And so my journey really got started. I flew West over the Atlantic. Cassie, I imagined, was somewhere in Italy at this point. She said that it was the first tour of their season and they had to travel by a ten hour bus ride, you know, because they had like no money.
Wasn't it all an accident, after all? That the Russians seeking comparative social standing with the French aristocracy decided to claim ballet as theirs then the Soviets retaining select elements of the bourgeois chose ballet, that Czechia came under Soviet control and then like a corpse twitching long after death, the thinnest flow of money was enough to pay for desperate young dancers from all over Europe to eke out a living and a 'so-called' career taking cheap buses on country roads for dozens of hours at a time. Isn't this all just really weird, or is it just me?
She was heading East-ish, circling the cities in Southern and Central Europe. A spiral she talked of with a shine in her eyes and a firm conviction. I held her hope in my heart not because I planned on it, it sort of just happened. I wished to see her dance. I remember she wore these fat Stan Smith adidas trainers. She might as well as been barefoot the way she moved. She must really fly when she's on stage.