Ohio Girl

Istanbul. The fınal leg of our trip. I woke up at 6 AM thıs mornıng wıth a call to prayer called out through a loudspeaker--then a man sang for a whıle lullıng me back to sleep. When i fınally hıt the streets ıt was raıny but everythıng i hoped for. I made my way up a curvıng hıll next to the back wall of Aya Sofıa wıth mınarets comıng ınto fuller vıew wıth every step. I wandered around outsıde of Tokapı Palace standıng among gaggles of tourısts; Japanese, Spanish, and of course, French. I stood there ın the drızzle turnıng cırcles and lookıng up, feelıng about ten years old.

Now, the gettıng here. That ıs a dıfferent story...

We set out from Eratını at dawn on Wednesday hopıng to make ıt all the way to Alexandropoulos. We got as far as Xanthı before dusk started to make me drowsy. The drıve was a pretty one. The farther north we headed the more famılıar the terraın. Orange and yellow-leaved trees along the hıghway and past Thessalonıkı, cotton fıelds. It was like drivıng in the south wıth cotton lınıng the road lıke snow.

Xanthı felt less Greek and much of the populatıon was Turkısh, cultures already mergıng as we got closer to the border. I had a good gyro, though, and explored the hoppıng maın square. We left at dawn agaın the next day and arrıved quıckly ın Alexandropoulos. That was to be the last thıng to happen quıckly for the rest of a very long and tryıng day.

The car rental shop was closed. We slept and waıted. We made some calls to the maın offıce, but the woman hung up on me when she got frustrated wıth my Greek and her Englısh. We waıted some more. Fınally after more than two hours a man showed up. It was a natıonal holıday ın Greece, he explaıned, meanıng he was workıng, but at a leısurely pace.

He dropped us at the traın statıon where we planned to head to Istanbul. We would have to take a bus part of the way and swıtch to a traın, the man explaıned, as there was a problem wıth the tracks. So we waıted. The expected arrıval tıme came and went. No bus. Whıle we contınued to waıt people began lınıng up for a parade. The street fılled wıth the Greek mılıtary marchıng ın lıne--machıne guns and bazookas flung over theır shoulders. Next were the polıce. Kıds stood nearby wavıng lıttle Greek flags.

The bus fınally pulled up an hour late and ı moved forward to start to load our luggage when there was a commotıon. A man from the bus and a man from the statıon spoke tensely and waved theır arms. The bus was already full ıt seemed and the traın statıon dude was demandıng that the bus people send another one. We would have to waıt. But then would we make the traın ın Souflı? I walked around a bıt and struck up a conversatıon wıth a cabbie who saıd he would delıver us to the border and that he had a frıend that would take us on to Istanbul. We went for ıt.

The rıde to the border was fast and jarrıng. Everytıme we hıt a bump and came down, the power locks actıvated on the car. The cabbie got out and spoke wıth another man who ın turn called our next drıver. It felt lıke a drug deal.

Why ıs that border crossıngs are always dusty and depressıng? As we waıted for our second taxı we ate and fed the stray dogs hangıng about. We batted at bees and smoked. Ibrahım and hıs frıend fınally came, late-whıch had caused no small amount of anxıety, and loaded us ınto theır car. But before leavıng Greece they stopped at the duty-free shop and bought bottles of ouzo and vodka and boxes of cıgarettes and peanuts. They chatted excıtedly switchıng between Greek and Turkısh. Melanıe and I exchanged glances knowıng we had just walked ınto a new adventure. She suggested we start leavıng fıngerprınts ın obvıous places, lıke on CSI. So we touched the wındows and the doors, leavıng a forensıc traıl, just ın case.

We quıckly learned the purpose of the booze and other supplıes. The cabbies used them to brıbe our way quıckly out of Greece and ınto Turkey. Serıously. At every check poınt the car would pull to the front of the lıne and Ibrahım would hop out wıth a package. We would then be waved through to the annoyance of the lınes of cars waıtıng theır turn. Melanıe and i laughed. We laughed our heads off and thought we could hear, somewhere ın Amerıca, the explodıng heads of our parents.

Now, don't get me wrong. We entered Turkey legally complete wıth stamped passports and tourıst vısas. (Unlıke enterıng Greece where we showed no one, nothıng. They stamped our passports for the fırst tıme when we left.) It ıs just that we entered really quıckly, no questıons asked, no openıng the trunk. It was all waves and smiles.

