K’s last full evening in Jablonka — what else to do but go for a little party? This one is a little different. For one, we’re going out, not staying in: less clean up. Second, we have live entertainment, an amazing string band (video coming later). Third, it’s a smaller group: more intimate. Finally, I’ve agreed not to be such a prude and drink a little. Which means, with live music, that I might be induced into dancing. Or I might shock everyone and initiate it.

It’s rare that I’m among the first in the room that makes it to the dance floor. It’s even rarer when I initiate it. There are obvious exceptions. Fortunately, I know the required components, and I can stay well away from them if I don’t feel like making a fool of myself.

One component, which is honestly optional, is a little bit of alcohol. It lowers inhibitions, and that warm feeling after one or two shots of vodka makes my toes twitch. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

Another component is having someone I really wish to dance with. K loves dancing, as does L, and they will dance with just about anyone, including solo dances. I take a more circumspect view of dancing. If I’ll be getting up in front of other people and wiggling my body in this or that odd, unnatural way, and perhaps enjoying it, it will have to be with someone who, at the very least, I like. Better yet, someone I love.

All that is to say I don’t love dancing.

K does.

K will dance with anyone. She’ll dance alone in our living room, tauntingly.

“You know you love this song,” she says with her bright eyes. “Why not dance?” I can give myriad excuses.

When she gets with someone else who’s equally crazy about dancing, the results are predictable and lovely:

Everyone is in a dancing mood. The only person who doesn’t get the dance he wants is Dziadek. He keeps asking L for a turn around the floor — and it would have literally been a turn for L — but she keeps denying him. Maybe she’s honing her skills; perhaps she’s just being a typical three-and-a-half-year-old.

At the heart of all the movement, and the number one component to getting me on the dance floor, is the live band. All trained in traditional styles, they have a flair for original touches of jazz, Gypsy, Jewish, and Eastern modes in their music. The result makes it difficult to sit still.

After filming several of their numbers (to be posted later, after I regain access to editing software), I take the bottle up to their table and pour a round or two for them.

“You guys are going to be on the Internet in a couple of weeks,” I laugh.

“On YouTube?” one asks.

“Of course.”

“What will be the title?” a second inquires.

“Really Good Music,” I tell him, but that is, as my father would say, a little tightened up from the original.