Rouen

by Cathleen Mohr

Rouen was a place out of time. We arrived by bus after crossing the English Channel on the ferry in the years before the Chunnel. Most of the other dancers and I were still sporting hangovers from our night out at the Hippodrome in London. Already this transatlantic expedition was knocking the blinders of my naïve Iowan eyes. I danced with my arms swirling in the air, pressed against the other bodies, because it was the only way to stay on the floor. I drank vodka lemonades and snuck Marlborough Reds behind a wall from Cherie, the owner of the studio. I was the oldest dancer and one of the five adults out of the 25 dancers on tour to England and France. I was 23 and had a score to settle for all the years I had been a good girl.