This weekend there was a festival in the Beaches, my neighbourhood. I couldn't really figure out the theme to the festival other than "It's been a few weeks without a festival, so here ya go!" Toronto and Seattle are very similar in that way -- the winters are quite miserable, so during the summer there's practically a festival every weekend, just to make the most of the warm, pleasant weather.
This weekend's no-reason festival was quite low key, and basically consisted of a few bands playing on the sidewalks and stores staying open late. We ended up eating at a Greek restaurant -- a local chain called Mr. Greek. We sat outside next to the band, which played all night as we enjoyed some sort of flambeed feta cheese that was sooooo good I want it again right now, and calamari.
As the night wore on there was much singing by the owner and dancing by the patrons, half of whom seemed to be related to the owner. The owner, a balding man in a orange polo shirt, did some dancing, and his wife threw paper plates at him (in a celebratory fashion, not a stop-embarrassing-me-you-fool fashion). A teenaged girl selling souvlaki out front left her post momentarily to perform some sort of traditional Greek bellydance as interpreted by Shakira music videos that the male patrons seemed to enjoy quite a bit. There was also a lot of circle dancing, all of which reminded me of the Hava Nagila. Something about being swarthy must make people want to dance in a circle. (I kid because I love.)
The showstopper, though, was a woman probably in her late 20s or early 30s who I'd noticed earlier in the evening. I must confess my first assessment of her was uncharitable, as she was absolutely gorgeous (long dark hair, slim waist, rockin' body), wearing a pretty pink and white sundress and high-heeled sandals, and parading through the restaurant with an adorable four-year-old boy. I wrote her off as one of those tiresome yummy mummys who see children as the ultimate accessory but who forego goodnight kisses on the grounds they might smudge their lipstick. Bitter much? Not me. Anyhow, this beauty took the stage and started a slow, traditional Greek dance. (At least I imagine it was traditional -- what do I know from traditional Greek dancing?) She looked down at her feet at she circled and traced patterns on the cement patio, swaying in time with the music. As it sped up, she twirled and stomped her feet, still looking more at the ground than at her growing audience, seemingly lost in her own world. Her movements had nothing to do with the orange-shirted owner's machismo showmanship, even less to do with the teenager's gyrations. As she spun to the music, I thought I could see her thinking of the girl she had been and the woman she was, and everyone stopped to look, and the band played faster and faster.
I knew I wasn't the only one who appreciated what was happening when the owner's wife appeared again with an armful of plates, real ones this time, which she hurled at the dancer's feet with cries of "Opa!" I laughed and clapped as she spun among the shards, and it was one of those moments that make you happy to be living on this earth, with such sudden and unexpected beauty.
Opa!
P.S. Joanna, move to Toronto! We have great Greek restaurants and plate-throwing, plus timely trash collection and draconian anti-smoking laws!
This weekend's no-reason festival was quite low key, and basically consisted of a few bands playing on the sidewalks and stores staying open late. We ended up eating at a Greek restaurant -- a local chain called Mr. Greek. We sat outside next to the band, which played all night as we enjoyed some sort of flambeed feta cheese that was sooooo good I want it again right now, and calamari.
As the night wore on there was much singing by the owner and dancing by the patrons, half of whom seemed to be related to the owner. The owner, a balding man in a orange polo shirt, did some dancing, and his wife threw paper plates at him (in a celebratory fashion, not a stop-embarrassing-me-you-fool fashion). A teenaged girl selling souvlaki out front left her post momentarily to perform some sort of traditional Greek bellydance as interpreted by Shakira music videos that the male patrons seemed to enjoy quite a bit. There was also a lot of circle dancing, all of which reminded me of the Hava Nagila. Something about being swarthy must make people want to dance in a circle. (I kid because I love.)
The showstopper, though, was a woman probably in her late 20s or early 30s who I'd noticed earlier in the evening. I must confess my first assessment of her was uncharitable, as she was absolutely gorgeous (long dark hair, slim waist, rockin' body), wearing a pretty pink and white sundress and high-heeled sandals, and parading through the restaurant with an adorable four-year-old boy. I wrote her off as one of those tiresome yummy mummys who see children as the ultimate accessory but who forego goodnight kisses on the grounds they might smudge their lipstick. Bitter much? Not me. Anyhow, this beauty took the stage and started a slow, traditional Greek dance. (At least I imagine it was traditional -- what do I know from traditional Greek dancing?) She looked down at her feet at she circled and traced patterns on the cement patio, swaying in time with the music. As it sped up, she twirled and stomped her feet, still looking more at the ground than at her growing audience, seemingly lost in her own world. Her movements had nothing to do with the orange-shirted owner's machismo showmanship, even less to do with the teenager's gyrations. As she spun to the music, I thought I could see her thinking of the girl she had been and the woman she was, and everyone stopped to look, and the band played faster and faster.
I knew I wasn't the only one who appreciated what was happening when the owner's wife appeared again with an armful of plates, real ones this time, which she hurled at the dancer's feet with cries of "Opa!" I laughed and clapped as she spun among the shards, and it was one of those moments that make you happy to be living on this earth, with such sudden and unexpected beauty.
Opa!
P.S. Joanna, move to Toronto! We have great Greek restaurants and plate-throwing, plus timely trash collection and draconian anti-smoking laws!
posted by Rebecca at 8:18 PM
1 Comments:
Maybe I could work at the Mr. Greek! And I can do splits in the air, which might add some kick to those traditional dances! Toronto will love me!
It sounds like a beautiful day at your local summer festival. Okay, I'm jealous!!
Seriously, though, that's a great description of a very hard-to-describe moment in Greek dancing. Her concentration, her bliss, her movement were all part of a disappearing sense of self in the Greeks, who appear to be turning into imitations of what they see on MTV. I lament about this frequently, but it's true and so sad.
The woman you described sounds Athenian, but the classy kind, not the ones I see in too-tight pants and eggplant-colored hair and aviator sunglasses. A real Greek goddess. Okay, I'm jealous again. I'm jealous all the time!
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