Circle Dances

An Italian girl, the bride's sister, asked me if she was doing it right. We were holding hands, linked in an amoeba-like circle of kicking legs and oddly twisted arms as we danced the Hora. 

I was obviously one of the Jews, though certainly not because of my graceful Hebrew dancing, or even because I was reflexively mouthing the incomprehensible lyrics, as if I have a clue what they mean. Not even because it was such a small wedding we all pretty much knew to which side everyone belonged.

At the risk of perpetuating stereotypes, a stranger could have picked me out. I was wearing black. My hair, in spite of an impulsive splurge at the blow-dry bar for the special shampoo guaranteed to counteract the extra special Miami humidity in mid-August, was either plastered in sweaty chunks to my face or expanding around me in a halo of thick dust bunnies. It was painfully obvious that, even 30 years ago, I could never have pulled off one of the slinky, booty hugging, brightly colored sheaths the Italian girls wore, that my hair was never that shiny. That I was never so certain that I looked so damn good. 

It struck me as funny that this beautiful Italian girl asked me if she was doing the Hora right. No rules, I told her. No rules. As if she could look wrong doing anything.

My cousin's son's wedding was unconventional by design, plagued by its fair share of drama and minor disasters up until the last minute. The guest list was limited from the start, and Zika-phobia led to last minute cancellations. There was confusion about times and locations, and there seemed to be constant schedule changes. The driver shuttling us from our hotel to the wedding finally explained, as we moseyed down Collins Avenue at a snail's pace, that he could not quite figure out how to drive this new bus. (The traffic lights were with us the whole way, and we could only hope he at least knew how to stop when he had to.) The officiant was late. My dress narrowly avoided going up in flames -- I noticed just in time that a corner of it had draped over my chair into the mouth of the glass candle holder on the floor next to me. (Note to self: revisit the flower versus candle issue with my own soon-to-be-married daughter.) 

This morning, I can barely walk. I danced with my daughters, I danced with my cousins, and I even danced with my 85 year old mother. I danced with my cousins' inner circle of friends, women and men I had seen at so many occasions over the years, many tables over. This time, we had all traveled to a neutral destination, and we had all been thrown together. I wished we had all crossed the divide sooner. So many shared values and experiences, yet they had always seemed so foreign to me. Maybe just older. It never occurred to me we were all in the same boat -- just paddling around in different circles. 

Crazy, amoeba-like circles. 

Whatever drama preceded the weekend, whatever eleventh hour glitches kept the suspense going, all was forgotten on the dance floor. A startlingly beautiful couple, clearly in love. Two families, with only the closest friends in tow, forming an imperfect circle on the dance floor, hands joined. Nobody really knows how to dance the Hora. There's only one rule: Just dance.