I Take you Bellydancing into the Night

At the age of 13 Europe was something to be marveled at. Medieval, fairy-tale, love affairs. Some of that, most notably the latter, was definitely true; but truthfully, I landed in Spain and was immediately appalled. The city had an eau-du-sewage, there was a common misinterpretation of how frequently deodorant should be applied and as a curvy brown-haired blue-eyed American, 13 years old seemed to be much closer to 25 than to 12.
Of course, I now work for a non-profit travel organization. I have traveled to 41 countries, lived and worked abroad, and spend most of my days dreaming of those same sewage-filled streets that I have traveled for many moons.
I’m reminded of this because today is the first day of my belly-dancing class. No, not my first ever. I haphazardly “joined” a Brazilian troupe sometime between the age of 12 and 14 and stuck through it on and off through high-school. I use the term “joined” loosely because my best friend and I mostly tagged along out of boredom. I love the art, and lord knows my mother passed on the hips for it, but I have extreme commitment issues – the euphemism for this being that I’m an air sign. This became evident when I was fired from my post as 7th grade president due to my lack of commitment to the position. This subsequently became a trend as I gained leadership roles in high school and college in various Spanish societies and Marketing Groups. After socializing over free chips and queso at the initial getting-to-know-you socials, I would bust out of there like a father from a one-night-stand. My thoughts were clouded by the adventure, but when the responsibility was ultimately born I was nowhere to be found.
Anyhow, after touring Spain and the Riviera, my mother and my 13-year-old self landed in Istanbul. This was not where my discovery of the belly dancing world began, but rather where I discovered fellatian sculpture and, more importantly, the grand bizarre. The Grand Bizarre was filled with wares, carpets, candies and a honey-like smells. It was built in layers so by the time you followed the mazes you lost all touch with fresh air and only could inhale its wonders. It was in one of these dark corners of the bizarre that I discovered the Turkish world of belly dancing. Rather than being filled with the voluptuous women twisting and turning their bodies that I had become accustomed to, it was filled with older, rounder, Turkish men. These men pounced on the opportunity to pursue my mother and me. Whispers spread behind the counters of “the American Sisters” who were shopping for belly dancing wares. I was anxious about our titles and our innate inability to create beads of sweat on the foreheads of the shopkeepers. Losing control as he pulled out the rattling coin belt, he pulled my mother and told her that he wanted to take her belly dancing into the night.
As quickly as we had been devoured into the bizarre, overcome with all the new sensations, I was swept out onto the streets by my mother never to return to Turkey again.