My Date With The Nederlands Dans Theater

NDT was an absolute dreamboat. One of many first-date reviews of professional ballet companies, written by Steffi Carter, author of "Date a Girl Who Dances."

When the Nederlands Dance Theater wrote back, I felt like my seventh grade crush had just rushed to my doorstep with red roses in hand.

This was the very first company I ever fell in love with. I didn’t actually expect a response when I’d written requesting class with NDT2. Everyone knows it’s karmically appropriate that the middle school heartthrob never likes you back. I’ve been perfectly content with my unrequited love for years, satisfied with shyly watching this company, this crush of mine from a safe distance. I was perfectly giddy with the stolen YouTube Glances, and I was riveted by NDT’s daring repertoire as I watched from afar. One day I did work up the courage to confess my affection, but my note must have been one among hundreds of similar secret admirers. I never thought he’d write back. Yet there I was in the morning, blinking near stupefied at an invitation to attend company class with NDT1.

This was baffling. "He knows I exist?” I thought.

And breathtaking. “HE KNOWS I EXIST!”

I told the world to date a girl who dances, and my dream boy took me up on it. I’d only suggested grabbing coffee, but he proposed a swanky dinner with a spectacular view of his sophisticated city instead. What do you think I said? I said “yes” to our first date.

I was surprised by the inevitable. NDT is like most Dutch men: Tall, handsome, fluent in a few languages, and beautifully dressed. They aren’t smug. I met an intriguing maturity and felt like these people have already set the kindling in their lives on fire. The Dutch don’t try to be cool, they just are.

My date holds the door open for me as I swoon through the artist entrance to the theater. My hosts met me with warm, metronome voices and their concise introductions are instructions in cadence. My date has a clear presence and leads me down stairs to the guest dressing rooms. My fingertips are conspicuous to me and casual to everyone else as they trail behind me, tracing Drew Jacoby’s name plate while no one’s looking.

I was only given a tour because it was my first time meeting his family.

Next time I was let in far less formally, like an old friend visiting for tea.

A few dead giveaways spring to mind when I think about identifying dancers in public. Sometimes we look like flights of ducklings with obvious, unhideable turn-out; we stretch obnoxiously in middle of floors and doorways as if that’s the best place for it; our hobo-chic wardrobe choices make every morning a French twists and tattered sweatpants morning; we play mini symphonies of cracking joints and popping hips; we waft the incense scent of Icy Hot and Arnica gel; and we showcase the tambourine-like rhythm of ibuprofen rattling here, rattling there in our gypsy lives.

This date of mine and his friends are unmistakably dancers, but the very beautiful collection of people milling around me and bumping into one another don’t have any of these usual indicators. They give you the impression they could be anything: Doctors, dads, engineers, pastry chefs, philosophers, movie stars, soldiers, or demi-gods. They are athletes of the gods like the rest of us, but they do not foist the usual regalia of the trade upon each other or upon unexpecting pedestrians. NDT isn’t flashy, or arrogant. This man I’ve landed a date with is not quite coy. NDT has a quiet confidence filled with a compelling calm like a serenity steeped in gentle smiles.

There is something symbolic about climbing stairs to dance. The dressing room is a sunken area half a floor lower than the studio. It’s as if dancing exists on a level distinct from living normally, as if it is on a loftier level built above the bustle of public transit and fax machines. Up here it’s untouched by frustration and petty neighbors. At 11am we rose to dance together for company class.

The room was different from any room I’ve ever been.

Dance studios are often cookie-cutter predictable, composed of preferably marley floor outlined by wooden barres with at least one wall of mirror. NDT would be the same sort, except there were none of the usual sizing-up side glances or you’re-in-my-spot intimidation tactics dancers tend to wield in my life in the States. I was welcome. It was touching. I saw dancers pull into cheek-kisses and catch-up-and-giggle-time, offering sips of espresso to sleepy comrades riding the strugglebus. There was nothing predictable about this room. The dancers in the room were the room -- its walls, its barre -- and it could not be predicted in the face of their kindly confidence.

NDT is civilized. There was nothing severe or threatening in the air. There were no slippery spots of animosity to avoid while walking. No strategy to remember, no cunning to keep an eye on, no mean spirit to be seen. I’d wandered into a room of secure adults. It juxtaposed the carte blanche tantrums condoned elsewhere by erstwhile children. No one doubted or sought to assert dominance over the other. There was no reason to because we were all there to work and to play. The studio was bigger on the inside. I smile. There was room for everyone at barre because we left our egos back at the bottom of the stairs.

It was different from anywhere else I’ve ever danced.

I found that NDT dancers are entrusted with unrelenting exploration and, for it, are destined for wonderful discovery. You know how hours seem to vanish when there’s splendid conversation, with topics rich as rubies strung together? You know how time collapses when your eyes are sparkling and you’re half in love? That’s how class felt. The teacher gave us ballet combinations that asked us questions. The pianist inspired movement by ricocheting off his seat without warning and daring us to meet his energy. The dancers watched and witnessed one another’s artistry without critical eyes. We listened without interrupting, and we tried new things because we were free to. We were spellbound by each other. Importantly, we allowed ourselves to be.

I didn’t feel too old, or too young, or too big or too feeble. I didn’t feel discouraged or ignored. I didn’t feel ugly or unlovable. There was none of the condescension, jealousy, aggression, or sadness we’ve come to accept and expect in ballet. There was only wicked-smart musicality, unaffected individuality, quirky intensity, and profound inquisitiveness. The dancers redefined my idea of the impressive. They are powerful.

NDT didn’t only make me feel like I could be myself.

NDT made me feel like being myself was an epic undertaking, one I should indulge in and master.

___________________________

10/10! Great date, would see him again.

I hope he, too, enjoyed his date with a girl who dances.