Weekends are usually under my jurisdiction, but Saturday evening was delegated to Thomas who opted for a folk-dance ball where we’d meet a couple of friends. With his brother away at a sleepover, our eldest, Zephyr tagged along, visibly satisfied with this arrangement.

We arrive early, to take the intro class, as a brief reacquaintance with the specificities of the bourree, the mazurka, the chapeloise, and the rondo en chaine we’ve had a taste of at New Year’s eve, and let Zephyr discover them to ready ourselves for the ball. He is undeniably dragging the average age down but happy as Larry to learn these new (to him) dances.

People arrive by flocks, some queue to enter the venue directly, others stop outside, by the entrance, to join us, newbies, for in the initiation. Among them a short woman with dark hair pulled back by a headband, a bright smile opening between her lips done in red, a very grounded attitude and a South American allure . I feel drawn to her somehow. A deep sense of familiarity, though I can’t place her at all.

She spontaneously introduces herself to Thomas and on joining the conversation, I learn she is a Chilean yogi, teaching Ashtanga and spending a few months a year in New Zealand to study under Peter Sanson, based in Napier, of who I’ve heard of from my dear Bayswater yoga teacher Julie!

End of part I.

Part II, the ball is in full swing, we’ve dizzied ourselves with a few waltz and Scottish with Zephyr, as well as the collective dances of course, which he’s quite fond of, and joins without even us taking part. I have had private tuition from Marie-Noelle on the mazurka which asymmetric pattern still eludes me. My fourth little toe has been crushed by a clumsy man wearing heavy safety boots, so much for enjoying bare-foot freedom, and I am now reluctant to dance, abandoning Thomas who has invited me for a waltz, but of an indistinct rhythm I can’t quite make sense of anyway.

Standing still to listen and watch the band, in the crowd, I again spot a man whose profile and energy seem familiar. I can’t recall from where I’d know him and then a voice whispers in my ear “Could it be Sam B., musician of the Ogres de Barback?” A band which has a special place in my mythology, having listened to them at lengths since high school after being introduced to their music by Estelle, on a recorded tape, during a scholar bus trip to Italy. I know lots of their songs by heart and they undoubtedly top any other band in number of concerts I’ve attended. He then turns his head and our gaze meet. He looks at me for what feels like, you know, a long time. Maybe the intensity of my gaze is what makes him wander for a while, or he feels the odd familiarity too though we’ve never met and last time I was at a concert of his would have been fifteen or twenty years ago, then it’s time to disengage.

End of part II (or its first half)

In the dancing frenzy, I spot a typical fashionable french navy-blue-and-white-stripe T-shirt worn by another woman I just know from somewhere, I have a hint it must be from dancing. I come closer to greet her. She spares me the awkwardness as she remembers we’ve met indeed. Tango at La Tendresse. On a particularly idle Sunday afternoon. Now I recall. We chat for a while. She’s from Beziers, doing social work with refugees. She’s lingered in the folkdance community for twenty years, being surrounded by musicians who she’s been involved with organising many festivals, she’s come here with her partner, Sam, who’s disappeared somewhere.

At this point, there is a fork in the road. Either I push my luck, asking her if the Sam she’s mentioned is THE Sam I’ve kinda recognised earlier, but I’ve managed so well so far to pretend I’m a rather normal person, not a satellised ultra-sensitive human being seeing connections everywhere because she barely deciphers energies and can’t quite make much of it (yet), so I stay quiet and soon we go our separate ways. Her, looking for her Sam, me gathering my men to hit home for a well-deserved rest.

Zephyr resents me for saying we go and then carrying on chatting with my friends on our way out when he could have enjoyed one more dance. My little toe is hurting. But something else is bothering me, what if I’d asked? From where I stand, a stone is left unturned, curiosity is nagging and keeps me up part of the night. So, in the morning, I send a message to Estelle, where does Sam B live? A few minutes later the answer appears on my screen: Beziers, with her partner, a tango dancer, by the way. The puzzle is complete.

When, in the same evening, you meet two people who you’re connected to by two or three degrees of separation you can’t help thinking that you’re either the laughingstock of a Truman Show audience, or it’s a proof. Of what exactly I don’t know. But it’s a proof, isn’t it? Perhaps that someone, or something, wants you to open your eyes, brush all your doubts away, and realise you’re just at the right place at the right time…