April 12, 2006
I peeled the weighty wooden doors that swung like thick swaying giants, gracefully but forcefully. Two beastly men of age 45 sporting deeply sunken eyes, round barrel bellies, and laughing cheeks rested against stubby wooden stools. Hesitantly I enter. “Seven dollars for admission into ghost riders, the best line dancing for miles”, cooed one of those beer guzzling men with a hillbilly twang. “ I realize you don’t like country music and that it looks rough here, but its loads of fun”, reassured my sister, a junior at Grove City College, who line dances often and is smiling at me with over-enthusiasm. This place reeks of a country bar, with old-fashioned wooden tables, counters, and floors. The thick air hit my tongue with the taste of musty cigarette smoke and raunchy beer, cuddled among old mildew and hay. I felt different, foreign, intimidated.