Saturday night I hit the polka dance floor with a man wearing a gold t-shirt that had some words emblazoned on it that I kept thinking said “reefer madness.” Such was not the case. What they really said had to do with reefs, but there it was, I saw what I wanted to see. I rarely wear clothes with words on them. It's a solid color for me, no florals, rare stripes, fewer words.
He was a good dancer, and a patient teacher. The thing about the polka, it seems to me, is you can either glide or you can chop. It can be smooth but syncopated or high stepping and sweaty. It is a proletariat dance-- about anyone can do it--and the dance floor was filled with a small village. The demographics would make a census taker proud. For this I may get a t-shirt, and mine will say: I Have a Polka Blog. His: Beer Barrel Polka or Bust.
Maybe the polka is one of those ways you really find out the truth about another person, like de-tangling Christmas tree lights together or getting lost in the Paris Metro with minimal French skills. My personal favorite dance is the cha-cha-cha, maybe because I don't know the tango, but the polka sure was pure unadulterated fun.