into the dance floor.
And that’s exactly what I do. There are already quite a few people dancing and the DJ’s playing a disco remix that, though a bit cheesy, gets my feet moving straightaway. Besides, it’s Italy! Florence! In an outdoor club, under the stars! The usual rules don’t apply—I don’t have to worry about looking cool, whether a band’s in this week or already out. I can dance to anything that keeps me moving, and I do; it’s mostly Europop, some R&B, silly, sexy, and fun, songs that make me giggle when I hear them come on, and keep me spinning around.
I realize quickly that Italians don’t dance like we do in London. Back home, we take no prisoners, or at least my lot don’t; we throw ourselves around, we do silly choreographed moves to cheesy songs, we chest-pump, we pogo to the rock songs and swing our hair back and forth. We get sweaty.
Which seems to be completely contrary to the Italian way. Most of the boys and the girls are basically standing and wiggling a bit, smiling, throwing back their hair, shaking their hips; nothing that would do more than bring a light glow to their glossy, tanned, olive skin.
I know there’s an expression “When in Rome,” which means that when you’re in a foreign country, you should do what the locals do. But I’m too wound up, too buzzed by all my new experiences today to be able to restrain myself. I need to let off steam. When the DJ plays some Pink,I actually pogo, my heels bouncing off the shiny wooden dance floor, my arms flailing, a silly smile plastered on my face; I wish Milly and Lily-Rose were here, singing the words back at me, because we know every Pink song by heart:
So what? I’m still a rock star! I’ve got my rock moves! And I don’t need–you–tonight!
But even without my girls, I’m representing London here in Florence, showing the Italians how it’s done. A few boys try to dance with me, put themselves in front of me with what’s supposed to be sexy hip swivels—or worse, imitate my moves with a stupid grin, which is the single worst thing you can do while someone’s dancing. I can’t believe anyone would think it’s cool to copy someone and expect them to like it.
But I’m on fire. I ignore them all. I’m really good at that; I have the technique of ignoring annoying boys on the dance floor down to a fine art. I spin and I twist and I never meet their eyes. I dance faster than them, harder, my arms flying out to my sides so they have to jump back to avoid being hit, so they can see that I don’t want to dance with them or anyone, and eventually they give up and turn to another girl instead, leaving me free to do exactly what I want, lose myself in my own world.
I have no idea how long I rule the dance floor; the DJ’s brilliant at mixing one song into the next so seamlessly that there’s never a pause when I can catch my breath, realize how long I’ve been going. What actually stops me, finally, believe it or not, is a
Grease
megamix. I was having a lot of fun with “You’re the One That I Want”—though I’m missing my girls more than ever, as
Grease
songs really need a couple of girlfriends to sing along with—but as it cuts offhalfway through, rolling over into “Greased Lightning,” I realize the full horror of the situation. My feet finally come to a halt.
I do
not
do megamixes. And “Greased Lightning” is a really silly song anyway.
And suddenly, I realize that I’m knackered. Catching my breath, wiping my forehead, deftly swerving to avoid some idiot boy who reaches out to try to catch me as I go past, I walk off the dance floor, feeling hot all over. On the far side, a breeze is lifting the long white muslin drapes that hang around the dance floor like an Arabian tent, hooked back here and there, looped around the palm trees; I head for the gently blowing wind, lifting my hair off the back of my neck; half of it has tumbled down with all my gyrating, and my neck’s all sweaty. I’m holding my
And that’s exactly what I do. There are already quite a few people dancing and the DJ’s playing a disco remix that, though a bit cheesy, gets my feet moving straightaway. Besides, it’s Italy! Florence! In an outdoor club, under the stars! The usual rules don’t apply—I don’t have to worry about looking cool, whether a band’s in this week or already out. I can dance to anything that keeps me moving, and I do; it’s mostly Europop, some R&B, silly, sexy, and fun, songs that make me giggle when I hear them come on, and keep me spinning around.
I realize quickly that Italians don’t dance like we do in London. Back home, we take no prisoners, or at least my lot don’t; we throw ourselves around, we do silly choreographed moves to cheesy songs, we chest-pump, we pogo to the rock songs and swing our hair back and forth. We get sweaty.
Which seems to be completely contrary to the Italian way. Most of the boys and the girls are basically standing and wiggling a bit, smiling, throwing back their hair, shaking their hips; nothing that would do more than bring a light glow to their glossy, tanned, olive skin.
I know there’s an expression “When in Rome,” which means that when you’re in a foreign country, you should do what the locals do. But I’m too wound up, too buzzed by all my new experiences today to be able to restrain myself. I need to let off steam. When the DJ plays some Pink,I actually pogo, my heels bouncing off the shiny wooden dance floor, my arms flailing, a silly smile plastered on my face; I wish Milly and Lily-Rose were here, singing the words back at me, because we know every Pink song by heart:
So what? I’m still a rock star! I’ve got my rock moves! And I don’t need–you–tonight!
But even without my girls, I’m representing London here in Florence, showing the Italians how it’s done. A few boys try to dance with me, put themselves in front of me with what’s supposed to be sexy hip swivels—or worse, imitate my moves with a stupid grin, which is the single worst thing you can do while someone’s dancing. I can’t believe anyone would think it’s cool to copy someone and expect them to like it.
But I’m on fire. I ignore them all. I’m really good at that; I have the technique of ignoring annoying boys on the dance floor down to a fine art. I spin and I twist and I never meet their eyes. I dance faster than them, harder, my arms flying out to my sides so they have to jump back to avoid being hit, so they can see that I don’t want to dance with them or anyone, and eventually they give up and turn to another girl instead, leaving me free to do exactly what I want, lose myself in my own world.
I have no idea how long I rule the dance floor; the DJ’s brilliant at mixing one song into the next so seamlessly that there’s never a pause when I can catch my breath, realize how long I’ve been going. What actually stops me, finally, believe it or not, is a
Grease
megamix. I was having a lot of fun with “You’re the One That I Want”—though I’m missing my girls more than ever, as
Grease
songs really need a couple of girlfriends to sing along with—but as it cuts offhalfway through, rolling over into “Greased Lightning,” I realize the full horror of the situation. My feet finally come to a halt.
I do
not
do megamixes. And “Greased Lightning” is a really silly song anyway.
And suddenly, I realize that I’m knackered. Catching my breath, wiping my forehead, deftly swerving to avoid some idiot boy who reaches out to try to catch me as I go past, I walk off the dance floor, feeling hot all over. On the far side, a breeze is lifting the long white muslin drapes that hang around the dance floor like an Arabian tent, hooked back here and there, looped around the palm trees; I head for the gently blowing wind, lifting my hair off the back of my neck; half of it has tumbled down with all my gyrating, and my neck’s all sweaty. I’m holding my
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