Camille Cusumano

Los Angeles Times – Alaska in winter

Winter fun warms up visitors
A spirited bachelor auction — combined with sublime scenery — helps December travelers chill out during a sojourn to the 49th state.

By Camille Cusumano, Special to The Times

Anchorage – Last December I stood on the deck of a lodge in Talkeetna, Alaska, and watched sunrise bleed down the snowy crown of 20,320-foot Mt. McKinley. I had seen our nation’s loftiest peak before, rising dramatically from the flat tundra but always shrouded in cloud. This view was rare and awesome, as the sunrise was in concert with the full moon. I snapped away, joined by a man who exclaimed, “I live here, and I never get to see McKinley like that.”

I was only a visitor, but having enjoyed several summer adventures throughout the state, I yearned to see this land of sublime beauty in winter. It was less than 24 hours since I had landed in Anchorage under clear blue skies and driven the 113 miles to this village at the edge of Denali National Park. Every notion I harbored of these northern latitudes hibernating in a lockdown of gloom during the winter dissipated like a snowflake on my tongue.

I hadn’t stopped to consider that Alaska covers five geographic zones. The sun doesn’t rise in parts of the state from Nov. 18 through Jan. 24 — but only in the far north. Talkeetna and Anchorage are in the south central zone, with average December temperatures of 20 degrees. The shortest day: five hours and 41 minutes. Though Anchorage gets about 67 inches snow a year, its climate is moderated by the Cook Inlet. The airport is seldom closed due to severe weather.

It was unseasonably cold at 8 below, but there was little wind. Everything I’d seen, from the peaks of the Alaska Range to the miles of hoarfrosted birch forest, was intensified through air crystalline with frozen moisture. Denali (McKinley’s indigenous name means “great one”) was my constant beacon on the two-hour drive north. The peak blushed lavender as sunset approached around 3:45 p.m. In the lengthy golden afterglow, I arrived in lively Talkeetna, a town of 500 residents that swells with Denali-bound tourists in summer.

“Winter clears ‘em out,” said Collette Folk, manager of the Fairview Inn. “We tell ‘em it’s cold and dreary, they don’t plow the roads, sun doesn’t rise and we grow horns and wings,” Folk said, laughing, skilled in the Alaskan style of irony.

The Fairview, whose 80-year history includes introducing Talkeetna to its first bathtub, was full of animals: bear and wolf skins, moose and caribou racks, and Dall sheep horns. The animated talk was of the following day’s annual Wilderness Woman Contest and Bachelor Ball and Auction. They take place the first Saturday each December, a ploy by the Talkeetna Bachelor Society to attract women. The auction is fun, benefits local nonprofits and launches a Winterfest that includes a parade of lights, dances and live theater.

I joined 21 other hardy women in a test of our wild-woman skills. But the qualifying 100-yard dash over icy snow, carrying two 35-pound buckets of water, humbled me. Only the four fastest women, of whom I was not one, competed in the remaining events, from gathering firewood to shooting “ptarmigan” to serving beer and sandwiches to actively vegetating bachelors.

I chatted with one of the Bachelor Society’s founding members, 46-year-old Robert Petersen, a gold mining engineer known as Grog to his friends. Clad in rawhide and skins from hat to boots, Grog was the quintessential frontiersman looking for someone “to live remote for more than one night.” Living in Alaska for 24 years in a cabin off the grid, he joked about telling outsiders (like me), “Yes, I have running water — I’m always running for water.”

I enjoyed rediscovering a town I had only breezed through one summer. I made warmup visits to Nagley’s General Store, which has endured since the 1920s when it was built for trappers and miners, and to the Talkeetna Historical Society Museum, housed in a 1936 red schoolhouse with exhibits of the area’s frontier days.

The log-cabin homes, some crafted with pegs, scribed logs and interlocking lap notches, included the 1917 cabin that has been the popular Roadhouse since 1944, a bunkhouse with home cooking. The Roadhouse exuded the aroma of its famous rib-sticking breakfasts — biscuits and gravy, reindeer sausage, tart sourdough hotcakes, yeasty cinnamon rolls and bursting-with-fruit pies.

I had overlooked eating until late in the day when I ducked into Cafe Michele and dined heartily on tasty venison stew. The French restaurant, along with the contemporary Talkeetna Alaskan Lodge (closed this winter), mark the town’s bow toward gentility for tourism.

