Dancing Against the Fog

Well, now with Mama Gena out of the way - at least for the time being - I can catch you up on other events happening here in Portland (in general) and my life (in particular).

This weekend past, for example.

I'll only consider Friday evening.

There is a gazebo on the Eastern Promenade of the city, overlooking Casco Bay and its islands, Fort Allen Park, it's called. I'm not sure exactly where Fort Allen was - I'm pretty sure it wasn't meant to defend against the British, so that leaves us Natives (I'm Cherokee - we were down in Georgia, it's not our fault).

In evidence - the remains of a redoubt, the bodies of some old 14 pounders, well sealed against possible use. A flagpole.

And a wonderful gazebo, site, in the day, of Chandler's Band concerts on Thursday evenings. The Chandler's Band was sponsored - some say "made up" - by the Ship's Chandler's association, the people who supplied materials for Portland's thriving (this was a century ago) shipping industry.

I remember seeing something called "the Chandler's Band" in several parades here in town when I first arrived here - whether they were actually waterfront workers or just ringers hired to play is beyond me.

Still it's a lovely thing, that gazebo, with a magical view of Fort Gorges, the near islands and the SoPo shore.

Friday, if you can't tell, was slightly cool, cloudy with fog swirling far off down the bay.

My friend Adira, belly dancer and dance teacher extraordinare served as DJ, providing a sophisticated and very danceable mix of tangos, vals and milongas.

I suppose we had around 15 people or so, in various waves and levels of interest. There was a small snack bar set up on one of the railings.

It's a rare fine thing to dance a tango in a gazebo overlooking one of the oldest working harbors in the Eastern United States. Boats go by below, some motoring quickly, leaving a rippling wake slashed across the waters. Others, sailboats pushed by straining propellers, moved more deliberately. All were headed into moorings on shore and off.

The Casco Bay Lines party boat chugged by, faint wisps of rock and roll floating up. We waved to them, they waved back. Something, they could tell, was going on at the prom but their beer goggles weren't giving them the resolution they needed.

A tango has been likened to having a three minute affair with a total stranger, it's very intimate physically and we've all mastered the fine, demanding art of experiencing such delicious closeness, contact and communication - and not losing emotional balance.

It can become a sudden challenge at the most unlikely of times, but mostly we keep our heads - and our hearts.

The party boat chugs back by - more waving, though we are all a little indistinct to each other. Fog is rolling in, the bay is vanishing in a sea of black. I like this moment, it appeals to the Gothic in me, the person who partly lives on Dartmoor and looks for demonic hounds in the mist.

The dancers are moving to keep warm now. I think our movement and breath set up a microclimate in the gazebo, keeping the worst of the chill and fog at an amiable distance.

Finally we have to stop - even on a foggy Friday night we're courting interruption by the police by going much longer than 10 p.m.

I keep hoping we get thrown off - or at least warned by Portland's finest but maybe it's for the best. When the weather is genuinely warm and the sky is clear then I'd stack dancing in the Fort Allen Gazebo with any tango in the world.