Well...I don't know if Zorba actually said it or not, but be that as it may, I said it.
Back in the early 70's I took a Greek folk-dancing course at an Atlanta area Unitarian-Universalist church. For me, Greek music and dancing was like coming home to a place I'd never been, and I soon found myself spending two or three nights a week at the bouzoukia (Greek taverna) until 3 or 4 am, then going to Denny's or the Majestic on Ponce for breakfast with a bunch of Greeks. I totally immersed myself in my "Greek Period," dating mostly Greek men, many of whom did not speak English. But, I didn't care. Just because I loved the taverna didn't mean I was a putana, though some of the Greek guys were probably of that opinion.
To dance was to live. In terms of emotional expression, Greek music and dance touched a chord within me that ran so deep and ancient that I would literally go into an altered state of consciousness in which I experienced myself as a Greek fisherman, just in from the sea, my hands all silvered with scales.
And, as Zorba also said, "Only the dancing stopped the pain." Of course, a little retsina or mavrodaphne helped enhance the experience I'm sure.
Recently, I found a poem I wrote back during my Greek period that sort of summed up for me what it was about the Greek experience that resonated so deeply in the heart of a little Southern Baptist Georgia girl.
One of my male Greek buddies with whom I used to dance zeimbekiko (a dance traditionally performed only by men) once said to me in broken English "Donna, you dance like Greek man." Coming from Kostas Kounis, this was the supreme compliment as I sought to emulate the fire I could feel coming from his heart. The howling intensity of the zeimbeiko reached down into the core of me and evoked a sure knowledge of what it meant to be a Greek man. It literally "sang my heart and blood." Years later, a Greek man I had not seen in a very long time came up to me and said "I knew it had to be you because you're the only one, man or woman, I've ever seen who could dance like Kostas Kounis!"
Any number of times over the years of hanging out at any bouzoukia I could find in the Atlanta area, I would have Greeks come up to me and begin speaking Greek because they assumed that I WAS Greek because of the way I danced. It was true that I danced like a Greek man. I knew all the acrobatic leader's steps to tsamiko and kalamatiano and even invented some of my own. I loved the intricate weaving grapevine steps of hassapiko (sirtaki or Zorba dance) and the hand-to-shoulder squeezes that signaled the next sequence of steps. Dancing with Andreas, Gavrilis, and Yannis in a tightly-choreographed hassapiko was the height of musical mojo for me.
It also led to my increasing conviction that reincarnation is real. I believe in my heart of hearts that I was once a Greek man. I felt it in my soul when I danced. Another Zorba-ism "As you go along in life, ask yourself, 'Is this worthy of my soul? Is this what I'm meant to be doing?'" When I danced, in what was for me a sacred place that transcended time and space, it was indeed worthy of my soul. It was what I was meant to be doing.
Oppa, Kostas! Steni yassou!
Understanding Zorba
I dance the pain until it stands
in acrid drops like olive brine
upon my face
I dance the crystalline tears
that long ago turned
my shoulders into stone
I dance the sorrow
of love turned to hatred
and hatred to indifference
I dance the fear of loneliness
and the anguish
of abandonment
I dance the anger
until it rages free
and runs down my arms
like rivers
I dance the disappointment
of expectations unfulfilled
and dreams too long
deferred
I dance all my demons
into dust beneath my feet
sweeping them away
in spiraling centrifuge
Only then can I dance
that which sings
the heart and blood
In the space
between the spaces
that lie between the words
Where words have no meaning
I dance and joy IS . . .
Broken plate from one of the tavernas on which an artist sketched a picture of me dancing hassapiko with Andreas, one of my Greek friends.
Kostas Kounis, the best dancer of the zeimbekiko I ever met, is the hairy chested one, second from the left. I'm in the red shirt in the middle. This was taken in the 70's at either The Grecian Village or The Golden Dolphin in the original Underground Atlanta. A woodcarver from the mountains of mainland Greece, Kostas moved like a cat. I'm sure he's long dead, but I will never forget dancing with him to Panos Gavalas' ΚΑΥΜΟ ΜΕΣ ΤΗΝ ΚΑΡΔΟΥΛΑ ΜΟΥ (sounds phonetically to me like "Kymo mes den kardoula mou") I don't even know what that means, but I understood it with my heart.
This video is the closest I could find to someone who could dance zeimbekiko like Kostas could. He and I used to do the wine glass thing with two glasses of wine. Sigh, that was many years ago and 40 pounds lighter for me! I sure do miss those days!