Bachelors on the block

The auction’s Male Order Catalog revealed 35 eligible men looking for a woman — from a “longhaired leaping gnome” to “just a pulse” — to share their passion for the Alaska wilds. The highest-bidding women procure one drink and a dance from their bachelors (“anything else is strictly up to the parties involved”). Past years’ events — the auction started in 1981 — have resulted in everything from a 12-year marriage (ended in amicable divorce) to a love child, now an 8-year-old boy.

The auction took place at the brawny VFW hall where eager and curious women (I was among the latter) claimed their prizes. Auctioneer Robert Forgit, former weather anchor for KTUV-TV in Anchorage, brought in $300, the evening’s highest bid.

My bachelor, a mellow, bearded 33-year-old on whom I bid $70, was looking for “one who is going to stay in Alaska.” Despite my transience, he delivered my drink — two, in fact — and a dance, as we joined the revelers who packed the Fairview for the ball. Amid the bacchanalian atmosphere, we danced with others too, and drifted apart. My drive back to Anchorage was blessed by the same enchanting arctic light as the ride up. The city, where half of Alaska’s 600,000 population resides, sparkled under its blanket of snow and Christmas decorations.

I stayed at the Hilton because of its convenient downtown location and walking distance to many attractions. After the scale of life in Talkeetna, the hotel seemed big and impersonal, but I came to enjoy the warmly lighted lobby with its captivating Native Alaskan art, including a bear shaman carving and sculptures in fossil whalebone and soapstone. In the lobby’s Hooper Bay Cafe, I sipped cappuccino and watched people come and go, clad in winter skins and furs as fashionable as any in New York City.

Anchorage, a cosmopolitan city, is cradled by the canine-sharp Chugach Mountains and Cook Inlet. It has an unlikely mix of natural wonders and culture — symphony, ballet, opera, theater and museums.

I decided to start with its outdoor pleasures and considered an outing to Alyeska Resort, south of town, where alpine skiers, including Olympic medalist Tommy Moe, take on downhill runs from gentle to double black diamond. I was also tempted by the prospect of ice fishing, popular on lakes surrounding the city.

Keeping the winter lively

In the end, I fell back on my favorite winter sport — cross-country skiing — because it was the most accessible, two blocks from my hotel, on the Tony Knowles Coastal Trail. With rented equipment, I glided out on the 15-mile scenic path along Cook Inlet’s Turnagain Arm and in minutes was in a bright wintry wilderness spying an immature eagle in a spruce. A moose browsed among the alders, heedless of me. I went as far as Earthquake Park, the site where chunks of shoreline slipped into the inlet, destroying 75 homes in the 1964 Good Friday earthquake — a magnitude 9.2. I turned around when dusk turned the Chugach peaks purple.

On downtown’s 5th Avenue, I stopped to buy a hand puppet of caribou skin and wolf fur for my nephew. The shopkeeper told me to return in February for Anchorage’s Fur Rendezvous. Dating to the 1930s when fur trading was Alaska’s second leading industry, the two-week-long “rondy” offers everything from a Frostbite Footrace to the Miners & Trappers Ball. And if I stayed on until the first Saturday in March I could really have fun, watching the downtown kickoff of the “Last Great Race on Earth” — the Iditarod Trail Sled Dog Race, a 1,150-mile run by dogs and humans through the arctic interior.

A thriving restaurant scene

If Alaskans suffer from winter blues, none crossed my path, especially not in Anchorage’s hip restaurants. The city offers a surprising array of good eateries, though prices are higher than for equivalent dishes in the Lower 48. Newer downtown establishments I enjoyed included the innovative Glacier Brewhouse (try the wood-roasted duck on soba noodles) and Bear Tooth Theater Pub, with mostly Mexican dishes. But I gravitated to an old favorite, Simon & Seaforts, for traditional seafood — briny steamed clams and buttery scallops — with views of Cook Inlet.

Sunday morning took me past the Aviation Heritage Museum on Lake Hood, where on past trips I’ve marveled at the vintage aircraft on display — from a 1928 Stearman to a 1960 Iroquois helicopter. I was reminded why Alaska is called “the flyingest state” in the Union: It has more pilots and airplanes per capita than any other.

The museum didn’t open until noon, so I headed to the new Alaska Native Heritage Center, which represents the 11 cultural groups that make up the state’s native people, including the Athabascans, Inupiaq, Aleut, Haida and Tlingit.

