the salesgirl had said as she helped her try it on.</p> <p>What an odd comparison. More like a patch on a bicycle tyre, Pru thought, or a Compeed plaster on a blister. Nothing like a fried egg.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>&lsquo;Now the right one. Up, press. Clasp the two halves together. There.' It seemed to do the trick.</p> <p>The next evening, she managed to organise the new contraption between her body and her twinkling top. It felt quite comfortable.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>As she had hoped, she was seated on Professor Jean-Marie Larose Dujardin's right. The conversation was lively, mostly about food.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>&lsquo;When I lived in Tanzania,' Pru said, &lsquo;the meat was tough. I used to beat it with my rolling pin, and then put a fried egg on each slab. We called it Bismarck steak.' Fried eggs, she thought to herself, smothering a giggle and patting her chest.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>&lsquo;Why Bismarck?' asked Professor Jean-Marie Larose Dujardin.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>Pru launched into a conversation about pre-war German East Africa. She felt confident, intelligent.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>&lsquo;This dance?' Professor Jean-Marie Larose Dujardin, elegant in his white dinner jacket, stood up, taking her hand. His black patent leather shoes were over-chunky for his fine frame. Over-sensible for a dinner-dance. Definitely not French. She hoped he wouldn't tread on her toes.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>It was a tango. Pru had taken lessons. I'll impress him here, she thought.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>Professor Jean-Marie Larose Dujardin was an excellent dancer. He started with the traditional close embrace. Pru felt her bra against his chest, and was grateful for it. Their ankles and knees brushed as he led her anti-clockwise round the floor. As he began to improvise, Pru followed suit, tracing figures of eight and half-moons on the floor with the pointed toes of her silver high-heels.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>He led her to the centre of the floor. She knew what this meant. He wanted to perform some showy figures that took up a lot of space. They pivoted away from each other, counterbalancing each other's weight, and then he halted her motion, blocking her foot with this. A &lsquo;sandwich' move followed: he placed a foot on either side of her right foot, squeezing gently. &lsquo;<em>Volcada</em>,' he whispered. This was a difficult move. He rotated her; she tilted towards him, her head turned away defiantly, her free leg outlining complex shapes behind her.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>Then she heard a sound, like Velcro ripping open. She felt her left cup slide down her top, saw it emerge, and watched it splat on Professor Jean-Marie Larose Dujardin's right toe. The couples dancing around them stopped and stared. Pru froze.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p> <p>&lsquo;Bismarck steak,' said Professor Jean-Marie Larose Dujardin, looking at his shoe.</p> <p>&nbsp;</p>

<p><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:PunctuationKerning /> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas /> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables /> <w:SnapToGridInCell /> <w:WrapTextWithPunct /> <w:UseAsianBreakRules /> <w:DontGrowAutofit /> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:Verdana; panose-1:2 11 6 4 3 5 4 4 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:swiss; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:-1593833729 1073750107 16 0 415 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:Verdana; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:ES; mso-fareast-language:EN-US; font-weight:bold;} @page Section1 {size:612.0pt 792.0pt; margin:72.0pt 90.0pt 72.0pt 90.0pt; mso-header-margin:36.0pt; mso-footer-margin:36.0pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> <!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><em><span>This being August, I'm feeling a bit nostaligic for Nostalgia Night in Montevideo, so I thought I'd revive this piece, which was one of the very first things I wrote.</span></em></p> <p class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span>The Uruguayans like partying &ndash; and they hook their parties onto <em>D&iacute;as </em>&ndash; special days.<span>&nbsp; </span></span><span><em>El D&iacute;a de la Mama, el D&iacute;a del Papa</em>&hellip; Okay, those are pretty ordinary. </span><span>But then you get Child&rsquo;s Day, Grandparents&rsquo; Day, No Smoking Day, Holy Innocents&rsquo; Day &ndash; even the Light of the Nights in December, when the sky is ablaze with fireworks for the official opening of the beaches.<span>&nbsp; </span>And in the middle of winter, on 24 August, there is Nostalgia Night.<span>&nbsp; </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span>&nbsp;</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span>I first heard about it from my friend Raquel.<span>&nbsp; </span>&ldquo;Everyone goes out.<span>&nbsp; </span>You dress up, you dance, you have fun.&rdquo;</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span>&nbsp;</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span>&lsquo;Why on 24 August?&rsquo;</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span>&nbsp;</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span>Her reply: &ldquo;<em>Claro</em>.<span>&nbsp; </span></span><span>Because it&rsquo;s <em>la noche de la nostalgia</em>.