Last Ball of the season

 

 Saturday Night

Place de la Republique 

Argelès-sur-mer France

There is a temporary platform in front of the Ecole de la Musique, the old mairie, where the saxophone player and two women singers, one in black and one in shimmery white take the stage. It is the last Saturday night ball, where villagers and tourists come to dance. No entry fee. Just come with your dancing shoes ready.

The first song is from my childhood, Don't it make my Brown Eyes Blue and the vocalist is as good as Crystal Gayle. Songs during the evening come from the U.S., UK, France and Spain. There are slow dances, fast dances, the Twist and Texas Line dancing.

Both l'Hostalet and the other bar have extended their tables and waitresses take orders for beer, wine, juices, café and thé. We sit with a Danish friend and later are joined by a couple from Lyon who spend much of their time here. The next table has an Irish friend, a resident, who has her mother and sister visiting from Ireland.

My first ball here was when I bought my retirement home in the late 1980s. I was with friends from Boston and my then 13-year old daughter. 

Over the years we've been to lots of the balls. We see the same people year after year turning the light fantastic. I miss the white-haired man with the mustache curled halfway to his eyes, the mamie who has gone to a rest home in the mountains to be nearer her daughter, the old lady that dances every dance alone. It is almost as if their ghosts are dancing among the living.

Missing this night is the woman hippie we call Hot Cheeks. She's thin, long haired, great body and always dressed in short-short shorts, thus the nickname. Her partner for many years was replaced at another earlier ball.

Also missing is my former neighbor, a security guard who alternates dances with his wife, a short, squat woman and his svelte mistress. I've seen him in the village, so I know he's okay.

Still twirling around is the Chinese man, who knows all the steps and performs them like a professional with his Catalan wife.

My husband was introduced to these dances years ago when we were first together. After years of much-loved singledom, he asked me how my friends would know we were a couple. After all, my interest in finding a partner had been non-existent all the time they had known me. "When I hold your hand," I answered knowing we would be the subject of most of the table talk that night. It is another memory of the balls that I treasure. 

The evening is cool and our dog needs walking, so we leave before the end, stopping at many tables to say good night to friends. The dances will resume next summer continuing decades if not centuries of tradition...even if the music and people change.

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