Journal #4

Tino Rossi: My very first impression when I walked up the stairs to the very first dance party was a feeling of confusion, admiration and fear.

The fear was real and debilitating. I wanted to dance, I love to dance, but how exactly was I supposed to dance with complete strangers?

I began to feel like I was in middle school again at the sixth grade dance waiting for the first person to make a move signaling to the rest of the timid youths that it was ok to dance. Boy did I want to dance

“Do you want to keep walking?” someone asked.

I immediately responded with a hurried yes, ready to shake the feelings associated with my adolescent, not so charming years.

“Lets see what else is going on,” I added to make myself feel better about chickening out.

As we walked down to the next group of dancers I immediately tensed up. This group was doing some sort of slow sensual salsa that looked to steamy, and way to personal for me to participate in. I am novice dancer and I couldn’t imagine myself getting up close and personal with a random stranger and exhibit the same intensity as the other dancers with out bursting out into a fit of giggles, and I was already tired of feeling like a 12 year old.

“You wanna keep walking?” I asked.

“Yes, definitely,” my classmate agreed. At least I wasn’t the only one having a mild panic attack.

As we approached the last group we noticed that set up for whatever was going on was underway but going fairly slow.

“What do we do now?” I wondered

“Lets just wait here and see what they do next,” my classmate suggested.

That was the right answer, I hurried up and agreed and then proceeded to hunker down and wait, but the music kicked in. The group began some sort of Irish line dance accompanied with a live band playing accordions, guitars, and other instruments I couldn’t name if I tried.

It was straight out of a movie. You know, those movies that you criticize for not being realistic because somehow everyone already knows the choreography. Well, apparently those are movies are realistically.  Or Paris is just an alternate reality, because every last person started dancing in sync, knowing every turn and hand movement and I watched mesmerized. They effortlessly flitted from one partner to the next and all I could do was stand there gaping, whispering to my classmates how I wish I knew the dance because I would “totally join” if I did.

As the song ended we decided to make our rounds again. We headed back to the original group of dancers to see if we could pinpoint what particular style was going on. I honestly still am confused to the genre of dance. All I know is as we rounded the corner and headed back up the stairs to the dancers a familiar tune from the late 90’s reached our ears and me and our classmates looked at each other and said almost in unison:

“Is that what I think it is.”

The DJ had started playing “No Diggity,” an R&B song by blackstreet and dr. dre, popular amongst many, especially in the black community.

‘I like the way ya work it,

No Diggity,

I Got to bag it up!”

Me and my classmate sang along as we made our way on the dance floor. All cares forgotten in that one instant. Dancing with reckless abandon with no particular style or genre in mind.

“Shorty get down, good Lord


Baby got 'em open all over town!”

We sang the lyrics out louder as the chorus got going. Quickly we handed our bags and cameras over to our classmates who had decided to sit out of the dancing festivities.

You ‘re sure you’ll watch our bags?” we added quickly. I mean we were still in Paris, pick-pocketing capital of the world. Once they assured us of our belonging’s safety, we danced. And then after that song we danced again. A popular Jeremy song that is played on repeat back home in the states came on which made us even more excited.

“What kind of Latin music is this?” we asked each other, confused by the popular top 100 club hits being played.

As we continued to dance, more of our classmates joined until we had a decent sized group twirling around and swaying on the dance floor. Someone started the electric slide and a group of young American girls joined in on the fun apparently to shy to dance until they saw us. At this moment, the term “Ugly Americans” vaguely lingered in the back of mind, until a group of German girls joined us asking to be taught the steps. Perhaps ugly foreigners would better suit our hodge-podge group. We didn’t care though, we kept dancing.  Although we got a few, maybe many, stares, no one came and threw things at us or asked us to leave. They just kept turning around and around in elegant circles making eve the most ratchet American hits seem classy and sophisticated.