Jazz Travel

It’s Wednesday night in San Antonio. I slip on my woollen three-quarter length, plaid skirt and a white turtleneck shirt. Not the most appropriate outfit to go to the Cowboy DanceHall in, but definitely worth it when I spin my skirt and it splays outwards. Our Trek America group has chucked on their cowboy boots, bought in Nashville, and we load ourselves into a taxi. We arrive at the Dancehall at 7PM, but the car park is empty. The neon sign that reads ‘Cowboy Dance Hall,’ looks mighty lonely. Inside, the hall is dead.

We’ve come for the dance lesson, but the instructor is ill, so a kindly man called Bill, who wears a black cowboy hat, wanders over and offers to teach us. Bill is pure Texan, with a warm twang in his accent and a Texan heart to match.

He teaches up the basic two-step, “Quick, quick, slow, slow,” and I struggle as my feet go to hop the moves rather than slide. The boys in our group struggle more though. They have been instructed to keep their torsos stiff, meaning their bodies become robotic and their muscles stiffen in rigor mortis.

The DanceHall slowly but surely fills with people, and then, an eight-piece band, The Sunset Riders, begins to play. The DanceHall lights up. Men and women of all ages spin and slide their way around. It's a joyous and contagious thing to watch.
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Throughout the night, we are met with offers to dance by men. I don't stop grinning as they as they twirl me around and dip me over. I get a little dizzy, but I don’t mind. Bill comes over and warns me to watch out for the young cowboys, who can be rough.

‘I just don’t trust them,’ he says, shaking his head.

At the back of the hall lies a poker table, surrounded by five Texan lads decked out in baseball caps and flannel shirts, playing poker for teddy bears. A boisterous lady with a raucous laugh runs the game. I sit down and play with them. A man to my left, Scott, keeps giving me his chips when I’m low. To my right, sits Rob, who is enlisted in the army. In the middle of our conversation he asks, ‘So, is your boyfriend back in Australia?’ I’m baffled when he asks me this.

‘How did you know?’ I ask.

‘Well, you’re a good looking lady, I just thought...’

I laugh politely, and move the conversation forward.

Later, a friend of mine, Cathy, comes and joins the table. Rob and her begin to speak, and midway through their conversation, I overhear Rob say to her, ‘Is your boyfriend back in Australia?’

I laugh and place another chip on the table.