As for the Anchorage Museum of Arts and History, with its native art and depictions of 10,000 years of Alaskan history, a visit any time of year is de rigueur. In the Alaskan Gallery, a re-created Athabascan village reminded me that winter was not an optional adventure for any of the state’s Aleuts, Eskimos or Indians. I missed a local native group’s holiday concert in the lobby because I was so mesmerized by their masks, walrus tusk ornaments and beaded cormorant-skin garments. But the festive atmosphere lingered in the air, as it did everywhere in Anchorage. Old-fashioned Christmas carols poured from radios, and I found myself singing along. After all, I was closer to the North Pole than I’d ever been at yuletide.

*This article appeared in 2002 – some of the service info may be dated.

GETTING THERE:

From LAX, connecting service to Anchorage (change of planes) is available on Alaska and United airlines. Restricted round-trip fares begin at $462.20.

From Anchorage, reach Talkeetna year-round by plane, train or car.

WHERE TO STAY, EAT:

Fairview Inn, P.O. Box 1109, Talkeetna, AK 99676; (907) 733-2423, www.denali-fairview.com. This low-end lodging is classic Alaskan roadhouse. The bunkhouse rooms are comfortable, though small and basic, with beds, dressers and shared bathrooms. Doubles $63.

Talkeetna Roadhouse, P.O. Box 604, Talkeetna, AK 99676; (907) 733-1351, www.talkeetnaroadhouse.com. Offers bunkhouse-style rooms; the bakery-cafe serves delicious hearty breakfasts and lunches Saturday-Monday and family-style dinner Saturday night. Double rooms start at $62.50.

Swiss Alaska Inn, P.O. Box 565, Talkeetna, AK 99676; (907) 733-2424, www.swissalaska.com. One of the nicest hotels in town; quiet, family-friendly, relatively spacious nonsmoking rooms with private bath. The casual restaurant offers continental and American fare, from halibut and salmon to schnitzel and steaks. Doubles $70.

Chinook Wind, P.O. Box 825, Talkeetna, AK 99676; (907) 733-1899, www.chinookwindcabins.com. Offers relaxing, stylish wood cabins in town with kitchenettes, TVs, satellite dish, phones, private baths; doubles $80.

Denali Overlook Bed & Breakfast, P.O. Box 141, Talkeetna, AK 99676; (907) 733-3555, www.denalioverlook.com. Five miles from town on a scenic bluff with panoramic views of the Alaska Range, this post-and-beam inn has tasteful antique furnishings, a stone fireplace and continental breakfast. Winter rate, $125 double occupancy.

Historic Anchorage Hotel, 330 E St., Anchorage, AK 99501; (800) 544-0988, fax (907) 277-4483, www.historicanchoragehotel.com. Downtown’s oldest hotel (1916) is nostalgically restored and on the National Register of Historic Places; doubles start at $89.

Hilton Anchorage, 500 W. 3rd Ave., Anchorage, AK 99501; (907) 272-7411, fax (907) 265-7042, www.hilton.com. Biggest selling points are a convenient downtown location, art-rich lobby and comfortable rooms with views of the Chugach Mountains. Doubles start at $99.

Glacier Brewhouse, 737 W. 5th Ave., Anchorage, AK 99501; (907) 274-2739. Spit-roasted and wood-grilled meats and fish are top-notch in this business-casual eatery that has a number of brews on tap. Entrees start at $17.

Simon & Seaforts Saloon & Grill, 420 L St., Anchorage, AK 99501; (907) 274-3502. Lean on tradition at this self-described “great Alaskan dinner house” serving fresh seafood and rock salt-roasted prime rib, with broad views of Cook Inlet. Entrees start at $15.50.

TO LEARN MORE:

Alaska Travel Industry, 2600 Cordova St., Anchorage, AK 99503; (907) 929-2200, fax (907) 561-5727, www.travelalaska.com.

Appeared in the December 2006 issue of dancenotes

Yoga’s secret ingredient for partner dancers
By Camille Cusumano

If you’ve ever felt that dancing tango requires the stamina of a martial artist, then you’re ready for Carmen Iglesias. A yoga teacher and tango dancer, Carmen has developed a program that supports the special demands of Argentine tango—and, in essence, of all partner dancing.
All partner dances require that the leader and follower carry their own weight, but tango requires even more fluidity, a nearly “liquid balance.” Both partners must be like water seeking its own level, ever-ready to shift gracefully within the improvisational patterns that define the dance.