&rsquo;</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span>&nbsp;</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span>I ask a few Uruguayan friends about the history of the revelry.<span>&nbsp; </span>No-one knows.<span>&nbsp; </span>Nothing on the Internet.<span>&nbsp; </span>But for weeks coming up to the event the national newspapers are filled with advertisements for dinners and dances.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span>&nbsp;</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span>We receive three invitations.<span>&nbsp; </span>One to a flower power party at an English friend&rsquo;s house, another from a Dutch neighbor to a karaoke and dance party.<span>&nbsp; </span>The third invites us to take a steam train to a wine <em>bodega </em>and drink the night away.<span>&nbsp; </span>This last one sounds like even more fun than the others, but a freak storm hits Uruguay the night before and Invitation Three is cancelled.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span>&nbsp;</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span>We plump for the flower power party.<span>&nbsp; </span>What shall I wear?<span>&nbsp; </span>I don&rsquo;t have flares, or even &ldquo;flairs&rdquo;, as specified in the invitation, nor do I have long hair to braid and decorate with flowers.<span>&nbsp; </span>I decide I&rsquo;ll be an anachronistic punk.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span>&nbsp;</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span>&nbsp;</span>I start with Gloria, my hairdresser.<span>&nbsp; </span>And yes!<span>&nbsp; </span>She has the answer to my question! </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span>&nbsp;</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span>&ldquo;Thirty years ago,&rdquo; she says, as she shampoos my hair and the water trickles into my ears, &ldquo;a night club owner decided to have a retro party on 24 August, and the idea caught on.<span>&nbsp; </span>Now there isn&rsquo;t a night club or restaurant in Montevideo that doesn&rsquo;t mark <em>la noche de la nostalgia</em>.&rdquo; </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span>&nbsp;</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span>She chops, hennas, gels, tweaks and tugs.<span>&nbsp; </span>The result is attractive &ndash; black with a russet tinge and spiky. Okay, I&rsquo;ll build on this.<span>&nbsp; </span>I never was very punky, but I have a black slinky top.<span>&nbsp; </span></span><span>And a jangly Zanzibar chain.<span>&nbsp; </span>And a mean-looking heavy silver bangle.<span>&nbsp; </span>I can add some black eye makeup.<span>&nbsp; </span>And my black ankle boots.<span>&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll lend you my black leather jacket," says Gloria.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span>&nbsp;</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span>But I need black jeans, and it&rsquo;s already 6 p.m.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span>&nbsp;</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span>&ldquo;Juan Perez,&rdquo; I decide.<span>&nbsp; </span>Since my extremely elegant friend Eugenia let me into her secret, I have become a regular at Juan Perez, a poky little second-hand shop in my neighbourhood, where you can uncover real treasures.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span>&nbsp;</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span>&nbsp;</span>&ldquo;Black jeans?&rdquo; I ask.<span>&nbsp; </span>The two pairs they have don&rsquo;t fit.<span>&nbsp; </span>(In Europe I&rsquo;m considered &lsquo;medium&rsquo; &ndash; here, among the sleek South American beauties, I&rsquo;ve become &lsquo;Extra Large&rsquo;)</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span>&nbsp;</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span>&ldquo;What about these?&rdquo; The salesgirl hands me a pair of stretch black pants with pseudo-leather strips down the sides.<span>&nbsp; </span>Not really my taste, but I try them on.<span>&nbsp; </span>Perfect fit.<span>&nbsp; </span>And definitely punky.<span>&nbsp; </span>And somehow, they look familiar.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span>&nbsp;</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span>&ldquo;How much?&rdquo;</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span>&nbsp;</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span>&ldquo;300 pesos, <em>se&ntilde;ora</em>.&rdquo;</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span>&nbsp;</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span>&nbsp;</span>300 pesos?<span>&nbsp; </span>That&rsquo;s $12!<span>&nbsp; </span>You can hardly go wrong with $12.<span>&nbsp; </span>I buy them.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span>&nbsp;</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span>At home I take them out of the bag and suddenly realize where I saw them last.<span>&nbsp; </span>I tried them on for fun last week in a smart shop in glitzy Punta del Este&hellip; they were priced at over $250. I read the label.<span>&nbsp; </span>Valentino&rsquo;s&hellip;</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span>&nbsp;</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span>VALENTINO&rsquo;S!</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span>&nbsp;</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span><span>&nbsp;</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span>&nbsp;</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span>Juan Perez</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span>&nbsp;Rostland 1551 bis</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span>&nbsp;Carrasco</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Montevideo</p> <p>&nbsp;</p>