Dancing in the Street

First there was the race. My fourteenth of the year: a 3M through Prospect Park starting at 11:15. Rain had turned to light sleet and traces of ice floated by as we ran. The blue moon reflected on the whiteness that covered the park's roads which were sometimes slushie, sometimes deliciously crunchy. It was an aptly named fun run.

Some friends met us after the race. The car and how close it was to midnight kept us from making our way to Grand Army Plaza. Since one car towing a week is enough, we kept the car doors open. We meant to plead the we-just-stepped-out-of-the-car defense if needed.

There was no traffic cop around to give us a hard time, but there were plenty of people who hadn’t quite made it to Grand Army and were enjoying the view from 9th St and Prospect Park West: runners leaving the course, teenagers trying to scrounge up a snowball fight, families enjoying the fireworks away from the crowd.

All of us in the mood to celebrate. Everyone full of joy.

The car became an oversized boombox, Manisha called a Soul Train, and we all danced. The teenagers affected reluctance for less than a minute before throwing themselves in. Little girls danced in the middle holding hands. Runners in tights and top hats flaunted their race numbers. Women with lavender and creamsicle colored up-dos danced gingerly. The group of dancers grew and shrank as people walking to and from Grand Army joined us for a song or two.

We caught the attention of a photographer. He said he was from the Post. Or maybe it was the Brooklyn Courier he said. Who knows. I was too busy dancing to pay much attention. Besides, I’ve got Ming’s photos to help preserve an unexpected moment of magic between strangers in Prospect Park.



Forget what I said yesterday about resolutions. Here's one for this year: dance more in the streets.