After months of talking and planning, the Swing Kids Performance Team went to the Boston Tea Party, an annual workshop weekend replete with competitions, exhibitions, social dancing and lots and lots of workshops.
We spent a couple of days running around the city first and I discovered how exhausting it really is being a tourist. The Freedom Trial took us to a number of historical places of note, and gave us a general introduction to the city. Even though Old Ironsides was in bed by the time we reached her, and Bunker Hill was locked up tight, I think we got a thick, juicy slice of Boston to chew on for a while. And we had a nice, long, lingering tour of Fenway Park, so what more could we possibly want?
In North Boston, we sought out a restaurant for lunch, somewhere off the beaten path. We stumbled into a joint somewhere deep in the heart of Little Italy that wasn't technically open. But they saw our hungry group and fired up the grill, Italian style. The food, was phenomenal. Of course.
Over the weekend we volunteered at the event, I discovered the most basic of all elements has actually been missing from my Lindy over the past 14 years-- step, step, triple step. It was presented, sure, but under many guises, none of which resonated. The result was a tall, handsome instructor walking over, pointing out my footwork, then adjusting a few things in my swing out. "Relax," he said, putting an arm around me in side-by-side. "That's it. That's how I want to hold you." Me, too.
Three of our team members competed, and Ethan even made the semi-finals. Competing at all was daring, seeing as they all started in September. One of the dancers they were competing with has been dancing for 10 years! She just never got into competing... I was terribly proud of them all.
Sunday night found us in Harvard Square, stopping in Tasty Burger for some fries and root beer, wandering through Harvard Yard (no, my kids did not rub John Harvard's shiny gold toe).
Monday we hoped for IHOP, but alas, took too long to get moving. We ended up in Quincy Market, improvising breakfast while I stopped in one of the 17 Starbucks within a block to see my old boss. She was interviewing, but I got to say hello and was surprised when she actually recognized me instantly. Aha! So I haven't totally altered in six years.
We were a few minutes late getting to the train, but before we bordered the worst realization dawned. I had left the canoli in our hotel. Understand that the only thing my mother asked when I left was that I bring her some canoli from Mike's Pastry in North Boston. She even paid for them herself. What was I to do? She would be so disappointed. The hotel was over the river and too far by land or by sea, and our flight wouldn't wait. And did the train take 45 minutes or 30 and was I willing to chance it?
"Hold my coat!" I handed all my earthly possessions to the team, grabbed my ATM card and ran toward North Boston, ducking, dodging, weaving through the thin foot traffic around Government Center. I bounded into a bank, paid the cursed $3.50 for access to my own money, dodged traffic and made my way to a, gratefully, uncrowded Mike's. Canoli in hand, I ran back and rejoined the team less than 15 minutes after I'd left them, breathless, hot, but successful.
We made it to the airport in time for our flights, but then the oddest thing occurred. That, however, is another story.
We spent a couple of days running around the city first and I discovered how exhausting it really is being a tourist. The Freedom Trial took us to a number of historical places of note, and gave us a general introduction to the city. Even though Old Ironsides was in bed by the time we reached her, and Bunker Hill was locked up tight, I think we got a thick, juicy slice of Boston to chew on for a while. And we had a nice, long, lingering tour of Fenway Park, so what more could we possibly want?
In North Boston, we sought out a restaurant for lunch, somewhere off the beaten path. We stumbled into a joint somewhere deep in the heart of Little Italy that wasn't technically open. But they saw our hungry group and fired up the grill, Italian style. The food, was phenomenal. Of course.
Over the weekend we volunteered at the event, I discovered the most basic of all elements has actually been missing from my Lindy over the past 14 years-- step, step, triple step. It was presented, sure, but under many guises, none of which resonated. The result was a tall, handsome instructor walking over, pointing out my footwork, then adjusting a few things in my swing out. "Relax," he said, putting an arm around me in side-by-side. "That's it. That's how I want to hold you." Me, too.
Three of our team members competed, and Ethan even made the semi-finals. Competing at all was daring, seeing as they all started in September. One of the dancers they were competing with has been dancing for 10 years! She just never got into competing... I was terribly proud of them all.
Sunday night found us in Harvard Square, stopping in Tasty Burger for some fries and root beer, wandering through Harvard Yard (no, my kids did not rub John Harvard's shiny gold toe).
Monday we hoped for IHOP, but alas, took too long to get moving. We ended up in Quincy Market, improvising breakfast while I stopped in one of the 17 Starbucks within a block to see my old boss. She was interviewing, but I got to say hello and was surprised when she actually recognized me instantly. Aha! So I haven't totally altered in six years.
We were a few minutes late getting to the train, but before we bordered the worst realization dawned. I had left the canoli in our hotel. Understand that the only thing my mother asked when I left was that I bring her some canoli from Mike's Pastry in North Boston. She even paid for them herself. What was I to do? She would be so disappointed. The hotel was over the river and too far by land or by sea, and our flight wouldn't wait. And did the train take 45 minutes or 30 and was I willing to chance it?
"Hold my coat!" I handed all my earthly possessions to the team, grabbed my ATM card and ran toward North Boston, ducking, dodging, weaving through the thin foot traffic around Government Center. I bounded into a bank, paid the cursed $3.50 for access to my own money, dodged traffic and made my way to a, gratefully, uncrowded Mike's. Canoli in hand, I ran back and rejoined the team less than 15 minutes after I'd left them, breathless, hot, but successful.
We made it to the airport in time for our flights, but then the oddest thing occurred. That, however, is another story.
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