Sambode

It's a long time since I went dancing, but last night as my daughter was here we went to All-barreque, a bar on the beach, to hear a Brazilian band. I was thrown back to my early days in Portugal when I used to go every Sunday to the sambode in Carcavelos above the Bombeiras (Fire station). An old room with creaky wooden floorboards and a mix of heroic and austere pictures of Portuguese men of the past hung forgotten on the walls - while we all samba-d and partied the night through. It was a great way for me to learn Portuguese. My Brazilian friends always responded positively to what I said - regardless (I think) of whether they understood what I meant. Positive reinforcement made me speak more, I didn't worry about mistakes and became inaccurately fluent. It was great. Dancing was a different matter - my dancing was full of mistakes. No-one cared that I was more comfortable using the rhythms to improvise more to an African style. For my own good, the people around me wanted me to dance Brazilian-style and properly. So I one-two, one-two-d my way through Sunday nights, clasped and thrown about in the arms of whoever wanted to dance ... becoming more accurate at dancing and more fluent at speaking.

Oh yes, the same smiling musician who ran the show in Carcavelos was playing at All-barreque last night. Same smiles, same hairstyle and same music ... just a good ten years older, 10 kilos heavier and a lot more grey hair.