I hadn’t felt that Herräng buzz for ages.
It nuzzled its way up my spine like a familiar lover when Rody brought up that ‘H’ word over 6 am eggs and bacon on Swanston St.
We were all tired, some still grasping at remnants of good cheer.
As my brain kickstarted, that excited swing vibe resonated patiently under a dominant thought cloud that thundered, “Herräng’s so far away. You don’t know the language. It’s so expensive. You can’t afford it. You’re not good enough to make such a huge commitment; only great dancers deserve to pamper themselves like that.”
Then I thought about all those beautiful images I’d seen of the crazy theme nights, videos of the joyful dancing. Delightful accounts of what may be the most respected and coveted swing event in the world. Living, breathing, feeling and thinking swing, 24/7? Grease me up and toss me in!
Yet some part was still convinced that it was beyond me and should remain a fantasy.
As the feelings subsided, I sighed, relieved at the dissipating pressure, until Rody drawled casually, “Yeah, I’m going next year.”
And the swing penny dropped. If it was so easy for him to make up his mind about it, then why not me?
When he mentioned it again a couple of days later and asked if I wanted to go too, I went straight to the Herräng website and allowed the euphoria to speak for itself. Yes, indeed, I declared. Of course I was going to Herräng in 2009. What do you mean ‘if’? Quit your crazy talk.
The challenge wouldn’t be the money or orgamanising aspect. All that was secondary. It was about regaining my confidence in social dancing to match my passion for the music and obsession with the dance. I’d been afraid for too long of something that honestly need some practice and plenty of hard dancing.
And thus began my swinging journey to Herräng 2009.
