Join Melina to learn her favorite Greek folk dances from her childhood.  When Melina was 12, she decided to forego belly dancing for a couple of years in favor of joining the Greek Folk Dance troupe at the Athens by Night Taverna on Mnisikleos Street in Plaka where her mother Rhea was belly dancing nightly.  Melina was about the same height as the 19 year old performers in the troupe so she didn't look out of place, and she leaps to dance with her mother and sister whenever the opportunity arises. Greek folk dancing is one of her enduring passions, greatly influencing her belly dance performances to this day.

In this seminar Melina will teach:

Hasapiko ("The Butcher's Dance"): Basic steps and Plaka Variations.

Hasaposerviko : A great way to warm up!

Kalamatiano : has some great rhythms and ideas to use in belly dance

ZEMBEHIKO!   : what can I say, its my all time favorite.

Learn the special rhythms, when to clap, how to whack your foot and spin, how to unleash the hidden Opa! Greek forces within you, no matter what nationality you are.

A Greek Music CD from the seminar will be provided to each participant.

Here's an essay to go with this seminar:

Likavitos

One summer night when I was nine, Mom decided our little group should trek across town and hike up to the Likavitos, which is a very high, steep hill in Athens topped off by a tiny Byzantine church.  From there you can see all the neighborhoods of the city, including a beautiful view of the Parthenon and the piney clusters on Philapapou Hill.  When we began the winding climb to the summit it was after midnight and very dark.  One sole lantern at the very top illuminated the little whitewashed church and the surrounding marble courtyard.  At our feet, Athens twinkled and stretched her glowing fingers out toward the inky Aegean.

            We sat perched side by side on the short stone wall that marks the courtyard’s perimeter and passed around the retsina bottles that Mom pulled from her purse.  When it was my turn, I drank in the stuff using my favorite method, then and now, by pinching my nose with one hand and gulping from the bottle with the other.  (Is there any other way to drink retsina?) As we drank, we sang rembetica songs and clapped out the rhythm to the zembehiko, otherwise known as the drunken sailor dance. Clap CLAP, clap clap CLAP (pause); clap CLAP, clap clap, clap, clap.  Usually the dance is performed by a lone man who takes center stage, jaunty black sailor cap optional, to artfully and improvisationally dance “drunk,” now waving his body back and forth, arms upraised and fingers snapping, now leaping with a torqued flourish while bending a knee in the air to slap his heel.  Meanwhile, comrades kneel at the perimeter of the stage to clap him on.

            That night however, there at the highest point on the Athenian skyline, a small freckled squid of an American girl gloriously reinvented the most macho dance of the Attic soul.  Veins pulsing with wine, song, and the enthusiasm of our group, I rose slyly from my stone perch to dance under the stars.  Eyes closed in concentration, eyebrows knit, and head tilted as if listening to the darkest messages of my tortured soul, I swayed before my clappers to the zembehiko rhythm.  Hair flying, I leapt, I twirled, I clutched my head in my hands, pulling it right and left, then sank to the floor and banged my fists on the stones.  Finally, I soared into the air and spun, then collapsed panting on the ground at the end of the song while my audience hailed my transported performance.   A few dances later, we stumbled arm-in-arm down the mountain and back across town to Byronos Street, at the foot of the Acropolis.  I have never touched retsina again, but I cannot live without dancing the zembehiko.