Carmen’s method, designed after years of training with yoga masters, improves not only posture and balance, but helps you conserve rather than lose energy while dancing. She teaches men to give a crystal clear lead to followers and followers how to remain light and easy to lead. In essence, her method teaches all dancers how to relax emotionally and psychically in order to better connect with partners.

Carmen, who has worked as a fashion model, studied art, and worked as a marketing rep for Pepsi Cola, has practiced yoga for more than 20 years and danced tango for the past four. She came to Swasthya, one of the oldest forms of yoga, involving dancing “asanas” (or poses) 10 years ago. Her workshops address everything from the natural fact of breathing to the use of hands to the way we must carry and safely torque our spines.

“It’s my profession to help people manage pain,” she says. So she developed a yoga program to support tango’s challenges. Today, she works with dancers who simply want to improve their “listening” skills in this often close-embrace dance and with those in rehabilitation who are eager to get back to dance after serious injuries.

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Many dancers already know the far-reaching benefits of yoga in general, including relaxed muscles, strong and pliable joints that forestall injury, a toning and cleansing of internal organs that helps keep energy levels constant. Yoga also imparts an equilibrium that comes from deep within, the kind of balance that a martial artist projects in meeting sudden opposing forces.It is this last benefit, a core centeredness that Carmen’s workshop most pointedly focuses on.She starts participants off so deceptively simply-working with breathing-that it’s hard to believe she holds the secret ingredient to a dancer’s equanimity. But, she notes that before we can manage our muscles, “We must manage our breath to avoid fatiguing quickly.” Breathing properly is also key to rhythm, she points out, and to seamless connecting with our partner and his or her rhythm.Furthermore, she says, “Dancing in close embrace [with a stranger], our emotions may go a little crazy,” which blocks the flow of breath, locking it inside of certain energy points within the body.Carmen begins each session by checking on participants who sit comfortably-no pretzel poses involved. She makes sure they are breathing naturally, allowing the breath to come and go, not forcing it, which actually takes some concerted awareness. Lest they underestimate the value of this exercise, she asks the class to consider how quickly the sense of smell fatigues—sniff in too strongly and the delicate bouquet of a rose, or notes in wine, vanish.She then teaches the class to inhale when preparing to move and to exhale when executing a move-not as easy as it sounds when you consider that you might prepare and execute dozens of moves within a minute’s time, say. You don’t have time to think about when to inhale, when to exhale.If you master this breathing phase, you will find you are able to dance for long stretches of time without sweating or getting out of breath. You will master the art of tranquility—or alpha state—that pranayama, or breathing exercises, induce. It is not a hidden secret, but it is subtle, the way in which one transfers the poise from yoga to dancing. One must remain attuned—that is all.

The workshop also incorporates movement, in silence and to different types of music, so that we may witness the body’s visceral reactions to sound. During this phase, I noticed that I was yawning and beginning to feel a little tired. But when she put on music by Van Morrison who never fails to touch my musical nerve, my energy soared and was nearly palpable. It’s learning to tap into these eternal energy reserves on demand that I found most beneficial in her yogic approach.

Carmen also had us work with sound that comes from within the body-chanting. She first described the locus of the seven chakras, or energy centers, from the base of the spine to the pinnacle of the skull. Then she led us through single-syllable chants for each center, ending with the oft-heard “om.” With breath and sound moving freely and harmoniously up and down the vertebral column, where one might imagine these energy centers sit, it felt as if we were a chorus of flutes, hitting synchronized notes.

Finely tuned inside and out, we began again to move, this time to “milonga” music, the strain of tango that has the deepest roots in African dance. We worked on a common contra-body-movement (CBM) that requires gentle torsion of the spine. Carmen calls this “body disassociation.” The vertebral column has three natural curves-cervical, thoracic, and lumbar-and without thinking about it, we often move it fluidly, like a wave. But when moving laterally, we can use a little help to keep its integrity.

Carmen helps each participant to correctly execute the disassociation of upper and lower body, using the breathing techniques we have just practiced. Having worked incrementally to condition the entire body and mind up to this point-including the five senses, the heart, lungs, muscles, and all-we begin to move elegantly, lightly.

