I am sitting in the same chair as last time, by the same window. This time I have a slightly incredulous look about me, and am sipping my tea with quiet diffidence.

I am downright exhausted, you see, and the way I see it, I should not be awake right now at all. I must explain to you the source of such feelings:

Last night, a group of young German’s, all friends of the family, us to “Fun Park”. Strangely enough, “Fun Park” is not an outdated theme attraction, but a discotheque and bar. This is the only disco (or “club” as we now call them in the US) within the reaches of the town of Hagen, and is spoken of by the town’s younger inhabitants as if it were a shrine. Mention merely the name of the place in a group, and far away expressions accompanied by guilty grins will soon show themselves all around.

We arrived at the place at 11:15 pm. I was foolish enough to have had misgivings about my communication ability within such a group, and as I felt for my wallet to purchase a drink my hand rested briefly on Lonely Planet’s “German Phrasebook”. I would not need such a tool tonight. The music was very loud, and it didn’t seem to matter which language was spoken, it couldn’t be understood by anyone.

Drinks were purchased and passed freely throughout our little group. I allowed a serene, contented smile to crease my face as I took inventory of the various people I had met.

There was Michael (pronounced Mish-ka-el).

Caroline (only part of this was said, and was pronounced Ka-roll) an outgoing, boisterous girl who apparently works with children.

Anna, another girl whose face was framed with dark, lavishly curled ringlets of hair.

There were two more guys, who I cannot remember the name of. Not by coincidence, these are the two who spoke the least English, and though many nods and smiles were shared between myself and them, it was a challenge to connect much more.

The stage was set and the players were warming up. With a sidelong glance through an overlooking window, the dance floor was visible only through tiny cracks in the masses of heads, arms, and pelvises, all flailing about to the rhythm of house music. I wanted to get down there.

My wish would soon be granted, for the group quickly tired of screaming at each other, and conceded to give the dance floor a go.

I had been slightly apprehensive of this activity since earlier in the evening, as I had sustained a debilitating knee injury in the previous month, and had been having trouble walking (let alone dancing) since. My concerns were quickly dispelled by the alcohol fumes and rhythmic “boom boom” of the bass.

Our tiny group made our way to the edge of the floor and we all began to make insecure movements with our arms and hips, bobbing up and down, matching our movements to those around us.

What shocked me upon my first look around the dance floor, was that no one else was dancing any better or more flamboyantly than I was. My movements were quite tame and typical of a teenage boy at a high-school dance, yet no one seemed to have any better ideas.

At first, I thought that everyone was simply a bad dancer. Then I realized something: The boys in our group, and the people I had seen standing in line at the restroom hardly seemed like the type who would volunteer to get up and “shake it”, yet here they all were. They were all giving it a go, and taking it in their stride. No, they were not all smooth and slick, but the beauty of their dance was in the fact that they completely lacked reserve. They flung their arms about, and stomped their feet, reflecting (and encouraging) their own enjoyment, and were obviously not simply pacifying the appetites of others.

With this idea in my brain, I began to think back to my days studying to be a ballet dancer, and started integrating more challenging steps into my movements. People smiled, and some even had glasses in their hands. They gave me space. They did not jeer, they did not shoot each other disparaging glances, they watched and clapped their hands.

As the evening wore on, and the alcohol content in the bloodstream of the place became a higher number, the movements of the dancers became less calculated and more grand, using more and more space. It was a good thing, I realized, that people were beginning to drop out and head home for the night, as the space required for each person was becoming more and more expansive.

Each time I thought the night might be beginning to wind down for our little group, more drinks were brought in and circulated and, everyone feeling refreshed, the dancing would continue.

Finally, the beads of sweat were replaced by wrinkles as faces yawned all around. Someone said something in German, and before I knew it I was being whisked off the floor and back out into the crisp, cold night air.

Feeling much warmer and closer to each other than we had at the beginning of the evening, we shook hands, hugged each other, and made mumbled promises to get together again. Michael, Julie, Caroline, and I all made our way over the cobbles of the marketplace and through the winding streets leading back to the house.

It had been a wonderful night, full of camaraderie, exercise, and new experiences. I couldn’t help but picture the prostrate bodies I had seen slumped over each other on the dance floors of clubs in the US. I generally try not to compare different cultures, for each has its positives and negatives, but on this occasion I couldn’t help but think to myself “This could have never happened in America”, and I knew I was right.