My dance instructor has returned for a short visit from her journeys in the Middle East. She has been studying and performing with big names in Cairo and on the Red Sea, and when she leaves again for that land of sun and wind she'll have a 10 week contract performing on a Mediterranean cruise ship that travels from Cairo to Lebanon and Turkey. She has many womderful stories to tell of people and places, and I have missed her very much.

I have also missed her dance instruction; she is the best teacher I've ever encountered, regardless of subject. She brought home with her a pocketful of impressive moves suitable for slow romantic music, which she taught in a workshop last Saturday that still has me sore and aching. In addition to being physically difficult and demanding, some of the moves she taught are extremely intricate and require much presence of mind for proper control and execution. Next Saturday she teaches the counterpoint of those slow moves; next Saturday we work on drum solo and shimmy techniques. Three hours of constant motion with "straight leg!" "do not hold!" "relax, shoulders down!" "step left, step right, demi-point, drop-twist!"

She is petite and so incredibly and deceptively strong, her body does everything she asks of it. After six months in Egypt she is sleek and sound as a desert racehorse, and quick as a cat. She has an incredible intensity about her, a brilliance that shines from within, blended with a smoky sultriness. Her eyes dance with cunning sans guile and her body moves always with poise and grace. I knew she'd kick my ass; I just didn't count on such a solid beating. Three hours this coming Saturday. Three hours. I'm stretching and practicing and I can only hope to be ready.