Finely tuned inside and out, we began again to move, this time to “milonga” music, the strain of tango that has the deepest roots in African dance. We worked on a common contra-body-movement (CBM) that requires gentle torsion of the spine. Carmen calls this “body disassociation.” The vertebral column has three natural curves-cervical, thoracic, and lumbar-and without thinking about it, we often move it fluidly, like a wave. But when moving laterally, we can use a little help to keep its integrity.

Carmen helps each participant to correctly execute the disassociation of upper and lower body, using the breathing techniques we have just practiced. Having worked incrementally to condition the entire body and mind up to this point-including the five senses, the heart, lungs, muscles, and all-we begin to move elegantly, lightly.

The workshop also involves an interesting segment, moving the hands and fingers like flamenco dancers as we dance free-form, which at first seems irrelevant to partner dancing. But explains Carmen, “The hands are very important to move energy around and inside us so that we never get tired.” If I hadn’t experienced the effect of this exercise for myself, I might have remained skeptical. But as I watched Carmen’s dance, her hands twirling like wheels or fluttering like butterflies, I was mesmerized. I tried it and felt the surge of something new and sensual.

Tango teachers take Carmen’s workshop, because they know that beyond giving their students specific steps, choreography, or even technique, there is yet more to successful partner dancing, which can be viewed as a microcosm for any relationship between two human beings. Unforeseen forces always will arise.

Other disciplines can prepare the body for the demands of tango. Jazz, for example, teaches “isolations”-moving one body part, the shoulder or torso say, while keeping the rest is still. Tap dancing can prepare one for the rapid, or “faux” weight changes in dance. Pilates (which borrows its core belief from yoga—that strengthening the core of the body protects the entire body). And ballet can prepare the body for balance during isometric poses. But yoga, with its emphasis on breath and energy management, gives the body all three—the ability to isolate, change weight seamlessly, and keep one’s equilibrium while, most importantly, breathing. Gently, evenly, calmly, forever.

Information: Carmen Iglesias teaches mainly in Buenos Aires, Argentina, but has given workshops in Port Townsend, Washington. You can visit her Web site at www.danceyogacarmen.com. Or contact her at carmen5i@yahoo.com.ar. If you’re in Buenos Aires, stop by her weekly Tuesday class, 11 a.m. Email, or call (4962-4600) for address and to reserve.

Original article here.

On a nine-day cruise across the Atlantic, swinging to the Big Band sound of Tommy Dorsey was a breeze—especially for women traveling alone.

By Camille Cusumano (photo, Kent Wade)

A woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle, I chanted with the women of my generation, a strident slogan meant to crumble crusty patriarchal assumptions. But this past spring in New York, I boarded Holland America’s SS Rotterdamand checked that conviction at the port. I was stepping into an earlier era, an age of innocence in which very little was equivocal, from the legitimacy of a war to which sex asks the other to dance. I embraced the quaint notion that I needed a man.

Make that men. One at a time. I was satisfying a pent-up desire—to dance, that is—on a big band theme cruise from New York to Lisbon. My significant other, by his own definition, is a moving violation on the dance floor. And a cruise is his idea of solitary confinement. He bid me farewell and told me to “break a leg” as I left him ashore.

On this transatlantic sailing, we would call at ports in Bermuda and the Azores, but it was the five “at sea” days that intrigued me. They meant more time to swing to the music of the legendary Tommy Dorsey Orchestra of the great Jazz Age. A far cry from the free-form hip-slinging of my rebellious ’60s youth, this meant the disciplined, gender-specific moves of six- and eight-count ballroom basics—steps that entered my repertoire once I was old enough to appreciate the harmony and grace of my parents’ generation. As we left harbor, every detail, from soft breezes to the live music on the 10-story aft deck, felt harmonized for romance at sea. The sparkling clean ship slid along the Hudson, past the Statue of Liberty and out to the South Atlantic. But wait. I was alone amid a sea of couples. How could this be romantic?

Enter the Knights in Shining White Pants. Known as “social hosts,” they are the men who cruise almost for free in exchange for dancing with—and spreading themselves among—the single women on board. The first night they were brought onstage to music, bright spotlights, and fanfare. Just like the scene in which the gold-digging Walter Matthau and Jack Lemmon characters are introduced in the corny Hollywood comedy Out to Sea.

