Ceilidh Dance

 I'm going to try something different with this blog post. This one is in third person, and I want it to be like that so it feels as if you were really here at the ceilidh (pronounced kay-lee) dance with me tonight. Try and guess who's who, you might win a prize! 

What amazes me most about tonight was how it was a mixing bowl--I learned so much about Chinese and French culture! 

Whitla Hall been made for special occasions, and the architect had taken that into consideration. Whether it was for graduations, award ceremonies, or even a band, Whitla Hall would meet every function with grace. And so it had been made with pale wooden floors and rounded white pillars, a large gathering space looking directly up to the ceiling and the wide rectangular windows, red velvet curtains neatly brushed to the side. A stage rested at the far end of the Hall, where one could spot the balcony.

“How do we get up there?” one student, an American, asked. Her hand was on her necklace, and her gaze faraway.

That night Whitla Hall was being used for a dance, but the band had not yet arrived. A crowd of at least a hundred people sat on the ground, plates of foods in their laps, as if they were at a picnic.

The other considered, brushing her hair out of her face. “There are doors at each end of the stage,” she mused, pushing around mounds of yellow rice with her fork.

Of the hundred people in attendance, most were split into groups of five or six, each circled around each other as if they were at a picnic, and not indoors on a chilly Belfast evening. Professional looking waiter and waitresses stepped over the bodies, picking up empty plates and cleaning away abandoned drinking glasses. From the stage came the faint sound of recorded music, which made its way to the two Americans.

“That reminds me of a song,” she continued, abandoning her plate. “You know, Frere Jacques, Frere Jacques, dormez vous…”

“Oh! We have that song, in my language,” another girl said, this one Chinese.

By the back wall were a group of Germans, looking easily but with restrained nervousness at the large crowd. Another, rowdier group of Germans had congregated around the water pitchers, as if hoping that something stronger would soon be served.

Up on the stage, motion had begun. An accordion player had arrived and was softly tuning his instrument, and he looked up in time to see a man picking his way through the crowd, a small drum tucked under his arm.

“Liang zhi lao hu

Liang zhi lao hu

Pao de kuai

Pao de kuai,” came a Chinese voice.

An Iranian nearby tucked her jacket more tightly over her shoulders. A French girl raised her head. Everywhere was the sound of gentle murmurs, hums, the clicking of the women’s boots.

“Yi zhi mei you yan jing,” the song continued, this time picked up by one of the American girls. “Yi zhi mei you yan jing…”

The waitresses and waiters had finished their rounds and were busily folding up the tables and moving the steaming hot plates into the back. An Irish girl, dressed in the black HELLO t-shirts that all of the guides wore was running around, directing the transition from picnic to dance.

“Yi zhi mei you wei ba,” the song went on, now sung by French voices too, “Zhen qi guai, zhen qi guai.”

A smattering of applause met the end of the song, and the girls bowed, beaming.

Soon everyone was standing. The quiet Germans were still leaning against the back wall, wary. The more daring Finns and the even more daring Norwegians had pressed their way forward. The Americans hung in the middle, the French moved here and there, and the Asians were everywhere; behind you, in front of you, to the left and the right. The food was gone, the water pitchers had all been emptied, and the show was about to begin. The violinist, late, ran across the packed hall, his violin tuned and ready to go under his arm.

“Volunteers!” an Irishman cried. “Two boys, and two girls!”

From the crowd came one American, smiling broadly; the crowd applauded for both girls, but louder for the men, who had to be dragged out into the middle of the dance floor. The Irishman called out the moves, demonstrating with his guinea pigs, shouting instructions. “Left! Right! Loop! Ghalaway ghalaway ghalawaaay!”

“What does that mean?” asked the American, her hand still on her necklace.

“I have no idea.”

The couples spun round, their skirts flaring. Across the hall was Giant, dressed in a tux and tie, his arm around the waist of a girl dressed up in high heels and dresses.

