Life's a ball in Vienna

Even wallflowers can learn to dance in the Imperial City :

by Jackie Craven

You don't dance? The Viennese gentleman across the table at Cafe Schottenring was horrified when he heard me utter such blasphemy.

In Vienna, everyone dances. While American teenagers are busy learning how to drive, youth across Austria are taking waltz lessons. By the time they are seventeen, they breathe in three-four time. Brushing powdered sugar off my lap, I made a promise: "I'll learn." I had to because in three days I would join a group of friends at the posh Lawyer's Ball at the Imperial Palace. The Lawyer's Ball is one of 300 held in Vienna every year.

Lavish affairs such as the Lawyer's and the Opera Ball take place in the winter. June brings the popular Concordia Ball, again, held at the Imperial Palace. The lively Washerwoman's Ball is held nearly every Saturday night through October, and there's always the opportunity to join in an informal waltz at one of the city's dance cafes.

"One two three, four five six:" I was already practising in my head as I strolled down Karntner Ring and Karntner Strasse to the Graben shopping district.

The buildings, with baroque swirls and expressive sculpturing resembled dancers at some enormous affair.

If old stone could be graceful, then maybe there was hope for me, I thought as I collided into the seventy-foot Plague Pillar monument. It was clear, I needed a crash course.

The next day, I joined a group of tourists for a mini-lesson at the long-established Elmayer dance school. A slim elegant man, Thomas Elmayer coached us gently through the steps. "Right - forward - side, left - back - side," Elmayer murmured over and over again. Nineteen students faced the mirrors. I faced the back wall. "Your other left," master Elmayer called to my back.

Within an hour Elmayer had us twirling beneath the crystal chandeliers. A man with a video camera swooped forward for a close-up of my feet. I bumped into myself on the mirrored wall. If I could not dance now, wearing comfortable trousers, how would I manage in a long gown and shoes with pointed toes?

Our class made the evening news. That's just how important the waltz is in Strauss's birthplace, where stringed music pours from coffee shops, piano medleys waft through subway stations, and saxophonists and fiddlers play for coins all along the bustling Kartner Strasse.

On the night of the ball, I wriggled into my consignment shop gown and piled into a taxi with three excited girl friends. Satin skirts fluffed up to our chins, we giggled all the way to the Imperial Palace, and then tumbled out into a crowd of elegant strangers who arrived by limousines and horse-drawn carriages.

Wobbling on spiked heels, we crowded into a marble corridor and jostled for a closer look at the debutantes who lined up for photographs. There were hundreds of debutants wearing full white dresses and crowns of flowers, while the boys wore tuxedos and pale, dazed expressions.

Nearly every Austrian - boy and girl, rich and poor - becomes a debutante at least once. Some enjoy the festivities so much that they "debut" several times before they grow too old to look the part.

Unlike an American prom, which is exclusively for the young couples, a ball in Austria is a family event where proud parents watch their children waltz into adulthood. On this particular night, the parents appeared to be in a state of feverish excitement.

A woman in a white feather boa shoved past me for a closer view of the young couples who now filled the red carpeted stairs to the ballroom. Cameras flashed. The scent of perfume mingled with the aroma of strong cigars.

By the time my friends and I reached the main ballroom, overflowing crowds spilled into adjacent chambers. Cinema-sized movie screens hung from frescoed ceilings. Like figurines on top of a jewellery box, the projected images of the debutantes danced a perfect polonaise. Then a voice announced: Alles Walzer or All Waltz. This meant that the older folk could now join the dance.

There were plenty of opportunities to dance, because this ball, like many of the larger events in Vienna, was actually several balls rolled into one enormous party. In the largest room, an orchestra played waltzes and polkas. Strands of "I'll do it my way," drifted from a neighbouring room.

A third room, one that catered to a younger crowd, featured an electric organ, another had a jazz quartet, and downstairs, near the coat check, a room with flashing lights and disco music. My girlfriends vanished into these various rooms.

Hovering behind a potted fig tree, I had a sudden thought; I should have gone to the Wallflower's Ball. And, in Vienna, there really is one. Just then, a tall stranger held out his hand and pulled me into the main ballroom. The orchestra played music from Die Fledermaus. Left? Forward? Right? I trampled the stranger's feet and crashed solidly into a woman's red silk back.

"Just go with the music," the stranger said kindly. Then he closed his eyes, spun me twice around, and sighed as if to say: See? Life is more beautiful when you move in three-four time.

And so it was.