Adelaide conversations

I was in Adelaide over the weekend, at the Church City Blues event. Blues dancing is something I picked up through swing dancing, and CCB is organised by one of my old teachers from way back when, Josh McKiterick. (My other main teacher from that period, Noni Clarke, spearheads the Melbourne blues scene.)

CCB itself was fantastic. Terrific DJs, cool venues, and scores of awesome dancers made dancing into the wee hours a joy. An "all levels" workshop format meant the classes weren't always as challenging as perhaps I might have liked, but that same structure (plus a limit on how many people could attend) meant you very soon met almost everyone who was at the event. It's definitely an event I'd like to attend again.

This was my first visit to Adelaide proper – the closest I had previously come was passing through its outskirts in 2006 on the way to go see The Living End perform in Port Pirie. I can't believe I never blogged about that... but I digress.

I stayed in the Adelaide YHA on Light Square, which is fairly central in the CBD. It was really close to all the venues, and at least a dozen other dancers were staying there as well, which made for a cool experience. However, it was also a bit loud – both from outside (road noise, construction site) and inside (school groups) – and muggy, so that I rarely had an uninterrupted sleep. Given I only had five or six hours in which to sleep each night, that was unfortunate. A relocation to the Oakes Embassy might be in order next year: just as many swing dancers, a little more up-market, and with a pool! If Adelaide is as warm and humid again next year – it felt like the kind of weather Sydney should be having –, a pool is a definite plus.

Despite staying and moving about in inner Adelaide, it was surprisingly quiet. I thought Hindley St, which seems to be the main nightclub area, was virtually dead during the day, but even down at the Central Market you could stroll across the street through the generous gaps between passing cars. Try doing that in Melbourne or Sydney! I guess the "big country town" cliche is a little deserved. Certainly I searched in vain for skyscrapers.

The definitive cliche – "The City of Churches" – was certainly well deserved: they seem to be everywhere! Not that that's a bad thing. However, the cliche I was most looking forward, that of the Adelaide accent, was completely absent; I didn't meet a single local with an "English" accent. Instead, they were predominantly bogans.

Perhaps it's the event's proximity to Hindley St, which is replete with strip clubs, massage parlours, and pokies venus, but CCB courses with stories of encountering seedy types at night or seeing drunk girls urinating in the gutter. This year's highlight story was the "Adelaide in a nutshell" sighting of a girl in a tight dress vomiting in the driveway of a church in the early evening.

My own experiences with the locals were less putrid, but still a little disturbing. On Sunday afternoon, after the workshops had finished, I sat outside the Adelaide College of the Arts on a bench with other dancers and munched a muesli bar. A greasy-haired young man with stained Fila tracksuit pants, beaten-up runners, and fading pimples came and sat next to me. He was clearly not a dancer; rather, he was the type of fellow retail staff keep their eye on if they spot him entering the premises, just in case.

Without looking at me, he spoke:

Him: What's happening?
Me: Not much. Just enjoying my muesli bar.

A pause

Him (still not looking): You got any money?
Me: Nah, man. I spent it all on muesli bars.

He flicked me a glance, just briefly, then looked away again, as if keeping an eye out.

Him: D'you know where I can get any pussy around here?
Me: All along Hindley St! There's places everywhere.

He nodded, but pursed his lips.

Him: Yeah, but they're all stuck up.

A further pause, while I considered whether this was a serious comment or deadpan humour. Also, I closed the flap on my bag, which sat between us.

Me: I think they'll take anyone with money, mate.

We sat in silence for a while, as he glanced about.

Him: Where are we?
Me, turning to the four-storey building five metres away: "Adelaide College of the Arts", it says there. Pretty cool. It'd be fantastic for a paintball tournament.

(This is true: it would be.)

Him: Man, this place sucks.
Me: Oh, I don't know. Why's that?
Him: You can't rob anyone. No-one's got any money.

At this point, my mind wildly vacillated between thinking he's a scummy thief or a brilliant master of deadpan humour. He still wasn't looking at me.

Him: D'you know if I can get any free food there?

He motioned toward a cafe with his chin.

Me: No idea, mate.
Him: Guy I know runs that place. Says they give out free food to the homeless and shit.
Me: Dunno. I'm good here with my muesli bar.

We sat in silence for a further half-minute or so, then he abruptly got up and walked off toward Hindley St. On the way he passed Josh, who came in the other direction.

Me: Hey Josh! You got any money? D'you know where I can get some pussy?

My second weird conversation with a local came later than night, at one of the dance venues. A woman from the workshops had asked me for a dance, but right at the moment I was busy running an errand and told her I'd come find her later. After my errand I became sidetracked by some of the terrific music playing and ended up solo-dancing to five or six funky soul/blues numbers in a row, after which my shirt was thoroughly soaked. Passing the same woman at the bar, I told her I'd just go and dry off, but then we could dance.

So I sat outside on the balcony for a while, until I'd stopped sweating and my t-shirt was just uncomfortably moist instead of disgustingly wet. Standing next to my bag, I was chatting with friends when the woman walked by; I tapped her on the arm.

Me: Hey, I'm just about to change my shirt. If you wait 30 seconds we can go dance. Or if you're impatient, I can keep this shirt on. But it's a little damp.

Her: Let's see.

She put her hand on my chest. Now, physical contact between dancers is common, and especially so during blues dancing – it's often basically a musical hug. But, outside the context of dancing, our norms on touching tend toward those of general society. So for a middle-aged, portly woman to put her hand on the chest of stranger 10-15 years her junior is a little odd – but whatever.

Her: Oh, it's alright.

Me: Heh. Nah, I think I'd better take it off.

Her: Well, go on then.

Me: Okay, hold on. I got to get my other shirt, first, unless you want me to dance shirtless.

This was clearly rhetorical, and not a suggestion.

Her: Oh, I wouldn't mind.

Me: Ha! Well, I'm not sure I'd get many dances with anyone else if I go out there with my shirt off.

Her: That wouldn't be so bad! I could have you all to myself.

At this point she was attempting to make sultry eyes at me, and I was beginning to worry, while the friends to whom I'd been talking were staring at her with a mixture of bafflement and alarm. I mumbled something and turned away to grab my fresh shirt.

Now, I have no problem with changing my shirt in public. It's only a few seconds, and I'm comfortable with my body, so whatever. I hadn't, however, expected to generate the whoop/squeal that this woman emitted, or else I might have reconsidered my action. Freshly clothed, I went and danced with her, and tried to ignore the more.. forward elements of her.. movements. Yes. 

Awkward. Thank you, Adelaide.