Sometimes, without warning, at weird hours of the night, I become really Greek. I’m actually Greek-Ukrainian, but my ethnicities show themselves in completely different situations, and never at the same time (put me in the Catskill Mountains on a summer day, for instance, and I’ll be as Varangian as you please). Tonight, though - as on all nights when I’m up late and love is on my mind - my head rushed back to my family’s tiny village in southern Laconia:

God, I miss that place sometimes. Maybe I’m being overly sentimental; I just revisited a note I jotted down back in February to express my gratitude for all the women in my life, and I’ve recently surrendered myself to a love the likes of which I could barely have captured at my most hyperbolic. I run the risk of my love letters being mistaken for religious scripture in a couple of centuries, and I adore every minute of it.

Of course, at times like this, when my mind overflows with positive energy and not even words can encompass the beauty around me (and after reading that last paragraph, it sure ain’t for lack of trying), the only logical conclusion for me is the zeibekiko.

There I was, with five minutes to myself, at three o’clock in the morning, in my friends’ new living room. The place was devoid of furniture. The floor was clean linoleum. My shoes were thin. My thoughts were drawn to Pistamata, Kyparissi, Monemvasia and the Peloponnese mountains that have sheltered those places from the prying eyes of the world for centuries. I thought of my family, and of my friends who may as well be my own flesh and blood. But above all, I thought of the woman with whom my only wish is to share all of those things. I started dancing pretty much involuntarily.

I am a terrible dancer. I mean, I know a lot of people say that, but god damn. My limbs are like unruly socket wrenches. They get the job done, but grace sure wasn’t on the menu when I was bolted together and booted up back in the eighties. Nonetheless, my dad taught me the zeibekiko when I was a kid. Kept me occupied at weddings, you see.

The basic concept behind the dance, depending on what part of Greece you come from, is to dance as though you’re drunk. Of course, you may actually be drunk on retsina or ouzo, but hey. There are no established steps. You just move with the music, allowing yourself to lose balance and regain it in time with the slow, deliberate pace of the bouzouki.

The zeibekiko is one of those dances that doesn’t make much sense to someone who hasn’t seen it before; it barely looks like a dance at all. But that’s not really the point. It’s all about letting the music hit you. I mean really hit you - burning eyes, lump in throat and all. Greeks are intense people. Trust me, we know when someone’s feeling the music. It’s an expressive dance rather than an impressive one.

So yeah, I twirled around the room a bunch, looking a fool. Did I care even in the slightest? Hell naw. That’s just how we roll in Sparta. You should come join me some time.