I like to take part in cultural festivals. Every March 17th I celebrate St. Patrick’s day at an Irish pub. I drink a pint of Guinness and eat corned beef and cabbage – my best yet was at McGilvras in Madison Park (Seattle) this past March. Scrumptious!
And every year I celebrate Cinco de Mayo. Last night was no exception. I feasted on some delicious sopas with chorizo and a heady glass of sangria at Fonda La Catrina in Georgetown (also in Seattle.)
I came home with a slight, pleasant buzz, and I had to – I just had to party. I’ve been thinking about dancing for some time, and now was the time. I loaded my Jango station and kicked up my heels with abandon first to Maroon Five, then to Ray Charles, Stevie Wonder and to rock songs from the fifties and sixties about which most of you will have no clue – way before your time!
Images of Hugh Grant cavorting in Love Actually, and Kirstie Alley dancing by the refrigerator in Look Who’s Talking swirled in my mind as I bounced and gyrated around my kitchen.
I turned up the music – sorry neighbors! Your usually sedate and perennially quiet next-door resident was having a delicious fit of craziness. I was rocking and stomping, shaking and twisting to the blaring beat. My, but it felt grand!
I hope I’ll never get too old to jiggle my booty!
The photo shows a more sedate version of me as a thirteen-year-old dancing the twist with my younger brother, Tom, at my older brother Paul’s 21st birthday party. The year was 1963. I write about the party in my memoir, Lonely Refugee.
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