Where I come from...

During the third song at the Ingrid Michaelson concert last June in Minneapolis, a woman in the fifth row started tapping her foot.

I know this because I was high up in the balcony with a view of the entire audience, and this woman was literally the only person moving.

Forget the snow and the bone-chilling cold: this is my least favorite thing about Minneapolis. Here, dancing at concerts is weird. People stare at you and make snide comments under their breath. 

(I don't know how I still have friends, because one of my favorite hobbies is convincing people to go to concerts with me, and then spending 60% of the time complaining about how no one is moving.) 

Last month, in New Orleans, I realized why this bothers me so much. 

Y and I decided to take Dalia on the streetcar to the French Quarter.  I was regretting my decision as we crossed the street into the icky part of the Quarter, dodging puddles of mystery liquid. It smelled like last night's daiquiri. (I, on the other hand, covered in spit up and carrying a tiny human who poops herself, smelled heavenly.)

But the whole experience was redeemed when we ran into a crowd of people, a dancer, and a band  in front of St. Louis Cathedral. It was a funeral -- not just any funeral, famed chef Paul Prudhomme's funeral -- and the jazz march was about to start.  

As the band led the mourners and spectators and a handful of famous chefs down the street to Prudhomme's restaurant, as service industry people stepped out of their restaurants and removed their hats in respect, as the band leader (Rockin Dopsie Jr) encouraged the crowd to dance with him to When the Saints Go Marching In, I understood why the lack of enthusiasm and celebration at Minneapolis concerts bothers me so much: 

Where I come from, we dance at funerals.