“Towson Dance Studio, this is Barbara.”
“Hello. Are you hiring teachers?”
“Who is this?”

In 2006, I find myself in beautiful Athens, Greece exploring a deserted alley way at 2am. It’s just after 7 in the morning back in Baltimore and my relatives should be waking up shortly to for another workday at the family bakery. It’s dark and creepy where I am in this city with stray dogs and cats just roaming the streets aimlessly.

Amidst the edgy silence, faint lights flash and I recognize tango music playing in the distance. I round the corner to discover a dance showcase taking place where just a minute before, I was in near pitch-darkness handing change to a homeless Albanian man. A surge of memories hit me all at once. All the confusion, anger, and regret came back instantly and reminded me how I got there.

Make the Pregnant Woman Shut Up!

March 13, 1999. Seven of my closest friends meet at Lowe’s movie theater in White Marsh for the 10 o’clock showing of Adam Sandler’s The Waterboy. Oblivious to the fact that we have to sit for the SAT’s early the next morning, we crave a chance to laugh off weeks of prep courses in anticipation for the test that is going to change our lives, as our counselors say.

The movie isn’t the important part, it’s what happens as we exit the theater. As the people in my row stand to leave their seats, I stand up and feel a knife jab me in the hip. My friends watch me fall to the ground and scream, but are just as confused as I am about what is going on. There is no mad-stabber at the scene of this crime.

The assailant is my body, and I just tore the cartilage around my hip joint! At the time I thought God was mad at me, but in the months ahead I discover that my lack of proper stretching in my martial arts training led to my body’s rebellion tonight. The pain is unbearable! It literally feels like I have a 5-inch blade lodged in my hip. Any movement that involves moving either of my legs or using my abs to position my body feels like someone starts to turn that stuck knife. And if I cough, forget it, I’m crying like a baby.

My friend Matt drives me home and carries me up the stairs to my bed where I honestly, and stupidly, believe that I can sleep this off (gotta love the Greek mentality). Apparently, I scream as soon as my head hits the pillow and my parents dial 911 without blinking an eye. In less than 10 minutes, a medic team arrives to transport me to the hospital via a luxurious stretcher, making sure to hit every bump on the way. Such gentle souls…

It’s 1am at the hospital and I’m given a massive dose of Tylenol III with Codeine to shut me up. I only remember two things after that: waking up 6 hours later next to a woman in labor, and, being sent home with a prescription for pain because my tests show no damage. The American health care system  truly is the greatest concoction since sliced bread.

Goodbye Kicking Leg.

Literally 2 years pass as I play the nomad patient searching desperately for a doctor to fix my frustrating injury. The initial pain from that night goes away, but only for two months. Until my surgery in 2001, the pain revisits me every other month since that night at the theater.

When the relapses occur, I am confined to a bed for 5-7 days and forced to use a cane to hobble short distances. To be realistic, I spend most of time in bed because, if you remember, minor movements like rotating my head cause my hip joint to flare up violently. The grueling 24 months finally come to an end when an MRI finds the tear and a gracious doctor agrees to perform surgery and alleviate my suffering for the time being. But, this comes with a hefty price:

July 21, 2001. I return home after a successful arthroscopic outpatient surgery where the doctor’s assistant misreads my chart and almost performs a testicular biopsy on me. Way to use your education, Doogie. It’s a success, or so I think. Remember, I have to forget my past active lifestyle so, naturally, depression consumes me as I load my crutches into the car.

The years pass and I graduate college with a degree in graphic design and another in massage therapy. I hope to use one to make money sitting at a desk all day and the latter to correct the effects of corporate office life on my physical body. I use neither of the two to make a living present day. My martial arts days are long gone, but I have a supportive family that helps me through my current life change.

“No kicking, jumping, running, or crazy horseplay. Is that understood?”
“Yes, doctor.” I sadly conform.

A Worthy Replacement

My loving girlfriend is about to change my life with one question: “Do you want to take dance lessons?” Three years of inactivity pass because I’m told to safeguard my hip from further injury, but the dullness of life starts to remind me of my need to feel alive. The answer is an emphatic yes!

The lessons last several months as our wonderful teacher tries desperately to explain salsa and tango movements to our group class, which consists of the two of us, my brother and sister, and their significant others. I am in heaven until I become the only who wants to continue learning. At this point, I can not afford to continue, so I dive into my work.

From 2004 to the summer of 2006, I work in my family’s bakery nearly 20 hours a day juggling baking, delivery, bookkeeping, and business classes to manage the place. I pass out a total of two times in one year from malnourishment and dehydration resulting from lack of sleep that obviously affects my better judgment. My family sees this and worries for my health and sanity. When a Greek family feels this way, a trip to Greece, they believe, always fixes things.

There you have it: off to Greece! June 9, 2006 marks my departure back to the motherland and a surprising weight-gain of 15 pounds during my short two-week vacation. Having experienced simple island life in a village, I decide to peruse Athens one night and explore the urban scene of this foreign city. This is where I encounter the dance showcase and experience the past seven years of growth that all start with that single night at the movies. So, where are we now in the story. Ah, yes…

“Towson Dance Studio, this is Barbara.”
“Hello. Are you hiring teachers?”
“Who is this?”
“I’m sorry, this is Pete who took classes with my family a few years back. Remember me?”
“Of course I do! Yes we are hiring. Training starts next week, as a matter of fact.”
“I’d like to sign up, if that’s okay.”
“Wonderful! We’d be glad to have you. See you next week and we’ll catch up then. Goodbye.”
“Thank you. Goodbye.”

The wonderful hospitality and trust given to me by the Towson Dance Studio introduce me to the Argentine Tango and gives me a second chance to really explore my fascination with movement once again. Even though the doctors aren’t optimistic – they’re probably looking out for my better interests, I’m sure – I have other plans in mind. Coincidentally, the doctor who performs surgery on me in 2001 now takes ballroom dance lessons where I work.  Imagine my surprise, and his!

Keep dancing,
Panayiotis Pete Karabetis

Think about the beginnings of your personal tango journey. Did you start it as a hobby or, like me, to rekindle an old relationship to movement? What drew you to the dance? Leave a comment and start a discussion. Thanks for reading!

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