I’m sitting musing, minding my own business, luke warm skinny latte gone in sixty seconds, why do they do that. Why have all that equipment when you can’t boil the bloody water. I digress – some French guy is singing ‘Tango’ to the accompaniment of that mesmerising and staccato piano and violin or is it viola that conjure images of a Humphrey Bogart character in a back alley, smokin a fag with a perfunctory red rose in his teeth.
The cafe tables have been formed into haphazard square come dance space, by the looks of it these guys and gals could dance on a sixpence. It’s erotic , it’s warm it’s sincere and it’s pretty god damn cool. This, coming from heavy rocker who loves nothing better than a bit of AC/DC, I feel as if I’ve gone over to the other side.
The steps are deliberate the shapes and size of the participants encompass all, the toe scrapes ever so slowly across the wooden floor. The scent of freshly brewed coffee stirring amid the clink of cups and glasses add an outdoor / faraway feel to the centre of Belfast. A floor like any other, but not the same one that I trampled myself twenty eight years ago as an apprentice printer; I find myself staring at feet. What on earth am I doing staring at feet when there are beautiful women all over the shop. I’m sitting chatting with a very beautiful women who I know has a beautiful mind coz I’ve read what she writes. We discuss the etiquette and the psychology of the dance and it’s a simple analogy of the dance we lead in life in everyday interaction. Only in this world the man always leads, the man is in control and it all revolves around the man. This is fascinating to me and completely untrue in my humble opinion as the two women I have spoken to are both in the world of academia and extremely powerful and intelligent women who can hold their own in any man’s world. And any man with any titter of whit knows that female of the species is really the one in control.
One of the women is a teacher of dance and one is student who loves it. The ages and the roles are reversed and it’s startling to discover that there are a lack of men here. Then I get it ‘Belfast Men don’t dance!’ Oh dear boys you should, you really should, I should, sod it I am. Just signed up for a beginners class next month! I’m leaving in ten minutes most of the crowd have gone to classes. They’ve been at it all weekend and back to work tomorrow. This sounds familiar to me only this time I can see the contentment the energy and the extatic-ness in peoples eye’s men and women. Apparently I shouldn’t really be looking at the eyes as eye contact is all part of the ‘Tango’ this wonderful dynamic involving the psychology of human relations. We dance the merry dance but this has left my mind dancing a jig.
She disappears round the corner jet black her, long shapely… anyway it was lovely to meet this fantastic human being and I look forward to meeting again under more serious circumstances. Another lady with a thick Irish brogue asks me what I’m doing and I tell her I record things I like; she kindly tells me she travelled from Cork a few years ago but what made her return was the welcome she received from the Belfast people. This place is an oasis and who would think that there was more to do on a Sunday than go to church. For many this is their religion and I can see it in their passion but when the music plays it slows down and eye’s are closed; not in concentration or worries about putting a foot wrong but I like to think it’s more to do with being lost in music, lost in Art, lost in the ‘Tango’ the dance of passion.