One winter evening, when I was twenty-six years old and recovering from a long illness, I decided to go out dancing. I could have chosen another form of entertainment, I suppose — a movie or a meal out — but I chose contradancing because it would involve my body more than my mind, and my mind was what had gotten me into trouble.
I’d never been to a contradance before, and I picked one that was held in a Methodist church in Greenwich Village. I entered through a side door and descended a long staircase to a narrow, steamy basement drenched in light and music. Three double rows of people ran the length of the room. They joined hands in lines, slid into circles of four, and then slapped their heels on the hardwood. The band — fiddle, guitar, keyboard, and bass — surprised the dancers with a key change, which made them shout and stamp their feet some more. The hair on the back of my neck lifted.
