I spent part* of the weekend at a folk festival.
By that I mean an hour or so, but it felt longer because the sky was buggy and blazing and the farm was overrun with festies — girls and boys who strongly identify with music festivals and wear dusty, bohemian clothing and smell of humid sleeping bags.
My favorite place was the dancing tent, presided over by a twangy-voiced caller, attempting to lead the throngs in the Louisiana Swing.
I grew up in Iowa. When it rained, PE class was brought into the indoor gym (also humid smelling) for square dancing. I actually know how to respond to calls like allemande left your partner, dosey-do your corner, promenade one and all, promenade round the hall, singing oh Johnny, oh Johnny oh.
These folks did not and it was fun watching stray dancers trying to square off while their intendeds mistakenly launched into a Grand Right and Left. Hands were extended, then retracted, bodies collided, faces showed profound puzzlement. But they danced, oh how they danced.