Dancing in The Moonlight

I lived with my parents until the age of twenty-four. My first situation living on my own was a two-bedroom apartment, shared with a roommate, in a building located about 2.5 miles from my parents' house. (To this day, they still live in that house, which they bought wa-a-a-ay back in 1967!)

To give you an idea of how much I had to learn about keeping a home, I will tell you that when my mother visited my apartment a week or two after I moved in, she noticed that I stored eggs in the food pantry. She gently explained to me that eggs need to be refrigerated...

One week, my parents invited my roommate and me to join them for the traditional Friday night dinner. Now my roommate and I were Sabbath observers, and this meant that although we could drive to my parents' house, we would not be able to drive back, because driving is not permitted during the Sabbath. So, after the meal, we had to walk back to our apartment.

I should point out that this was in the thick of a cold Canadian winter. So we bundled up pretty heavily: winter suit, boots, heavy winter coat, hats, gloves, scarves -- the whole nine yards, as they say. Maybe even thermal underwear. Outside: dark, cold, bitter wind, ground covered by a thick blanket of snow, fairly deserted.

The walk was well over an hour. Of course, after a few minutes, the body heats up, so it was not terribly unpleasant. But it was cold enough. My roommate and I were certainly both looking forward to the moment when we would be back indoors.

About 12 minutes away from our apartment building, we came to a major intersection. Ah, the home stretch! Soon, we will be in our toasty warm domicile! After we crossed the intersection, we passed by a row of shops and such, which were all closed.

All but one.

The one place that was open was a restaurant, mediterranean I believe, that I had never really noticed, but being the only place open on this dark and deserted night, it now caught my attention. But the vision I saw when I glanced inside made me literally stop in my tracks. Quite a large crowd of patrons, dining on what looked to be very fine cuisine, clearly having a grand old time.

But that was not all that caught my eye. For in the very center of the restaurant was a young, exotic, bejeweled woman, performing a belly dance. I stood, staring through the window, positively transfixed by her intoxicating grace and beauty. If ever a performance were deserving of the label "poetry in motion", this sumptuous exhibition was.

Part of the mystique of that moment was surely the sheer power of the contrast. For the past hour, I had been trudging along, bundled up, in a dark, cold, austere, lonely winter night. Then, all of the sudden, out of nowhere, boom! An oasis of warmth, community, life, culture, color, sensuality. Ascetics, meet aesthetics.

I am reminded of a scene from the movie The French Connection, both the movie and the scene being among my father's favorites. Two undercover NYC cops are staking out a group of men suspected of drug involvement. Two of the suspects enter an extremely fancy restaurant. For the next hour or two, the suspects are seated in the plush decor of the elegant restaurant, served one exquisite delicacy after another, while the two boys in blue watch them from across the street, standing outside in the bitter cold, wolfing down stale pizza and putrid coffee.

And speaking of contrasts, my tale has one more: that between my own hypnotized reaction to the belly dancer and my roommate's. Either my roommate was less allured by her charm than I, or his suffering from the cold and desire to extricate himself from it was more acute than mine. For after a minute, he indicated that he wished to continue homeward bound. A suggestion from him that we lie face-down in the snow would not have surprised me more, for I couldn't understand how anyone on earth could willingly tear themselves from imbibing this scene of comeliness. So I convinced him to wait a few moments. But a couple of minutes later, an insistent: "I want to go. Now." caused me to most reluctantly tear myself away.

Apparently, it had occurred to neither my roommate nor me to separate, so that he could continue home, while I continued to gaze upon my visual treasure. And it's just as well. I might still be there today.