I have borne a terrible secret for too long. In the United States it was easy to mask my true self. There were always excuses, explanations, stories that sufficed to hide the sad and sordid facts of my existence. There, I could blend with ease and operate without the wider world knowing why I avoided clubs and frequented certain bars. But here, there’s no denying it. Kyiv refuses to accommodate my secret. The local culture pushes and prods the unfortunate truth to the surface.
My name is Steven and I can’t dance.
I’m through skulking in the corners of clubs, gulping gin and tonics while carefree people with hips jump around in disco glee. Is it my fault that my back slopes directly into my thighs without hanging around long enough to form a discernible rear end?
In the United States, there is a very low premium on dancing. You can have a fairly active social life by sticking to wholesome, participatory activities like board games and free-basing cocaine. But in Ukraine, where a Madonna video is given more academic scrutiny than the Constitution, there’s no place to hide.
Dancing is part and parcel of an evening’s entertainment. I’m not talking about some vague side-to-side shimmy. We’re talking the tango, the samba, the mambo, the twist, the hop, the electric slide and several dances that are illegal in most states in the southern United States. Local wisdom says that you can’t possibly be having fun simply talking with friends or sitting at the bar. You will dance, and you will dance well.
I have been literally dragged from comfortable seats in order to hop around like a deranged chicken. Fortunately, this never lasts long. If dancing skills are a prerequisite for success with members of the opposite sex, I might as well join the priesthood. Nothing ensures celibacy like my tango, and my mirengue has been variously referred to as “The Forbidden Dance” and “Mild Epilepsy.”
At best, I tend to get caught on the wrong side of the “laughing with you versus laughing at you” divide. Other responses range from pity to violent nausea.
One unfortunate partner of mine resorted to grabbing my hips and moving them from side to side. Once the paramedics had finished their work, I gazed up at the disco ball and thought of the words of Joseph Conrad: “THE HORROR. THE HORROR.”
When I first arrived to Ukraine, I naively assumed that I could pass. I felt sure the rocking motion that had carried me so successfully through middle school would suffice. This was not to be the case. I quickly learned some basic social tenets:
– Just because you’re drunk doesn’t mean you can dance. It just means you’re drunk. Booze creates the vague illusion of rhythm. What you’re actually doing is slowly falling down.
– Jon Bon Jovi is not a street poet. When you are inebriated, you tend to hear truth in pop music. Again, booze creates the illusion of profundity, but it is just an illusion. What is actually happening is that your brain is floating in vodka like a pickle in brine. Reign it in or you’ll end up screaming, “OH MY GOD! IT IS MY LIFE. AND YOU KNOW WHAT ELSE? IT’S NOW OR NEVER.” Given your state of inebriation, this will sound something like “TWUB PUTHAH! ABU IBN ME THWUBA. HUMMMAH THAH? ITH NOONOO NANA.” Trust me. It’s a bad scene.
– Any song can be a slow dance. Unless you get stuck with an extra from a Britney Spears video, chances are you can squeak by with a simple lean-and-rock. While not normally considered a cuddle up classic, I find that “Anarchy in the U.K.” has a nice, romantic charm. On a related note, it is not an act of consideration to let your partner lead.
– Group dancing is like unprotected sex. It feels more comfortable at the time, but you’ll regret it later.
– The woman dancing in front of the mirror is not waiting for you to approach her. She came for the mirror.
– The “White Man’s Overbite” is not a myth. Be careful. During certain remixes of Vanilla Ice songs, you can bite right thorough that bottom lip.
– If somebody says, “Were you in a car accident or something?” leave the dance floor immediately.
– Nobody really appreciates it when you take off your shirt . . . and nobody believes you the next day when you try to blame it on the temperature.
So no more lies, Kyiv. I’ve shouted it from the rooftops. If you’re in need of someone not to dance with, come find me. I’ll be at the bar.
