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 is an instant attention grabber:
                   ~ Who fancies trying out Bavarian Dancing? ~


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. Having recently celebrated another round birthday, maybe that’s exactly what I need right now – an injection of youth. I sign up immediately.

‘Bavarian Dancing’, bizarrely, is not really Bavarian at all. It originated as an Austrian peasant whirl and twirl. It wasn’t long, however, until the nobility got in on the act, 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.

Conscious that Bavarian dancing is all about slapping both yourself and your partner on the hands and thighs, I naively believed that’s as far as it goes. Alarm bells start clanging, however, when a search on YouTube unveils a clip in which the male dancer lays his partner on the ground and proceeds to slap her buttocks. I surf a bit further, just to check I haven’t stumbled across an off-the-wall Verein that’s taking the whole idea of slapping your partner’s bum one naughty step too far. Incredibly, I discover scores of similar clips posted by traditional folk groups at dances all over Bavaria. Kids, youths, parents, aunties and uncles, even Opas and Omas – everyone, it seems, is busy slapping buttocks.

Bavarian Dance Night – sounds like it could be quite hands-on.

My heart sinks when, arriving at the event, it turns out we’re to dance in the very classroom I’ve been teaching in earlier that day. Embarrassingly, I'd not even wiped the board clean. And that’s not the only discomfort. Clad in lederhosen, 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.

Apart from a colleague from the Student Advisory Service who’s organising the event, I can’t see anyone else dressed in full Tracht, the traditional yet once again trendy 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. What also strikes me is that females outnumber men approximately five to one. Bavarians call this Damaübaschuß.

Surplus women­? Fine by me.

There’s just one small let-down. Not one of them has donned a dirndl.

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. 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 foxtrot 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, sliding in alongside me as if she’d never been gone. For the second moment this evening I breathe a huge sigh of relief. Despite cavorting around the classroom almost nonstop for the last hour she’s still looking as fresh as a buttercup. And – unlike me – still totally calm and composed. I’m just about to ask ‘What’s your…?’ when the band suddenly starts blasting out the next tune. My last word 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 around, however, I notice she’s vanished. The magical evening has ended all too abruptly. It’s unfair. Why can't this finish like a fairytale ball? Lucky Prince Charming. At least he got the girl’s glass slipper for keep’s sake. Not only has my partner already bunked off, she’s taken all her footgear too.

Leaving the classroom, I instinctively reach for the braces on my leather pants. During the dancing I’d had a job keeping them hitched up – they’re definitely too loose. 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. If I ever go Bavarian dancing again, I’m going in different lederhose.

And it had better be size “S”.