Swing Dancing

With only two days left in Colorado, I called up my friends for one last hurrah before all of our lives change in some way. We jumped in my car, what we affectionately call the mystery machine, and headed to downtown Denver. The destination is truly one of the gems of Denver, one cleverly disguised as an old, chipping building with an intimidating eccentric air. This place, the Mercury Café, holds swing dancing lessons every Sunday.

As a hopeless romantic, swing dancing has always entranced me. But up until Sunday, it had always seemed a (sadly) antiquated wooing, a vibrant stream of motions doomed to dance farther and farther back into the past. Physical movement correlated with intrigue, happiness, laughter, connection. Something replaced by the angsty and constant anger of the modern generation. So I expected to find a group of oldies obsessed with bringing back what most of the youth will never understand.

Instead what I found was a surge of hope for the idealistic youth. Young couples looking for a way to be close, shy teenage guys looking for a way into the world, the regulars poised to sweep a girl off her feet (literally). Spiced with the adults who truly do preserve the beauty of the dance and instructors that hop with excitement, my feet started to tap the minute I walked in. From the ceiling hung a spidery chandelier of Christmas lights, and on every table sat a red rose.

Half of the room  was comprised of couples, the other half of singles rotating. In the middle the instructors demonstrated their poised moves as the outer circle tried with sweaty hands to mimic the dance in some way. When pairs began to move to the floor, the open dance period had begun, the live band moved into its position and the girls lined themselves on both sides of the room waiting for the hand to reach out. And it was an unbelievably romantic tucked away paradise in a hot attic of Denver.

I danced with younger guys, I danced with older guys, I danced the Charleston with my friends. I danced to what I can only think of as the swing dance version of the Cuban shuffle. I was dipped three times, spun until I was dizzy countless times, was even switched off mid dance between two competing expert dancers. By the end of the night I was sweaty, tired, and elated that such a place exists. Can any other form of movement feel as light, as cultured, as fun, and as purposeful as even the simplest of swings? It was my Midnight in Paris, my transport to another time that I am thankful exists in some form today.

My friends and I exited the café into the light of the biggest full moon of the year. We walked the city streets to a cake café and recounted the miracle of dancing.