The dances began. The room was a blur of humans; yellow dresses, black tights and leggings, velvet pirate shoes and thin ballerina slippers, trainers and high heels. The accordion whistles out the tune, and above all of the noise was the Irishman, shouting, “Left! Up! Down! Around!”

“Do you want to dance?” A Finn asked the American girl with the necklace, his hands burrowed into his white hoodie. Nerves? The other wondered vaguely.

“Sure.” She walked off, smiling shyly, but honestly. She had an honest, graceful face, easily approachable.

Liang zhi lao hu, liang zhi lao hu…the American left hummed under her breath.

On the windowsill sat a Californian, in the same brown sweater he had been wearing all week. Nearby sat a girl from Florida, watching, taking pictures.

“Dance with me!” the Chinese girls cried, grabbing the hands of the women closest. The men had hidden in shadows. One of the rowdier German boys was biting his cup so that he looked like a muzzled dog.

“Ghalaway!”

There are two tigers…

The Giant and the girl he had his arm around watched impassively, but did not dance. The song ended, and the dance changed; the Finn still with the American, the Chinese girls scrambling for new partners, shouting the names of boys they knew.

“Dance with me!” one cried to the American.

“Next song,” she promised.

“No, now!”

Pao de kuai…

The world spun. The floor vibrated beneath their feet; every stomp was felt. The air was alive with electricity and the warmth of human bodies, as full and thick and sweet as honey. The air smelled of humans, in all their glory: perfume, cologne, excitement.

You had better run…

Half of the crowd dancing could not tell their right hand from their left. “Right!” the Irishman would call, and they would run to the left. The few who did know the different would pull, and laugh.

So much laughter. No one knew what they were doing, or who they were doing it with; some hands were cold, others warm. Some dancers broke apart to just laugh, openly and freely. Even the lookers-on grinned.

“Ghalaway!”

The American with the necklace finally stepped away for water. One of the rowdier Germans had started to dance. The Giant was nowhere to be seen. Most of the Americans had gone, as well as over half of the men.

Yi zhi mei you yan jing…

Standing by the water table was still the quiet group of Germans. The American’s eyes kept flickering over there, watching the tall one with the red hair and beard, and kind blue eyes.

“This is so much fun!”

“It’s like Jane Austen was born Irish.”

“Ghalaway!”

“What does that even mean?”

“It means, Spin! Spin! Spin!”

The dancers made a wave of their hands and bodies, each smiling broadly, their eyes narrowed in concentration. Did anyone even know their partner?

The hunters will take your ear…

“They should bring back the dance cards.” The American fiddled again with her hair, then her shirt.

“But that was for marriage. We’re not going to marry anybody here.”

Flick: eyes to the German with red hair. Flick back. “No, we won’t marry anybody here.” She sighed. “American boys might be the best, after all.”

Yi zhi mei you wei ba…

Spinning around. More dances, breathless laughter, missed stepped, stubbed toes. Everywhere, shoes. Girls in gothic clothes, one whose khaki coat was coming undone, hair slipping out of ponytails, a pair of orange sunglasses. The Irish. The Chinese. The Germans. The Americans. Boys in scuffed trainers and short hair, one with dreadlocks. The American in the brown sweater still sat on the windowsill.

The hunters will take your eye…

“Last dance!” the Irishman called. “Last ceilidh dance!”

“He’s gone home,” the American noticed, looking for the German with soft eyes.

“This isn’t his scene. He was taking pictures, though.”

“No, you’re right. This isn’t his scene. Are we going to dance this one?”

“Of course!”

“Ghalaway!”

“Make the wave!”

Zhen qi guai…

The American with the necklace had a rip in her sleeve. The other’s sleeve was falling off of her shoulder, her face red and bright. Almost everyone had gone, but the few that had remained were all there for the last dance. The ball was ending, the Jane Austen dream was over, and the musicians stopped playing.

All made for the exit. The air was cool on their warm skin. None of them bothered with jackets. The Americans had started to sing “Call Me Maybe.” At every stop, more and more people filed into the pubs, until just four girls walked into Elms Village, lighter than air, their minds dancing still.

They’ve already got them.