roll,' replied Laura.
'Rock and roll,' said the boy, 'is very old fashioned. Do you know any other dance?'
I thought foolishly of the postcards of the Kaa'ba at Mecca that I had, at enormous expense, brought from a Pakistani grocery in Cambridge in order to try and woo my way into Muslim hearts. With a sheaf of Samantha Fox pin-ups Turkey could have been mine.
'Do you think they would like the Gay Gordons?' I asked Laura.
'Who is gay Gordon?' asked the PT teacher.
'He is a dance.'
'A new one?'
'Brand new.'
'You will teach us?'
The tables and chairs were cleared into a pile at the far end of the room. Laura and I took our position in front of twenty Turks, all chattering excitedly. Laura raised her hand and everyone shut up. I got into position, one hand holding her right hand above her right shoulder, the other grasping her left hand at waist height. We stood still for a dramatic, silent moment while I cocked my head in a show of mock confidence and tried desperately to remember what I had been taught by the Huskey-clad Scots woman in the cold village hall near Portree.
Then we were off, Laura in the lead. We hopped up the length of the room, pirouetted and headed back the way we had come. We turned, and did the same in reverse. We twinkled back and forward, clockwise and anti-clockwise, hopping and swaying our way around the length of the cafe until we drew to a halt near the great samovar at the end of the room.
We bowed, and the Turks bowed back. Most of them looked utterly bewildered by our demonstration. But Gay Gordon was modern, and they were determined to master him.
We lined them up in pairs according to height; two fragile-looking farmers' sons at one end, a couple of yelling savages, fat as bouncers, at the other. Laura stood on a bench and shouted 'one, two, three!' As if kicked from behind, the line moved off towards the samovar. Our Gay Gordon was not an enormous success. We failed to demonstrate properly how to manoeuvre at the end of the room and the dance sewn ended in a calamitous pile-up.
But we were not to be allowed off without teaching them something. Despite our choreographic failure they cried for another dance and Laura suggested we try to teach them an eightsome. Someone was sent off to find the village musicians. A few minutes later two men appeared bearing a long balalaika and a pair of small calfskin drums. We got them to play something that sounded roughly like the correct rhythm, dismissed the savages and some other less enthusiastic dancers, then organized the remainder in two circles. The fragile boys were in my circle; Laura got the PT teacher.
Surprisingly, this time our teaching was successful, perhaps because the eightsome was not unlike some Turkish dances. We showed them how to pas de bas and set, and how to turn each other. Then we demonstrated how to spin the centre of the circle and cross in a figure of eight. The musicians struck up the beat: twang-twang-twang Padum! Padum! Padum! The pas de bas remained a stumbling block, but they all seemed to enjoy themselves and all in all took to reeling with remarkable ease.
After our exertions we felt we had earned the offers of supper which were thrust upon us; the night bus did not leave until eight o'clock and we had worked up a healthy appetite. We were billeted with a boy called Rajep who had been Laura s partner in the eightsome. He was, so he told us, not only from the richest family in the village, but also the cleverest. He studied law at the Bosphonis University in Istanbul - and had a T-shirt to prove it. He was appalled to learn that we both studied history. 'In Turkey history has no value,' he said as he walked us to his home. The only serious subjects are engineering, medicine, law and economics.'
He was, however, reasonably impressed that we were from Oxford and Cambridge: 'I have heard people say that they are quite good universities.'
We were taken to his house, and sat outside beneath the fig trees. It was evening
'Rock and roll,' said the boy, 'is very old fashioned. Do you know any other dance?'
I thought foolishly of the postcards of the Kaa'ba at Mecca that I had, at enormous expense, brought from a Pakistani grocery in Cambridge in order to try and woo my way into Muslim hearts. With a sheaf of Samantha Fox pin-ups Turkey could have been mine.
'Do you think they would like the Gay Gordons?' I asked Laura.
'Who is gay Gordon?' asked the PT teacher.
'He is a dance.'
'A new one?'
'Brand new.'
'You will teach us?'
The tables and chairs were cleared into a pile at the far end of the room. Laura and I took our position in front of twenty Turks, all chattering excitedly. Laura raised her hand and everyone shut up. I got into position, one hand holding her right hand above her right shoulder, the other grasping her left hand at waist height. We stood still for a dramatic, silent moment while I cocked my head in a show of mock confidence and tried desperately to remember what I had been taught by the Huskey-clad Scots woman in the cold village hall near Portree.
Then we were off, Laura in the lead. We hopped up the length of the room, pirouetted and headed back the way we had come. We turned, and did the same in reverse. We twinkled back and forward, clockwise and anti-clockwise, hopping and swaying our way around the length of the cafe until we drew to a halt near the great samovar at the end of the room.
We bowed, and the Turks bowed back. Most of them looked utterly bewildered by our demonstration. But Gay Gordon was modern, and they were determined to master him.
We lined them up in pairs according to height; two fragile-looking farmers' sons at one end, a couple of yelling savages, fat as bouncers, at the other. Laura stood on a bench and shouted 'one, two, three!' As if kicked from behind, the line moved off towards the samovar. Our Gay Gordon was not an enormous success. We failed to demonstrate properly how to manoeuvre at the end of the room and the dance sewn ended in a calamitous pile-up.
But we were not to be allowed off without teaching them something. Despite our choreographic failure they cried for another dance and Laura suggested we try to teach them an eightsome. Someone was sent off to find the village musicians. A few minutes later two men appeared bearing a long balalaika and a pair of small calfskin drums. We got them to play something that sounded roughly like the correct rhythm, dismissed the savages and some other less enthusiastic dancers, then organized the remainder in two circles. The fragile boys were in my circle; Laura got the PT teacher.
Surprisingly, this time our teaching was successful, perhaps because the eightsome was not unlike some Turkish dances. We showed them how to pas de bas and set, and how to turn each other. Then we demonstrated how to spin the centre of the circle and cross in a figure of eight. The musicians struck up the beat: twang-twang-twang Padum! Padum! Padum! The pas de bas remained a stumbling block, but they all seemed to enjoy themselves and all in all took to reeling with remarkable ease.
After our exertions we felt we had earned the offers of supper which were thrust upon us; the night bus did not leave until eight o'clock and we had worked up a healthy appetite. We were billeted with a boy called Rajep who had been Laura s partner in the eightsome. He was, so he told us, not only from the richest family in the village, but also the cleverest. He studied law at the Bosphonis University in Istanbul - and had a T-shirt to prove it. He was appalled to learn that we both studied history. 'In Turkey history has no value,' he said as he walked us to his home. The only serious subjects are engineering, medicine, law and economics.'
He was, however, reasonably impressed that we were from Oxford and Cambridge: 'I have heard people say that they are quite good universities.'
We were taken to his house, and sat outside beneath the fig trees. It was evening
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