When people ask me why I moved to
Paris, I tell them that I moved for love - in particular, the love of
a Marseillais who I met while leading a tidy life as a graduate
student at the University of London. Quiet as a book, his hooded eyes were
kind and held the memory of the silvery olive tree leaves near his parents’
country cottage. Looking back, I have to admit that I didn’t know or seek to
find out much about his culture. A four-month French class in middle school
with an elitist American teacher had left me with the impression that I had
the best part of France right in our Bloomsbury apartment. And so, for a
year and a half, he was all of France to me.
When we finally Eurostar-ed
it over to Paris for a friend’s farewell party I saw that his tight jeans
(oh so French circa 1999) matched everyone else’s and marvelled at their
ability to repeat - in unison - entire scenes from French film classics. I
watched him shrug and “ben-ouais” and spin other bizarre noises into an
eloquence that mystifies the rest of us. It would take another four years
and innumerable discussions for me to relocate here. Still, it was
during that first weekend in Paris that I knew I would follow his olive tree
eyes wherever they settled.
Two years ago I landed at Gare du
Nord with a full heart and no plan but Love. As a doctoral
student and budding graphic designer, the decision to uproot myself and
follow my gut/heart/man was what we back in Kentucky would call “a miracle.”
I floated on a hazy cloud for about three months and then one nondescript
morning I woke up and needed to find my own Paris. The fact that I had
learned French by ear rather than classes left me with a tendency to second
guess my words. Hoping to understand how to get more of me out into the
world, I decided to try an African dance class at Le Centre de la Danse
du Marais in the bustling Latin Quarter.
Feeling emboldened by the buzz of
activity at the entryway, I crossed through the cavernous passageway into
the courtyard. A tap tap tapping drew my attention to a small studio next to
the registration office. Through the doorway I saw a room crowded with
women in full flamenco dance attire. Breathless, I watched their skirts
swirl around boot heels that clicked in a clean rhythm, their fingers
undulating above like petals stroking air. It was only when they paused for
their teacher’s demonstration that I spied the clock hanging on the office
wall. Three minutes late already! I quickly asked for the studio for the
African dance class and headed up the winding staircase to the nearest
changing room.
Students streamed out of two
adjoining studios and pushed a muggy air into the space. On one side, the
students from the Egyptian dance class lingered in their twinkling
costumes, their trinkets jangling as they towelled off sweat or removed the
heavy kohl from their eyes. On the other side, the teens from the hiphop
class preened themselves in the mirrors and rotated round one another like
peacocks in their Les Halles – meets – Flashdance gear. Honestly, I
probably would have sat there until the last student left, trying to
memorise each detail to spice my emails to the sister circle back home.
Thank God the drummers started up and the throbbing crescendo behind the
door called me to join.
As I wiggled my way into a gap in
the back row, I strained to see the teacher at the front and could manage
only to see her reflection in the full wall mirror. She was a petite
brunette with features from everywhere and a fabulous cowry shell belt that
sang with each twist of her waist. While scanning the Saturday crowd she
caught my eye and motioned for me to move up to a slightly larger gap in the
middle row. I took my place among the other dancers and was soothed by the
ease in which my body melted in with drums and the xylophone melody. When I
looked in the mirror I saw that my movements were concise and pretty. While
feeling satisfied, little did I know that my teacher was having none of it.
As we went two by two across the floor she cried out to me “Relâche-toi!
Plus! Plus-e!” (Release! More! More!!) After over an hour of bouncing,
flexing and gyrating she stood in the center of the studio and watched
students, stretching, gulping water, or doubled over from exhaustion. As her
gaze fell on me she smiled and said “Sometimes you have to stop thinking.
Sometimes you just let yourself feel and when it feels right in your body,
it’s right.” Now I know that anyone who has taken a dance class has
experienced beginner’s paranoia wherein you think that every word is
directed toward you and you alone. But I am sure that this gift was mine.
We spent the remaining ten minutes
of the class dancing free style and all of us together became a wild chaos
of arms and hips and thumping feet.
Almost a year later, I am still
astonished at the simplicity of her advice and how far it has reached into
other parts of my Paris life. These days I am a regular in the class and go
as much to commune with the other dancers as to shake off the stresses of
the week. Occasionally when a new student asks me to break down a particular
movement, I give them a sunshine smile and say “just have fun. When it feels
right, you’ve got it.”
For more info on dance classes in Paris visit
parisdanse;
le-centre-des-arts
Niambi Cacchioli is a full time PhD student at the Birkbeck College,
University of London and freelances as a graphic designer. Her research website is
geocities.com/bbkresearch.
American University of Paris
Who are Your Heroes?
