When I was living in Russia, I started to take ballet classes. This was pretty remarkable in itself, one of those momentous taming of the tomboy life developments. It got pretty embarrassing at times (for more gory details, check out my Europe Trotter post and have an artistically-appreciative perve at the Farukh Ruzimatov video I rustled up from YouTube!), but the most embarrassing instance in my “ballet career” actually happened in France.

This is hard to believe, as most of the time in my St. Petersburg class I was pirouetting on thin ice in terms of the stuff-up stakes. It didn’t get off to a good start. I turned up to the first lesson with pink slippers (perhaps the Grishko sales assistants were trying to offload this unpopular shade of baby-bum on unsuspecting foreigners and dance novices), only to have it announced by our militaristic teacher that our “uniform” would have to match the colour of our slippers. I balked at this prospect, and instead wore all black for the duration of the course. She never mentioned anything, and if she did, I would have feigned a convenient language incomprehension.

But the worst was in France, in a little town called Hyères on the Côte d’Azur. I had just arrived there from St. Petes on a gust of icy Siberian winds, fresh from my ballet classes, and seeking a little respite in the sun. Guillaume, who was living there at the time, suggested that we find a ballet class for me, which I thought sounded like a great idea (I was thoroughly enjoying ballet at the time). We found a dance studio with an instructor who, ‘no problem at all, I can speak English’ announced that he had the perfect class for me when I told him that I had been only dancing for six months in Russia.

I went to the class, and to my surprise I found myself surrounded by lithe 15-year-olds, and not the frumpy, tracky-dacked adult learners I had been expecting. We started and then I realise what was wrong. He thought that I had been in Russia for six months to dance, not the actuality of only starting six months previously when I happened to be in Russia.

Merde! It was deeply, shamefully humiliating, to describe it in the best possible terms. On his encouragement I tried to stick it out for the whole class, but in the end I held my head high (and tears in) and made what I hope was a graceful exit. I packed my bag, ran home in tears, and never went back there!


My worse-for-wear Grishko ballet slippers (version II, in black). They’ve taken a battering since being converted to everyday house slippers!