The drıve was pretty, but ıntermınable. We watched Turkısh farmers and fıelds go by as dusk approached. Every house, every busıness dısplayed the Turkısh flag; brıght red wıth a star and crescent moon. Often wıth the flags were pıctures of Attaturk. (Today ıs a natıonal holıday ın Turkey, as ıt turns out, ın addıtıon to ıt beıng Ramadan.)

For those of you who know me, well, you know that ı get moody. You also know that ı have trouble sleepıng and whıle the trıp to thıs poınt had been relaxıng and beautıful, I had not had a proper nıght's sleep ın 16 days. As we approached Istanbul we became stalled ın traffıc. Dıesel fumes fılled the car. There was an ımpendıng crısıs ınvolvıng money that ı wıll not go ınto. Every muscle ın my body ached. Somethıng ın my head snapped. I turned the reıns over to Melanıe.

It was not over yet. After beıng delıvered to yet a thırd taxı, the confusıon of settlıng thıngs wıth our mutlıple cabbıes, and then fındıng we had to swıtch hotels, I was feelıng posıtıvely apocalyptıc. Thank goodness Melanıe was ın charge. I went straıght to bed and slept soundly for more than eıght hours.

And awoke to prayer and singing...   

Greece was never on my list of destinations. Macchu Picchu (spelling), Istanbul, even Rome, but Greece was simply a country we would have to explore between Italy and Turkey. Happy accident that Greece suits me well. Boli cala. (Phonetical.)

We have set up residence in Eratini, Fokida. It is located at the bottom of a bend in a mountain curve and if you closed your eyes--which you wouldn't because you would go careening off a cliff into the sea--you would miss it. All that is out here in Fokida is deeply blue water--the kind of blue you only see in pictures--and mountains and horizon. It is perfect.

Home base is the Hotel Delphi Beach. A young man with a shaved head and a perpetual look of consternation manages the place. Each day he has a different T-shirt. One day it says 'Latin Lover.' The next it says 'Iced' trimmed with shiny, plastic bling. We call him Moby. Every morning he seems vexed to learn we will be staying another day. He is way too busy with massive, French tour groups to be bothered with the chatty American and her crippled friend.

Moby's opposite is Nikos, an older man who is balding and graying and has a big, kind smile. He dotes on us like grandchildren, following behind Melanie at the buffet to assist her with her plate, and sneaking skunked Heineken's to our room after the bar has closed.

There is also the Cute Romanian (CR) who is always working and lives at the hotel with his wife--one of the laundry ladies--his kids, and his younger brother who also waits on guests. He is there with a tray for me to carry Mel's food at breakfast and dashes off for our signature Coca Lights at dinner time. We watch them and the other Romanian staff escape out front at night for cigarettes and refuge from the French.

Which brings me to the cast of extras we have lovingly termed 'the Frenchies.' They come on huge buses in the morning, or at night, and stay for a day or two on their way to more central locales. Everynight i scan the dining room for hidden cameras, convinced i am being punked as i watch the same scene play out; a French woman walks by the cheese table and exclaims, "Fromage" with high-pitched delight. Apparently it is true that they love their cheese.

I could be perfectly happy walking out of our room and straight into the Mediterranean everyday, but we have made day trip explorations of the Fokida region, nonetheless. Our first stop was Delfi where the ruins are spectacular. The ancient Greeks considered Delfi the center of the universe and it is easy to agree with this divine notion. I will quit trying to describe the landscape of the place. It makes me feel drunk and small and hopefully the pictures will do it some justice.

The Temple of Apollo is up top; six columns rising out of the mountain. The Temple of Athena is below; more delicate and feminine with detailed carvings still evident. The columns are like fingers--a waiter balancing a tray--holding up the heavy arch. Only gravity keeps it all together.

I visisted the Monastery of St. Luke's located just beyond Arachova and Distomo. Melanie waited behind patiently, yet again. Everything here is perched on the edge of something steep and requires climbing up, or down.

I was able to have the kind of experience at St. Luke's that i could not at the Sistine Chapel. Famous for its 10th century (?) frescoes the detail and beauty that surrounds you is overwhelming. It is quiet and intimate and frankly i prefer the Byzantine style. Forgive me Papa Benedict.

As i gawked, older Greek men and women moved in circles crossing themselves, lighting candles, and kissing everything they could reach; statues, pictures, walls.