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Meet John Donaldson, 48, widower, a dapper, salt-and-pepper-haired paramedic/fireman in real life.
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Meet Bill Rodgers, 63, divorced, a hair stylist from New Jersey. Bill profited from the male shortage and was always surrounded by women, even during his off-hours.
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Meet Jerry Mallon, 71, retired aircraft engineer from Denver, with a swatch of white satin for hair, on his maiden voyage as a host. A sparkle in his eye and unrestrained flirtatious remarks betrayed him early on as someone having difficulty following the mandate not to get involved with the female passengers.
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Meet Gordon Russell-Cave, 63, widower, an Oxford-educated engineer from Brighton, England. Speaking Queen’s English, Gordon was as elegant as Michael Caine and made every woman of any age, size, or shape feel as if he were there for her only. The American hosts danced, but Gordon dahhhnced—like a ship on a sea of glass.

No, I was not alone. All those couples had to dance with each other for the entire voyage. Not I. I can’t remember when I could change partners more often. I was one of a few dozen women, “solos” in cruise line parlance, to be attended by men trained to read our cues and be on guard for our happiness. We had only to enter the proscenium, the Queen’s Lounge on the Promenade Deck. Stage directions: Look eager, hopeful, unattached.

On embryonic sea legs, I found my way to the lounge in the fore of the ship. Eighty-year-old trombonist and conductor Buddy Morrow (who played with the original Dorsey band in the late ’30s) held center stage. The room was bathed in surreal rose and gold lighting. Morrow said softly, “And now a Nelson Riddle arrangement of a Cole Porter favorite.”

The music of “Night and Day” blossomed as I sank into a red velvet booth at a cocktail table, ordered a flute of champagne, and watched the nimble footwork on the polished wood floor. I confess to initial stage fright. Would the men in tuxes choose me—just once?

My first dance might have been as proper as those of the ’40s dance cotillions, where the gentleman pulls a handkerchief from his back pocket to hold the lady’s hand. Except that I stepped to a different beat than Bill. But he proved to be as patient as a big brother, willing to bark commands in my ear—slow! slow! quick! quick!—in his boyish Jerry Lewis voice. Still, I danced on top of Bill’s feet more than on anyone else’s. Each time I did, I exclaimed, “Oh! Must be a swell.” By the end of our voyage, you could balance a glass of wine on my head as I learned to follow the beat in Bill’s head.

Dancing went smoothly to “Without a Song” with fellow baby boomer John, who didn’t mind when I forgot my place and took the lead. John had to take private lessons to become a host. “My worst fear was that I’d be dancing with ladies who expected Fred Astaire,” he said. “I learned they just wanted a warm body.” On the dance floor.

All the hosts have agreed in writing “not to show favoritism.” I asked Gordon, a six-year veteran who had cut his first rug on the grand Queen Elizabeth II,his secret to skillful mingling. “I like to dance with a lot of women,” he said. “You can have a ball. Literally.” He added, “You don’t need any special training. The keen dancers have a body language for ‘I want to dance.’ They sit near the dance floor. But as good hosts we don’t ignore those in the back.”

On another cruise, the woman “in the back” declined Gordon’s invitation to dance, but something told him to persist. He learned that this cruise had been planned with the woman’s husband—until he became her dearly departed. “I danced a few dances with her,” he said, “and I saw that she’d made two or three steps forward in her grieving.” A process Gordon, widowed at 55, knew all too well. “There are lots of satisfying moments like that,” he said.

The hosts were just one example of how well Holland America knows its audience. The Rotterdamis a 59,652-ton vessel with every amenity and setting, from the quiet, sea view-surrounded Erasmus Library and airy dining rooms to the Lido Deck pools, spa, gym, casino, espresso bar, and six lounges. I visited every corner of the ship at least once. But the bulk of my time transpired in the shadowy half-dark, under gold ceiling lamps, amid the classical statuary and urns of the Queen’s Lounge. No matter that the outside deck was imbued with sun and balmy air. Time for the next costume change, to attend the tea dance.

The acoustics of the lounge seemed designed to induce euphoria. The 16-piece brass- and woodwind-rich band distracted me as I sat out hot numbers like “Mack the Knife” and Dorsey’s “Song of India.” A Sinatra medley sung by 35-year-old “boy singer” Walt Andrus was a thrilling, crooning knockoff of Ol’ Blue Eyes himself.

Over the nine-day sailing, I socialized with my sister “solos.” I enjoyed chatting with Lois Cummins, 69, from Seattle, who cruises often. “My husband died 27 months ago,” she said sadly. “It’s been hard.” But she said she’d made good friends with other single women on cruises, loves to dance, and felt the ship was a haven of safety. “I’d never walk into a bar in Seattle alone,” she said. The Knights were custom-made for diminutive Lois.

