Baltimore attorney Joyce Lombardi didn’t want to give up her club moves when she moved to town — here’s how she found her dance groove locally, sometimes well after midnight, well after becoming a mom.
When I moved to Baltimore 15 years ago, newly married, unemployed, and childless, I did what I always do in a new city: set out to find a place to dance. I don’t mean Friday night swing, ballroom or salsa dancing. O, if only I were content to don pretty shoes and be twirled by a mature man in a collared shirt. No, dancing for me still means what it has meant since the late 80s: all-engulfing club dancing, preferably to house music with a fabulous white/black/Latino/Asian/gay/straight/whatever crowd, à la New York City’s Sound Factory in the 90s. Dancing, ideally, where the deejay lifts you and your sweaty sequined brethren above the strobes and whistles, up to where race and age and exertion end and you are in the zone, flying, one nation under a groove. Hard to find, hard to get there, but once you do, you always want to get back.