We have explored the little towns and the landscapes in between in Fokida. There are olive tree orchards and farm spreads with stone fencing. The goats are the size of the cattle. Donkeys wait at the side of the road for their riders to return. There is a sheep farmer down the road from the hotel and we keep running into him in the evening as he herds them all home--our car suddenly overtaken and surrounded by the moving mass of fluffiness.

In honor of the Hall men i have played close attention to all of the tractors. There have been Massey Fergusons, Case Internationals, an old Ford, and even a little Fiat model.

The old women (who are in mourning i believe) wear uniforms of black skirts and scarves and walk hunched over and bow-legged--crosses dangling from their necks. They are all supremely sympathetic to Melanie. One woman layed hands upon us today to offer a blessing. She grabbed Melanie's shoulder and my right breast, full on. That's what i get for showing so much cleavage.

I am filled with feta and olives and moussaka--a traditional Greek dish. I have eaten lamb and all manner of creatures. Again, Father Pope will have to forgive me. And if the food, the people, and the scenery were not enough to win my heart, guess what else I have learned about this place? The Greeks love Bourbon Whiskey. It might as well be home.

Postscript: This is the message I lost. I did not really spend two hours on it and i got the luxury of rewriting it longhand while standing in the sea. The Frenchies were there in the sea as well. All i could see was their heads bobbing with the waves. There would be a head and I would hear, "C'est bon." Another wave, another head, "Bon, bon." The whole time i wrote they floated and shouted with the same glee they show towards the cheese. I love the French.

Well, who knew dodging tractor trailers on the freeway with prostitutes would be the simplest and safest part of the trip?

We left Castel Volturno early on the 19th with Sister Regina who guided us back to Naples by train. She bid us goodbye with hugs and snacks and made sure we found the correct train to Casserta. From there we caught a train to Bari and spent a beautiful afternoon lounging and reading in one of its parks. Situated right on the water, Bari is exactly what you imagine when you think of a Mediterranean coastal town; outdoor cafes, tall trees hanging down like beach umbrellas, medieval-looking, fortress walls to block invaders coming across the sea.

At 5 PM we boarded the ferry for Greece and within minutes i was sea sick. I had forgotten to put on the patch meant to prevent just that thing and found myself clutching the walls for balance with my stomach churning along with the waves. This was while the boat was still harbored, mind you. I am such a classic earth sign and such a wimp! I slapped on the patch and slept for three hours waking as the boat pulled away from land. I felt fine and we headed down stairs to eat and check out the water.   

I have tried to think of a dramatic way to describe what happened next, but there was nothing very dramatic about it. On the steps down to the main area of the boat, Melanie--my freind, colleague, and traveling companion--lost her footing just slightly. It was a small fall, but she was in agonizing pain. She heard something crack.

The crew responded quickly helping me to get her to a chair and bringing some ice. They went to find a doctor, but returned with the captain. He had the sort of paternal air of authority that made him the next best thing to a doctor. He was attractive--some successful combination of the captian from the Love Boat and Tom Selleck--and he was calm. We needed lots of calm. He informed us we would have to wait eight more hours until Greece to get medical attention. He got us a new, swankier cabin close to the door, free dinner, and a big old pain pill of some kind for Melanie.

He also assigned a crew member to look out for us who spoke little English, making it as good a time as any to try out my tiny bit of newly acquired Greek. It worked. He assumed i was a Greek American, or had a Greek parent. He complimented me. I blushed. I love learning new words; new ways to communicate. And I love NOT being THAT American. You know the one.

When we docked, an ambulance was waiting and took us to a health clinic in Igoumenitsa. Waiting for us there was an evil (undoubtedly overworked) nurse who screamed a lot and kept insisting Melanie's injury was minor, even though she could not move, or put weight on her ankle. She kicked her out of a bed (even though the place was empty) and forced her to hop to chairs in the waiting area until a doctor arrived in a couple of hours. Well, it took no Greek and no translating to get across what i had to say next. Believe me, they got my meaning and i was happy to be THAT American. You know the one. We took a taxi to the nearest hospital a couple of villages over. 

At the hospital a young resident with bleached, blonde hair ordered x-rays immediately. When i say young, I mean somewhere around twelve. The pictures were back in a snap and guess what? It was a bouncing, baby fracture. Take that Nurse BitchyBitch! Dr. Barbie set about putting on a cast until interrupted by Dr. Cologne who ordered some more x-rays. We named him that for obvious reasons; his cologne entered the room about five minutes before he did. Satisfied that there was just the one fracture, they finished patching Melanie up and charged her not one, red cent. Viva universal health care!

