Why I Don't Dance.

So, it's 12:14 AM on a Thursday, and I'm awake in Josh's apartment.

I'm sitting at his computer wearing these new, blue lacy panties I bought today. Every few seconds, I'm pausing to gulp my third St. Pauli's out of a glass stein, and I wish my other hand was occupied with a cigarette.

I can't sleep.

Josh can, and he's doing so quite well.

My mind is time traveling again, and it's stuck on something.

Last July, I was in Munich. What a beautifully boring city, I'd thought at the time. Germanface and I had been around Europe enough to think that this place was a bore. The family we stayed with was interesting...they were distant relations of Germanface, and they insisted on having long meals together.

Every morning, bright and early, I'd awake to Germanface's cell phone telling us it was time to get ready for a 2-hour breakfast with the Herr and Frau of the family. Now, I'm not staying that the food wasn't delicious, because it was...I believe I was on a Cocoa Krispies kick at that point in the month, and I paired the German version of that with some toast and orange juice. It was the conversation that killed me.

The Herr was a smart man; bearded and dark-eyed, he loved to talk with us about everything. He was an Economist, and he had experienced a lot in his travels. However, his English was not very good; Germanface had a blast with him, but I was completely lost. That didn't bother me so much, because at that point in the summer, I was very accustomed to smiling and nodding when Germanface shot me a look and put his hand on my thigh; these things happen when you fall in love with someone foreign.

No, what struck me the most was the Frau of the house. She too was foreign. Slovak, to be exact. Her English was even worse. When she thought I wasn't paying attention, I could feel her eyes sizing me up. During our short visit with them, I always wondered what she was looking for--was it because I was a woman? Was it because I was American? I guess I'll never know...but I felt connected with her in a way I hadn't felt with anyone else in that country. She, too, had fallen in love with a German man, and she, too, did not speak his language very well. Oh, he spoke hers...the room they put us in had bookshelves lined with Slovak-German dictionaries and countless Slovak phrasebooks. It seemed the Herr prized language along with his economics...

But that's not the snag in my time travels.

In our time in Munich, we reserved an evening for the exploration of the night life. (okay, we wanted to get drunk and go danciing) This was not our first German metropolis, and we were not easily impressed by most clubs. The night went on, we were completely sober, and we still hadn't found a place "worthy" to waste our time in. A bar noted on our tourist map caught our eye, and we headed out in search of its low prices and side-street location.

We didn't find it. The street number it claimed residence to didn't exist, and we settled for a bar right next door. "Black and White", it was named.

Imagine, for a moment, one American girl and one German boy stumbling into the ONLY Jamaican bar in all of Germany.

Yeah.

His hand squeezed tighter around mine, and I said that the place was fine. I just wanted a drink, and the music was good. Germanface agreed, so we sat down in an isolated corner. I had never felt more eyes on me than I did that night. The bar woman approached us to ask what we were drinking. There was some 5 Euro special on some drink I can't pronounce, so I ordered two. Germanface got a Red Stripe. Our isolation didn't last long, because I wandered over to a corner-couch occupied by three Jamaican gentlemen; they were all sitting, talking and laughing with Red Stripes in one hand and cigarettes in the other.

It turns out they spoke English, and I was thrilled. I was one of TWO women in the bar at the time, so they paid close attention to me as I made conversation. It was exhilarating; my whole summer in Europe, and no one even gave me a second look with Germanface always glued to my hip. These men saw him, but took no notice, and I was grateful. We spoke of everything from beer to weed to Africa--in English, too. Trying his best to ignore the cigarette smoke, Germanface just sat stoic next to me.

Then the music got me.

Some Shakira song started up amidst the Bob Marley, and I just had to get up and dance. One of the men followed me; Germanface did not. I wasn't drunk, I just wanted to salvage the night. Getting up on that empty dance floor with that Jamaican man, I felt braver than I have ever remembered. The song kept playing, and I scrounged up every memory of every MTV video I had ever seen, and I tried my best to dance.

Hips swaying and body twisting, I was feeling good. The Jamaican man kept his gentlemanly distance, and danced in front of me. I knew everyone was watching--I knew Germanface was probably angry. But I didn't care. Not only was I having fun, but I was making cultural connections that you only see in movies. I felt worldly and young and alive.

Until I looked at Germanface.

He just scowled at me. From my spot four feet away from him, I could see the distaste upon his face. And I didn't understand. This man wasn't touching me...I had offered to dance first with Germanface...he had said no...I wasn't doing anything wrong....and then I thought, maybe he's embarassed. Maybe I'm a horrible dancer.

He hates the way I dance, my mind continued to race. I probably look ridiculous, and he's trying to hide his embarrassment from me. I should have known I'd look stupid...I can't dance at all, I look ridiculous, I should stop.

And so I did. The song was almost done, but I thanked the Jamaican man and headed back to the couch with Germanface. My blood was pumping cold, and he said nothing. A few minutes later, he finished his Red Stripe, and we were out the door--despite many protests from the other Jamaican men on the couch.

We headed home with little conversation. The train home was crowded, and we sat a bit aways from each other. Some young German couple picked a bug out of my hair when we were almost to our station--the night just couldn't get any worse.

Ever since then, I've been terrified of dancing. Though the music hits me, I still have so much trouble dancing in public. I still feel that distaste glaring at me from across the room, and that same insecurity resurfaces. So, I try to avoid it.

Maybe this memory has no relevance at all...but I felt it was begging to be written about.

So perhaps this will explain if you ever see me at a party, and I do the robot in the corner, instead of dancing like everyone else. It's because I can't get over that night in Munich; it's why I don't dance.