For some time now, it has been my opinion that going to dance clubs would be fun, being as how I have unlocked the secrets of Looking Cool While Dancing (warning: may not work for all possible values of gender): A) This is about your hips. All other body parts are secondary to your hips. B) Believe you look cool. No, really. Having this arcane knowledge at my command, dancing (in the modern, non-formal manner therein implied) becomes a matter of dressing up in an odd manner and enjoying cardiovascular exercise - both of which are rendered delicious by their very novelty.

So it was that when one of our collegiate compadres proposed going ‘clubbing’, I acceded most willingly. In my eagerness, I even forgot my two Clubbing Fears: namely, cigarette smoke and having no way to assess the quality of the music until already committed to the club. Both of these were brought home to me by the first club we tried to go to, Ohm. Ohm is a very popular club - most of us had heard good things about it—but we couldn’t get a working phone number from them, so we went there all unknowing of what acts they had and what we might pay for the privilege of deciding whether we liked them. This was definitely a Strategic Error, as we found on entering that it was far too early for anyone there to be thinking of dancing, and that, while the first band was a passable (if undanceable) alt-rock band, the second was an aggressive and unpleasant alt-rock band, with no concept of any musical style but fortissimo, which may of course be a predilection that explains itself.

Unhappily shrugging away our $7 cover charges, we betook ourselves to East Portland to our second choice, Holocene.

Now let me digress from the business of finding somewhere with non-abrasive music and a place to gyrate in order to speak of a far more delicate dance, done entirely with the feet and hands, not to mention the heart-in-mouth. In the interests of having a cool, cleanly car, not to mention one with a security system, for this junket, I had secured the Golf. The Golf boasts a manual transmission. It’s been a while since I drove it—long enough that the ride was a little jerkier than my companions might have wished, but otherwise fine. However, only once in my life before, I think, have I parallel-parked a stick. On none of these occasions was the spot in question approximately of length g+2, where g is the value of the Golf’s length in feet, and the unit of 2 is also that antiquated measure. After several harrowing attempts at such spaces, my watchful (and doubtless worried) passengers spotted a space of approx. g+4, and the day was saved. This one was, however, on a not inconsiderable incline, which added a whole new dimension of fear. That should be a summer blockbuster horror movie: Parallel Parking: This summer, a whole new dimension of fear.

At any rate, Holocene, whose music we had previously determined to be produced first by a euro-dance band and secondly by worldbeat DJs, charged us a very reasonable $4 cover, and was decidedly pleasant. The rooms were lofty and white-walled, giving a feeling of space that is, I understand, rather uncommon in the sardine world of nightclubs. There was a room for sitting around, and a room for dancing. This innovation I applaud most highly, as it encourages people to choose one, and not sit around whilst waiting for someone else to start with the dancing. Also, they had introduced the concept of a ventilated smoke room for the vile cancerous poisoners—I mean, for the people with diff’rent lifestyle choices from me - to enjoy their accelerated death rate withal. I smelled the miasma but once during the whole evening. Thus far we have solved or at least addressed Felicity’s Two Fears of Clubbing: Smoke, partitioned from me and my aerobic exercise; Music, both pleasant and easily ascertained via phone call.

The music was, indeed, quite nice. The band had already packed up, and a South Asian DJ was spinning music primarily of an Indian bent - in fact, when I watched Bend it like Beckham last night, I recognized one of the songs - but also Caribbean and African in flavor. No one made any attempts on my person, and a good time was had by all. It is worth noting that the electric feeling in one’s sinews one feels from really primally appealing music - that feeling that if there were room enough and time, one would dance forever and ever—is in fact, bosh. Especially after breathing in people’s cancer-spew, the body cannot stand more than ten or fifteen minutes without a break, a cold surface to lean against, and a drink of water. I’m sure, however, that if I keep on going on these expeditions, my body will begin to keep better pace with my dancing heart.