THE DANCERS

The city roars with life. Tonight, Rome is a river, swarming with all sorts of creatures. Some belong to the city, while others traveled thousands of miles to reach this destination. The only similarity between the parts of this mass collection of people is their movement; they are a school of fish. They gather in this conclave of humans, not merely for another Roman night. No, tonight is the night: the Notte Bianca. Our clan of university students looks massive during the daytime; tonight, we are a tiny group of just eleven.

My world lacks scent; I lost my sense of smell on the Capitoline Hill, more accurately named the Anthill tonight. My nose gave away her precious function in disgust; the wind carried it away, the way it carried the odor of thousands of living, breathing, shouting Romans through the crowds. We escaped the lumbering giant climbing up to see the concert; we pushed downward, through the crowd, to escape. Finally, we are here: the Corso Vittorio Emmanuele II.

Joel leads, discovering a path around the mass. We follow as he darts through mazes of poles, across a tiny park square with token trees and dilapidated green benches, around the edge of the crowd. We are headed to the Colosseum, to see my beloved site in all its nighttime brilliance. We hear it’s spectacular.

Suddenly, Joel takes off running. Tonight, we are on the buddy system. As any reliable buddy will do, Schuyler takes off after Joel. As a generally responsible person might do, Henry takes off after both of them. Laughing, the rest of us maintain our somewhat-leisurely pace. We know we’ll catch up to them eventually, as always.

We do catch up. The three guys are standing on a hill, which is cut vertically and held up by a concrete retaining wall to line the Corso Vittorio Emmanuele II. Joel looks ecstatic; following his gaze, we understand. Below, a small band begins playing. Drums, drums, drums! The beat is alternately light and heavy. It is uplifting and lively. The rhythms are foreign to me; I am too meticulous for this music. It is dancing music, but I have no idea how to begin dancing to it. I would need time to absorb, to think, to familiarize, but this is spontaneous music. Joel has no such qualms; he dives in, dancing to the peculiar beat. Around him, people cheer. My other companions giggle helplessly; I join in the infectious laughter.

Joel dances for an entire song before any of us join him. Cashing in on a bet won earlier, Linda convinces Mitch to join Joel. Mitch tries his best to match Joel’s movement. Joel’s dancing is like an instrument added to the ensemble; he is at perfect pitch. He is impossible to imitate tonight, but Mitch is persistent.

Linda attempts to convince Scott to join the fray, but Scott is adamant. He already seems distressed by his companion participating in the dancing. Unfazed by Scott’s resistance, Linda joins the dancers instead. The three of them make an odd trio: one moves naturally with the beat, one is learning how, and the other does her own dance. I watch them and wish I had the courage to join them. For now, my place is on the sideline, taking a mental video of my three brave companions.

My Notte Bianca wasn’t the Capitoline concert, the glowing Colosseum, the ubiquitous crowd, or the blazing fire troupes. It was three dancers dancing to a beat I could not even begin to understand. Three dancers captured in a moment of enlightenment, taught by music of which I could only hear the surface.