Freitag, 23. Februar 2018

Slap-smack, whirls and twirls – Bavarian Dancing has me hooked.


The question on the poster taped up on a swing door at college instantly catches my eye:

Who fancies trying out Bavarian Dancing?

The words leap out at me, almost as if sounding a clarion call. Hadn’t I always longed to dance like a typical Bavarian? Germans have a saying that goes ‘Nichts hält jünger, als ein alter Tanz’ – nothing keeps you younger than an old dance. Maybe that’s exactly what I need too an injection of youngfulness. I sign up immediately.

Bavarian dancing, I’m surprised to discover, is not really Bavarian at all. It originated as an old Austrian peasant dance. It wasn’t long, however, until the nobility got in on the act too, popularizing it across the ballrooms of 19th-century Vienna. For the first time in history, dancing couples came really close and embraced each other. No wonder the waltz was considered by some as nothing short of scandalous. As for the “Bavarian” polka, that’s actually a Bohemian peasant dance which became fashionable around the same time.

But there’s something else I discover while googling, that rather shocks the puritan Brit inside me. While I'd been warned that Bavarian dancing is all about slapping both yourself and your partner on the hands and thighs, I took comfort from the belief that this is as far as it goes. Alarm bells ring, however, when a brief search on YouTube reveals a clip in which the male dancer lays his partner on the ground and proceeds to slap her backside. I surf a bit further, just to check I haven’t hit upon some unconventional, risqué Tanzverein that’s taking the whole idea of slapping your partner one naughty step too far. To my horror, I discover scores of similar clips shot at reputable traditional dance events all around Bavaria. Kids, youths, parents, aunties and uncles, even opas and omas – whatever the attraction of Arschklatschen, everybody seems to be doing it.

But Boarischa tanznochd sounds like it could be good fun. As for the bum-smacking add-on, well maybe if I look sheepish enough they'll let me off that bit. 

Bavarian Dance Night finally rolls around. Bang on 7 pm I arrive at the venue – one of the very classrooms I’ve been teaching in earlier today, in fact. Clad in lederhosen – what else, this is a Bavarian evening after all – I suddenly become uncomfortably aware that my outfit feels a bit big. Did I purchase a size too large or have I shrunk since the Oktoberfest? My Grösse “M” was obviously made more with the physique of the classic Bavarian Bursche in mind – sturdy yet stumpy. I’m probably not getting enough Heislmannskost, as the Bavarians call it – good solid meals such as pork knuckles and Knödel dumplings. Rather than cling to me, the whole outfit seems to droop off my backside. Just like those jeans adolescents wear, where the bum piece sags significantly below the waist. 

Glancing around, something else strikes me. I can’t see anyone else dressed in full Tracht, the traditional Bavarian costume. Merely one other male is wearing lederhosen, and that’s ‘matched’, for want of a better word, with a flashy Bondi Bitch t-shirt. Charming. Glancing around, I see that females outnumber men approximately one to five. It’s what the Bavarians call Damaübaschuß. ‘Surplus women’ sounds degrading. It makes ladies sound like a commodity. But it’s good news for us men, of course. Looking around I can see plenty of choice. Yet this is overshadowed by something that I personally find rather disappointing. Not one single female has donned a dirndl. It’s like going to a pyjama party in jeans and jacket. Ah well, perhaps I shouldn’t be too surprised. Oktoberfest was ages ago, wasn’t it? 

About two dozen of us, a healthy mixture of students and teachers, are about to be serenaded by a five-strong live band, Schreinergeiger, who have set up shop right in front of the blackboard. Our trainer for the evening is Magnus. It’s funny how images we tend to have of the typical male dance teacher are so often hackneyed. Before tonight I would have probably pictured him prancing rather than dancing. Dressed in tights or Abba-style jumpsuit, bracelets and bangles dangling from the wrists, a silver pendant swinging nonchalantly around the neck maybe. I figured he’d be saying things like ‘Yo, just look at you darling!’.

