In Search Of The Dance

"You might like the gypsy life
You judge your progress by the phases of the moon
Get your compass and your sharpest knife
People love you when they know you're leaving soon..."
(lyrics from a song by John Gorka)

Thanksgiving Day was pretty quiet for me this year. I watched the "X-Files Marathon" on the Sci-Fi Channel, and packed for my trip. Later in the day I went to a friend's house, where he and his fiance were having dinner. I got to tag along for an hour or two.

Come Friday morning, I took to the road, to the Thanksgiving Dance Weekend in Rochester, New York.

I visited an Indian reservation for the first time. To this day, the Six Nations that comprise what are known as the Haudenosaunee, or "People of the Long House" (what the French named the "Iroquois") still occupy much of central and upper New York, as well as lower Ontario. One of them is the Onondaga, with a reservation located along I-81 south of Syracuse. I stopped at a recreation center operated by the Territory, and watched a boys' ice hockey game.

I arrived at the site of the dance weekend in plenty of time. These weekends serve as reunions of sorts, as "dance gypsies" from all parts see one another again. At least two women told me of how I had lost weight since two years ago. (The plan is working -- so far.) There was also much dancing to be done -- New England contra dancing, Irish and Quebecois step dancing, Cajun, zydeco, and so on. There was also a belly dancing workshop, the demonstration for which was well-attended. I decided it wasn't for me. Call it a hunch.

I met my friend Vicki, from Toronto, after a three-year absence. She was part of a really fun bunch of people I met in Pittsburgh back in '99. We got caught up on our lives, and danced to the sounds of a swing/blues band on Saturday night, laughing all the while.

The night was windy and cold, and a couple of inches of snow fell. I would step out into the darkness once in a while, and ponder life at home.

The return trip was a challenge, as one might expect for Thanksgiving weekend. Fortunately, I stayed alert to warnings of at least two major pile-ups in Pennsylvania, and took detours which cut hours off my already-prolonged journey home. The snow to the north never reached Maryland.

There is plenty of zydeco dancing this month, including a chance to meet up with some of my favorite musicians from Louisiana. Someday I will venture south to see them in their native habitat. Not this year. (Long story.)