A feast among friends

Thursday was the last day of my second workshop, this one focused on collaborative choreography (and will be the subject of a post whenever I get my act together). Greatly different from the first one, this demanded a lot of improvisation and group work.

The first week was a hodge-podge of various crazy exercises I have picked up across the years, all of them perfectly alien to my students, which were a great group of eight dancers. There were many more the first day, but the younger ones, perhaps not ready to deal with the concepts, bowed out after that and I was left with a strong, tight-knit group.

I had absolutely no sense if what I was doing was making an impact whatsoever. And yet, on Wednesday I was informed -- asked, but it felt more like being informed -- that I was going to stay after the showing on Thursday to eat with the kids.

(I say "kids," but I really shouldn't, because most of them are around my age. The youngest is sixteen; the oldest twenty-three, but the average is around twenty. I only know this by peeking at their birth dates on the registration sheets...)

Somewhat bemused, I agreed. They were really excited about it, even going so far as trying to get one of their friends to come who spoke more English. They pooled all their money, and then the next day turned up after the showing with bags full of food.

This was just snack food; they'd ordered a full meal. Dumplings, fried mushrooms, veggies, corn, toasted bred with coconut milk sauce for dipping, hot sauce, and what I assumed to be fried chicken (more on that later). To drink, they'd brought up a bunch of ice and red soda, fruit punch that was somewhat mystifyingly green, coke, and fanta.

"Yan," one of them announced, "we can eat now." When he saw I was about to put on some music, he shook his head. "No music, we talk."

So I came over to join the circle. It was all the kids from this workshop, plus one or two from the past one and a friend or two of theirs. Everyone attacked the food, chattering happily away in Khmer and making jokes. We didn't communicate with words, not really -- most of them still call me 'Teacher', but nevertheless it didn't seem to matter at all. We ate, we laughed, and although we barely understood one another, we were friends, and I knew that despite the fact they were enjoying their own inside jokes, I was included and welcomed.

About the 'chicken': I asked if it was indeed. "No," I was informed, "Frog."

Oh dear, I thought, and said, managing not to drop it like a hot coal. Now that I looked at it, it was fairly obvious, though thankfully it was missing the head and the front legs. I considered for a second, then figured it couldn't be worse than the unborn duck chick, took off one of the legs, dipped it in the sauce, and cautiously took a bite.

It wasn't that bad, actually; it was sort of like fish except not, and certainly not like chicken. But either way, I finished eating it, and by the time I glanced down, all the rest had disappeared -- frog is apparently somewhat of a delicacy, and the kids had followed my example by helping themselves.

When you sit me down and tell me to teach, I have no idea what to do, but somehow it just offering these kids what I know and love, acting as guide and mentor, I have managed to do something special. There is something wonderful about sharing food and sharing a meal, and I think honestly it doesn't matter at all that we don't really understand each other's words, because it all other respects, we understand each other perfectly.

We meet again, wayfaring stranger

I figured it was time to restart the blog. You'll notice some changes, in the title, the look, and the link. The previous incarnation of the blog was "A Dancer in Paris", which is all well and good except that this dancer is no longer in Paris. The previous chronicle her year abroad, which I can safely say was the most life-changing, enriching experience that I have ever had, hands down.

Oh yes. That dancer, the one who was in Paris, is me. At least, I think so. We've met, and are learning who the other is.

So what can I tell you? The last time you saw me, I had lost my ability to speak. To this day, I struggle to find the words to say what Paris meant. Not the city, not by itself. The year. What happened. All I can say is that I lost everything and found it all twice over, and came out the other side a new -- and better -- person.

Right now I'm in New York. How long I'm going to be here is uncertain. Through June, at least, and in the meantime I'm graduating from college. Sometimes I'm scared, but mostly excited. So much time, and so much life. I have a lot of exciting projects in the works that will no doubt get references on the blog.

What is the blog for, anyway? I can't promise too much.  You know me, and how I get distracted by life. I hope to just share some of my enthusiasm and the various lessons that get thrown at me, for whatever its worth. If only so I remember. (Remembering. Remind me to mention that later.)

And finally, what's with the title? The Pixie Dust Chronicle? I'm embracing my lifelong admiration of Tinkerbell - whom I always wanted to be when I grow up - and working to find my own magic. We could all use a little pixie dust, methinks...

We'll see each other soon, I think.