But Magnus isn't camp at all. Actually, he's as straight as a toothpick. He not only talks straightly, he dresses drop-dead stylishly too. Cotton cardigan casually swung over tight polo shirt and slim-fit jeans to boot. Oh, and no jewellery. Not even a stud through the nose. This is the man, no less, who grooms Munich’s youth for the legendary Kocherlball, or “Cooks’ Ball”.That’s the early morning dance-fest that takes place every June underneath the Chinese Tower in the Englischer Garten. It's already down in my diary. 

After the briefest of introductions (‘i bin da Mognus’) and minimum small talk (‘guad gell, laßt uns dann scho moi loslegn’) – this is Germany, remember – it’s straight down to business. Magnus informs us that in Bavarian dancing it’s always customary for the woman to request the man to dance. And indeed to take the lead in every ensuing step. Personally I have no problem in that department, I’m more than willing to be led. My problem, it soon turns out, is I can’t find a partner who’s willing. Everyone automatically pairs up with the person they arrived with and I’m left standing all on my own. For a moment it feels like a cruel throwback to Year 9 all-boys school, when the sports teacher made us pair up to do exercises around the gym hall. I always dreaded this because I was invariably the one left without a partner. Several decades later, I almost dread being left out again. But, mercifully, Magnus comes to my rescue.

Hey, schau moi da, he calls.

Magnus is gesturing to an attractive-looking girl in a zebra-striped singlet and snug-fit leggings. Standing over in the corner, she’s also alone. Heaving an enormous sigh of relief, I take her hand and we gracefully slide in among the other couples to form one long polonaise, snaking around the room. I never pictured myself parading around my own classroom quite like this. It feels like we’re warming up for a child’s birthday party. That any minute a grown-up will call out ‘Food’s on the table!’ and we’ll all race into the dining room and murder the cake. All that’s missing here are party horns, paper hats and someone quietly throwing up in the corner.

Polonäse or kids' party game? Either way it feels funny parading around my own classroom.

                                                                           
All of a sudden, Magnus is calling us to stretch our arms out and link together to form an archway. Standing right at the end of the arch, my partner and I are first to go under. Holding hands, we merrily canter through. Wait a moment. Had I just said 'Yes I do'? And signed something too? Maybe I'm taking this whole thing a bit too seriously, but it almost feels like I'm in the wrong movie when we emerge at the other end and no one showers us with confetti.

With everyone finally through the ‘wedding tunnel’, Magnus starts on the next routine: Quintessential Bavarian-type hand-and-thigh slapping interspersed with slightly more elegant twirls and swirls, with the odd bit of tango and fox trot thrown in for effect. Bavarian dancing has to be a hotchpotch of just about every single dance style under the sun. Some pairs manage the quick-step transitions quite effortlessly. The way Magnus is encouraging us to place a foot between our partner’s legs makes me feel like we’re more in Buenos Aires than Bavaria. I’ve never tried tango before and am trying exceedingly hard not to misplace my left foot when I suddenly squeal 'Ouch!'. My right hand toe is writhing with pain. My partner has just accidentally stepped on my other foot. Still, I’m glad it’s she who’s committed the faux pas and not me. I’m generally the Tolpatsch, the one who always puts his foot in it outside the classroom.

During a short break it’s my turn to put the proverbial foot in it. Thinking we’re supposed to be changing partners, I turn to a colleague to ask if she’d like to be mine. ‘Na, sorry’, she replies, pointing emphatically to what looks like a carbon copy of herself. This, I discover later, is actually her elder sister. ‘Pech kabd’, bad luck, she adds. I know she doesn’t mean it unsympathetically at all, but once again it feels like I’m back at school, seeking an elusive partner. Sheepishly, I return to my own partner, just hoping to goodness that she hasn’t overheard this embarrassing exchange. Frankly, I’m quite glad no one has to change partners. We got off to a rather clumsy start but I have the feeling we’re moving nicely in time together now. I’m actually quite enjoying this.