As they prepared to wheel Melanie out to the taxi they had called for us, i prepared to negotiate the luggage of two people; two people who packed too much. A group of men saw me and came over to help. Having heard my English they asked where i was from and were excited to meet an American. They were probably a little excited to get away from the ancient, Greek Orthodox priest who was nosing into their business as well. The hospital was in a little mountian village (could not tell you the name) crawling with the religious men in long, black robes and tall, black hats. The women were all elderly and wore scarves and skirts and talked with their hands, dramatically. A row of Black men were just as out of place as two large Americans, probably more so, and we bonded.

They were from Nigeria, as it turned out. It was too coincidental as we had just come from Castel Volturno where the population is majority West African and mostly Nigerian, so i mentioned it. They had indeed lived there and knew the sisters we stayed with and it was all Ciao and kisses from there--giving the priests something to whisper about. Desmond carried Melanie's bags outside and we said goodbye like old friends.

As i was about to get into the taxi to Ioanina a nurse grabbed my arm. A very nice nurse. She had something important to tell me; a message from the attractive, but pungent orderly that had gotten Melanie into the car. He wants you to tell Condeleeza "Hello." Her English was all pushed together. What? She repeated. I kept hearing hearing Condeleeza, but thought, no, it couldn't be. "Your secretary of state, he loves her." Oh, it was. It seems the blue-eyed, orderly has a huge crush on Condeleeza Rice and wanted me to pass it along. Sure, I said. I will send her a note. Me and Condi are like this. (Crossing my fingers to indicate our tight friendship.)

We were both exhausted when we got in the taxi for an hour-long ride. I intended to sleep, but made coversation with Stabros (spelling), the driver, while Melanie stretched out and tried to nap in back. He knew about a dozen words and phrases in English, which about matched my Greek. Using that and four German words, we managed to get to know each other a bit. He was born in Germany to Greek parents. He moved back to Greece to join the army and complained about Turkey and illegal immigrants from the Balkans. Xenophobia is not sexy, but he was cute and protective; buckling my seat belt for me and asking after Melanie. I chastised him for smoking with a nasty cold and he smiled. I think i got a marriage proposal. It was thoughtful, but not romantic. "You are woman, I am man. You are single, I am single. You are 30 (I know I am thirty-two, but i only knew how to say 30 in Greek and thought it was close enough) and I am 44." He then made a gesture to indicate we were both running out of options and time. Again, thoughtful, but not exactly the moment a girl dreams about.   

We were delivered safely to a hotel in Ioanina; a beatiful, mountain town that looked and smelled like Guatemala. The hotel staff helped us to settle and after visiting the pharmacy to get medications and crutches, we rested and attempted to settle into to our new reality. Greece with a broken ankle. Melanie is a tough broad, though. She is sticking it out and soaking up as much of Greece as she can hop to. It is helpful we picked up a rental car.

I write now from Delfi where i just hiked up to see the Temple of Apollo looking out over the mountains and breathed in ancient air. We have a nice hotel on the Korinthian Sea where we have lounged on the beach and watched the water for hours. The hotel is filled with French tour groups; in fact we are the only Americans. I am now attempting some high school French--my fifth language of the trip.

If someone has to break a leg, it might as well be in Greece. 

NASCAR has  nothing on me. Those guys dodge sheet metal at 190 miles per hour wrapped in harnesses and belts and padding of all sorts. I have just spent the morning dodging trucks and buses and cars and JOHNS--zooming past close enough to make my teeth chatter. And my only protection was my back pack and a feisty, Nigerian nun.

We arrived in Castel Volturno last night and are staying with three sisters of sacre couer who work with prostitutes. We met Sister Regina, their leader, back in the spring while she was in the states and she told us of her work. Nigerian women who are trafficked into Italy as sex slaves are sent out on the road to work, collecting money to pay their madams and pimps and to pay off the huge debt that they owe for passage to Italy. Of course they never pay their way out of it and escape under fear of death, or harm to their families back home. There are mafia connections and the tiny nuns have faced off thugs of all sorts in order to do outreach. They bring women in, house them, train them for jobs, and help them get proper papers to be in Italy. Other sisters look out for their families back in Nigeria.