And for Jean, 67, from New Jersey, who also had lost her husband, and for Helen, who wouldn’t divulge her age but professed her search for the next man. She looked as ageless as Lena Horne and just as seductive in her tight, black-beaded gown. She sashayed onto the floor with Gordon for a samba, her strong calf muscle flexing through the knee-high slit.

When not dancing, I sat mesmerized by the lithe figure of Yvonne Griffiths, 55, from Denver. The small of her back would vanish into the palm of a host and she would float. One night she coaxed Jorge, the pianist in the Ocean Lounge, onto the floor for a crowd-scattering tango with all the requisite dips. Finally I had to ask her if her feet, in their T-strap pumps, ever touched the ground. Not surprisingly, she told me she’d had years of Arthur Murray lessons. She had a husband who shared my beau’s opinions on dancing and cruising. Yvonne had been on the Rotterdam’sworld cruise for three months and thought the dancing was as near to perfect as it gets. “I think the only thing the ladies want is a bigger dance floor and more gentlemen hosts,” she said. The Woman in the Balcony (her official moniker) had the man shortage worked out. Scarlet Ewan, 76, from Houston, a former singer with the band Holiday Dreamers, had no patience with sitting out dances, so she danced every one—alone in the balcony.

We solos were the subculture aboard ship, but the married couples who shared our dance floor seemed like extras in our drama. Melodrama, at times: A lipstick smear on Gordon’s jacket led to an inquisition—who’s wearing the plum-berry? A rumor started that Agnes, who was built close to the ground and resembled Margaret Hamilton in The Wizard of Oz,kept a scorecard in her purse—how many dances did each woman get with each host? The social hosts were afraid of her and asked her to dance a lot. I couldn’t imagine what was whispered when I danced with singer Andrus to “Stardust Melody” and he crooned the lyrics to me.

For my part, I found myself more than once upholding the honor of these chivalrous knights, who never took leave of a lady until she was reseated. Allusions to gigolos in search of rich widows and tsk-tsking about their real motives seemed silly even in these Clintonesque times. The Hollywood version—a crotchety, penniless Matthau goes after and gets a leggy, busty, never-aging, never-sagging blonde, Dyan Cannon—didn’t help.

But Matthau didn’t have to pass muster with the likes of Lauretta Blake, whose Gentleman Host Program recruits men for the cruise lines. Many are called—to sea—but few are chosen.

“We go all over and meet the men personally,” says Blake, who presses the Knights of the Sea metaphor. Her recruiting literature stresses “the principles of gallantry” and the (anachronistic to me) “protecting and safeguarding of women.”

Blake has been scrutinizing men for cruise lines since 1987. The trend, which is now widespread, actually began as a bold idea in 1982 with Royal Cruise Line (now part of Norwegian Cruise Line). Today Blake is convinced that women, a major segment of the cruise market, “will not return to a ship unless there are hosts.” Hosts that are beyond reproach: Each must pass a background check and a dance test covering the five basics—waltz, fox-trot, rumba, cha-cha, and swing (jitterbug). “They don’t have to be exhibition-style, but so many great men, unfortunately, don’t qualify because their social dance skills have never been developed,” Blake says.

She bristles at the term “escort” in regard to her gents—a word with an unshakably shady connotation. “We take the Host Program seriously,” says Blake, “and are very protective of its integrity.”

But in real life romance happens—even for mature libidos. And this Holland American cruise was better than real life-those steamy torch songs, the sexy wail of Buddy Morrow’s “Night Train,” Andrus’s chairman-of-the-board phrasing, dancing cheek to cheek, the relentless sway of the boat. Blake simply says, “We tell them to start any personal relationships after ship time.”

Easy for her to say. Jerry, who has been married twice, once for 22 years, once for six, said he wasn’t sure he would cruise as a host again. “I feel handcuffed. I’d like to sit and chat with all the charming women. I’m still chasing my hopes and desires. I’m looking for a special person, tall, slim. Yes, I think of finding my next love here.”

Not me. I found my true love years ago, chicken legs and all. I’m on to a wilder fantasy: an ever-ready partner, no strings attached, who can’t stop dancing. For me the hardest part was waiting to be asked. On occasion, I didn’t. No one seemed to mind. Not even Agnes.