Things continue to go smoothly until, all at once, we have to pair up with another couple. We’ve got to clap hands, slap-clap our partner’s hands, whirl them around and then perform this very same ‘act’ on the other two persons. I don’t know whether it’s just because I wasn’t following Magnus’ demonstration carefully enough or I’m just plain uncoordinated, but this is where I suddenly start to lose it. I feel like those poor contestants in The Generation Game. That’s the BBC show in which an expert demonstrates how to do something – such as modelling a vase using a potter's wheel or dressing up a shop window mannequin. They always make it look so dead simple. The competitors –  comical combinations like mum and son-in-law – then have to do likewise, but usually in much less time than the Meister. And of course they always manage to mess it up. Same here. Before each new number Magnus demonstrates the moves. Beckoning to a different girl each time, he draws her close to his chest and swirls her around the floor. Watching the ease with which he can just pick out any girl he fancies, and the way they bend like elastic in his embrace, it looks like Magnus has a dream job. 

As soon as we break for slightly longer my partner slips off. I expect she’s just grabbing a drink from the trestle table in the corridor and visiting the ladies room. But I really wouldn’t blame her if she seizes the opportunity to seek out a more suitable partner. Everything had gone without a hitch until I screwed up on the step when you have to take your partner’s left hand in yours and then your right hand behind her back to take her right hand in turn. I’m confused just thinking about it. Standing there, knotted together in this almost bear-hug-like embrace, our arms clumsily twisted around each other, I hadn’t dared peer up to see the expression on her face. A look of horror, most likely.

Suddenly she reappears, quietly sliding in alongside me as if she’d never been gone. For the second moment this evening I breathe a huge sigh of relief. She’s all nicely freshened up and, unlike me, still totally calm and composed despite cavorting around the classroom almost nonstop for the past hour.  She tells me her name, and asks about mine. I’m just about to reply when the band suddenly starts blasting out the next tune. Any further dialogue we might have attempted is drowned in an ear-shattering wiener-schnitzel polka.

Clap-clap, slap-slap. Gosh this is fun. Little do we know that the band behind us is about to strike the last note, pack up and go home. 

                                                                           
Falling into a hypnosis-like routine of twirls and swirls – briefly interspersed every couple minutes with a gentle mutual hand-slap – I remain on a high for the rest of the evening. I’m willing the whole thing to last just a tiny bit longer, but, spot on 9 o’clock – Deutsche Pünktlichkeit at play once again – the band sound out their final note. Sadly, next moment they’re squeezing instruments back into cases and pulling on coats and scarves. It’s almost as if they’re racing to catch the last bus home. Beckoning everyone to form a tight circle, Magnus lavishes praise upon us, saying 'Ihr hobt olle note oins vedeant' – you’ve all earned yourselves a grade one. Yahooo!

Magnus proceeds to dish out flyers for another free dance session he’s offering next month. This time it’s at the world-famous Hofbräuhaus. I consider asking my partner if she’d care to go along too. Looking round, however, I notice she’s vanished. Pity. I know little more than her name. The magical evening has ended all too abruptly. It’s unfair. Why can't this end like a fairytale ball? You know, Prince Charming standing there all forlorn, pining for his Cinderalla, and then suddenly falling to his knees as he discovers her glass slipper. My partner, it seems, has disappeared into thin air. What's more, she's taken all her footgear too. 

Last to leave the classroom, I instinctively reach for the braces on my lederhosen. They’re definitely too loose, because they'd kept on coming off during the dancing. But I couldn’t make them any tighter at all. There’s obviously one hole too few on each suspender strap. Small wonder the whole outfit’s hanging off me like a pair of saggy ‘gangsta’ pants. Miraculously, however, everything’s still more or less where it should be. Relieved, I vow to myself one thing. If I ever go Bavarian dancing again, I’m coming in a different lederhosen.

And it had better be size “S”.

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