Dear Cambridge City Dance Party,

You rock, but I couldn’t fit. It’s true: I got bumped. Maybe it was the perfect weather; maybe all the thousands in attendance were as in need of “dance therapy” as I. Whatever the reason, first I was on the edge, and then I was edged right out.

I retreated with a few friends to the grassy hill of City Hall and shook my rump between the contact improvisation dancers and the people who probably deserved a much better view than I could offer. It was beautiful though, the sky gone pink and punks everywhere, laying down their posturing to take up shaking. And rattling, and arms-swinging. Babies, mommas, poppas, grams. Every type of person, out in mass, one mass, under stars and spotlights and police patrolling the rooftops.

We were the best of Cambridge.

And while there could have been more Tina Turner, Madonna, and Stevie, I forgive those few lapses. In the end, what really matters is that we got out there, and we danced.

Your adoring,
Phoebe

P.s. Ahem!  Please next year, a little more jam?