Hearing about the work is one thing, seeing it is a quite another. When Sister says the women work out on the road she means they stand out on the highway, cars passing at breakneck speeds, in the middle of nowhere. The Napoli boondocks. A car dropped us and we began our walk with cookies and water in tow. We stopped to talk to the women, who stood in small groups. The Nigerian women were the nicest. Deferent to Sister Regina they gave warm greetings and spent time talking about their lives. They happily ended our meetings in prayer with the Sister and agreed to consider her invitation to a new life. But who knows.

Part traveling sales lady, part Jehovah's witness, and part Mother Teresa, Sister Regina's message was not as enthusiasticaly heard by the women from Albania and the Ukraine. They liked their jobs, they said. They make a lot of money. They accepted cookies and smiled while Sister spoke, but did not wish to pray. They appraised my friend and I; suspicious and amused.  I am no missionary and i kept my distance; observed.

One young woman, blonde with large eyes, serviced her john in a small car parked in a field, while we stood with her friends. When she emerged she pulled out a wet wipe to clean herself; her hands, her mouth, between her legs. The john pulled past us. He was a young blonde man in punk gear who reminded me of Flea from the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

Sister was constantly concerned about us. That we were tired of walking, or in shock. She accepted rides from men who pulled over to help the nun along the highway. They would greet us and drop us farther down and i could not help but wonder what separated them from the johns.

Prostitutes and johns. Rides with strangers. Playing in traffic. My parent's worst nightmare.

Planes are not meant to be inhabited for 9 hours.

The young, blonde Ukranian and Russian girls ahead of us in line at immigration were kept for 30 minutes--their ability to pass held hostage for their local phone numbers. My passport was stamped in 10 seconds without so much as a nod. I have never been so grateful for my looks.

Rome is bursting. At the seams. The ear drums. Bulging eye balls. So much to take in with only five senses.

Wine, Jack Daniels, and espresso should not be consumed in combination.

The Colisseum is everything the history channel said it would be. Packed with tourists from all over the world--each person walks in circles stroking the walls--to connect to the old. Modern grafitti merges with the ancient. Stone arches against blue sky go on and on.

Pizza for every meal is okay. It really is nothing like the Dominoes I ordered last week.

The Vatican is hard to take. I wanted it to be a spiritual experience. But the Sistine chapel was packed sholder to shoulder while guards broke the silence with constant admonitions about BEING silent. The famous frescoes seemed somehow unreal--like a cartoon. Every inch begged for attention that ran out quickly. And the British tour guide--with painted-on, tight pants--did not apreciate our jokes about Pope Joan or Madonna. 

But the square outside of the Basilica IS a holy place. The saints surround you and watch down paternally.

Subways suck everywhere.

I want to dress up as a Vatican Swiss Guard for Halloween. 

The Pantheon is my favorite spot. It is as Byron described. Austere, but painfully beautiful. The opening in the dome brings the night sky right down to you.

I should eat outside every day.

My hair curls better with Roman water and weather.

I cannot get that Liz Phair song out of my head. Where she compares someone to Rome. Old and piled, like Rome.

Do not bother with seatbelts in Rome. When you get in a car you are a making pact with the Divine. The seatbelt only invites doubt. And what is the problem, really, with two cars, two scooters, and a bus all using the same lane at once?

Women on scooters are hot.

I am somewhat retarded when it comes to figuring things out in large train stations. But i am now accustomed to being clueless and unashamed to let strangers take care of me.

I miss you Stephanie. Thanks for writing. Write again.

It is impossible to really catch all of my thoughts.  My journal is so much chicken scratch. My blog not much better.

I love Alabama because on the drive down I get to stop at the Last Chance, right on the border before you leave Tennessee. It is a hole-in-the-wall out in the country; cement block and wood-paneling. The parking lot looks like a Silverado dealership. Couples dance and older gentlemen sing karaoke. The bathroom door doesn’t lock quite right and the man with the least number of teeth is bound to look my way. I feel right at home as a once, or twice a year regular.

I love Alabama because when I drive in at night and roll down the windows the air smells heavy and my hair gets curlier. The next morning the skies are just as blue as the song lyric describes.

I love Alabama because of the statue of the God Vulcan that watches over Birmingham. He looks like someone’s kind-hearted grandpa who goes out to check the mail in nothing but his boxers.

