Garden Party

On Labor Day weekend I was one of the, oh, five people who stayed in Washington. It wasn't really like a ghost town, it was more like the week before school starts, when you know that soon you will have early mornings and homework and autumn and you want desperately to make the most of this last week by doing absolutely nothing and avoiding human contact, preferably while sitting outside in the sun with a book you've read fifteen times. This is about all I did on Labor Day weekend. Except on Saturday night.

Leon's parties are a regular item of conversations among DC dancers. It starts slowly a few weeks beforehand-you might overhear someone at the bar, "...and I'm always there Tuesdays...and yes, of course Leon's party..." "...to Leon's in a few weeks? I will be out of town..." "...I met him at Leon's last party..." And then it picks up speed, weaving in and out of conversation like the cigarette smoke at Habana Village "You've never been to one of Leon's parties...! Girl!" "Yes, and of course, this Saturday, Leon's. Everyone goes to Leon's." "Plans this weekend? Besides Leon's party?" And soon you feel that if you don't go to his party, you will be missing something momentous, some sort of profound dancer's bacchanal, and the decision is thrust upon you: come hell or high water. You must be there on Saturday.

Saturday night was warm and thickly quiet, with a few autumnal breezes. I dolled up in my colorful almost-Hawaiian print dress and I curled my hair and I put on my dancing shoes and I took myself and some homemade cookies (the bringing of food cuts the price of admission) to Leon's townhouse. Tiki lanterns lined the walkway to the front door, lais were distributed at the entrance, and a dancer's baccahanal it was: Two dance floors inside for tango, flanked by two tables of snacks, kebabs, fruit, cookies, and punch. Down the stairs and through the basement, up into the backyard-an outdoor dance floor that took up most of the yard but still left room for benches, more tiki lanterns in a lush border garden, white christmas lights, tables for punch, wine, and a spread of chicken, rice, vegetables, dips, and kebabs. The music echoed from speakers in the corner of the garden: salsa, mambo, cha-cha, merengue, tango. The crowd was all in Hawaiian print, a sea of tropical colors, hibiscus and pineapple. It was what a garden party is supposed to be. I felt like Jay to Leon's Gatsby. I felt like I should drive a Rolls home, or better, be driven. I felt like everyone there was secretly wealthy, but nobody cared because even if they weren't, they knew they'd still be welcome.

The music was cut regretably short because of a neighbor who thought that 11 PM was too late for revellers to be playing music outside - the first complaint in years of such parties. We unhappily moved inside, muttering to each other that if they didn't like listening, maybe they should loosen up, come over, and dance a little: Here, have a lai. But we couldn't keep the momentum, and the crowd slowly disintegrated over a few hours. Next time, Leon says, we'll have to have to gather at 2 in the afternoon, like the Cubans.

...Will you be there? Have you ever been to one of his parties?

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Friedman really is trying to drive me away: Three most recent articles, "Osama and Katrina," "New Orleans and Baghdad," and today, "Singapore and Katrina." I like you, and I get that there's parallelism. But really, can we liven up the titles a bit? Thanks.