I love Alabama because of the Voting Rights Act Museum in Selma. Housed in a little building smelling of mold, it is testament to those who marched all the way from Selma to Montgomery. Old shoes--worn clear through--photographs, and hand-written notes tell the tale. One slip of paper on a wall says, “I was arrested in Selma in 1965.” Another note farther down says, “I was a state trooper in 1965.” When I walk across the Edmund-Pettis Bridge I cry. White girl from Ohio, or no, I feel a sense of pride, a sense of understanding about what it means to be an American, that I have never known before. And I swear I can hear the echo of footsteps.

I love Alabama because of the Peach Pit in Clanton. They sell fried, sweet potato pie and fresh cobbler with homemade ice cream. Every visit I am forced to reconsider what I thought I knew about dessert.

And I love Alabama because of Talladega Superspeedway.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

The lots at NASCAR races are part Grateful Dead show, part football tailgating. There are families, bikers, good ol’ boys, and young women decked out--head-to-toe--in the merchandise of their favorite drivers. Some of them come and spend days in RVs, or tents. Little communities develop with dogs and kiddie pools, grills and card games. At night there is beer around the campfire.

Talladega is all of that with an added mix of southern hospitality, southern passion, and southern eccentricity; the carnival meets church revival. Dizzying as the world is just outside of the track, the world inside gets turned upside down.

Walking in, it feels as though the clear, blue sky has been scooped into a bowl and served for your pleasure. Seated almost anywhere on the front stretch you can see perfectly into all the corners with only a small portion of the back stretch obscured. At other superspeedways, like Indy, you can only see what is directly in front of you. The banking reaches four stories and the speeds are high, even with the restrictor plates.

The racing is fast and close. Real close. Cars go three and four wide into the corners. And there is a whole lot of passing and bump-drafting. That there is not a wreck on every lap is a testament to the skill of race car driving.

But Talladega IS legendary for its wrecks. I have watched Elliot Sadler somersault through the air only to land on his wheels and cross the finish line. I have watched as 25 cars pile up, one after the other, going into a turn; each contact producing a flash of light from the wall of smoke.

I have watched Junior come from the back with only a handful of laps to go and win the race. I have watched lead changes that are so close you can almost feel the driver’s adrenalin. I rarely sit down at Talladega.

Watching on television is not quite the same, but this past Sunday didn’t disappoint.  There were cars passing in packs by razor-thin margins. There were multiple lead changes, and of course, there were some big crashes.

But the ending was the story. McMurray took the lead from Stewart with 13 laps to go. Then Kenseth took it from McMurray. Schrader crashed after losing a tire bringing out a late race caution and the green-white-checker. When they got back to racing, Stewart made a fast, outside pass on Newman and then swooped down for an immediate, inside pass on Kenseth. Stewart looked to have it locked, but then Jarrett, who had helped bump Stewart back to the front, pulled ahead on the outside. He pulled ahead just enough. And this was a big win for DJ who just got his old, crew chief back and who finally broke a long, dry spell. He was beaming like an 8 year old who just hit is first, little league, home run.

And that is why I love Alabama.

Your hips moved regardless of what your brain had to say. It started as a twitch, a little shake, and moved into a Chubby Checker twist with Latin intonations. And then the rest of your body joined in until you were two-stepping, or swing dancing, or square dancing, or whatever it is that you do, with your neighbor.

Maybe you walked in the door loving Dwight Yoakam, counting down the minutes until his own hips started to swivel. Maybe you came in thinking, yeah, I like a couple of his songs. Maybe you were dragged in by a boyfriend, or a girlfriend, never having heard a note. Regardless, you danced.

The older couple moving in staccato with arthritic joints--they danced. The yuppies with trendy eye wear and chunky shoes danced. The drunken bikers with bandanas and long beards danced. The guy who used to follow the Dead and still moves as if he is feeling the air, he danced. The middle-aged women with smart, short hair cuts danced and giggled. The guys wearing stylized western shirts and too much gel danced. The young women spilling out of their tank tops danced. The working-class couples who blew through the whole month's spending money to be there--they danced too.

I don't care if you don't like country, you still danced. And Dwight brings everyone together with a smooth whine and sounds that are at once pure, back-to-the-beginning, Honky-Tonk and utter reinvention; a synthesis of blue grass, blues, and rockabilly--norteno, swing, and Hank.

And when that guitar started moving propelled by skinny legs and inspired hips, by a man people would hardly recognize without the ten gallon pulled down low; when Dwight danced, well, even the straight men let out a groan.