Calling all cowgirls!

Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined myself sitting in the aerobics studio at Body Gym (pronounced buh-dee geem), watching 20 French women and 1 exasperated French man scuffing their heels, clapping their hands, and kicking their feet to the tune of Alan Jackson growling, "God bless Texas!"

And yet on Wednesday night, after dashing down the rue Faubourg Saint Antoine to join fellow cowgirls Nelly and Sina, I watched, mesmerized and a little perplexed, as the novices grapevined across the fake parquet floor. Sina's brother had signed up for a trial course and invited us to join in for a little boot-scootin' boogying. Who could resist such a bizarre and intriguing proposition?

Much to my chagrin, I arrived 10 minutes too late to join the crowded group of newfound merde-kickers, but instead of heading across the street to the bar with the other dissed dancers, I decided to stay and be witness to this hallucinant ode to Americana taking place only a few blocks from my apartment.

Now don't get me wrong - line dancing is fun and a great way to burn calories. However, I think it's safe to say that I was the only one in the room who understood the overwhelmingly "proud to be an Amercun" lyrics blasting from the speakers. I asked the instructor about this wondrous sociological phenomenon while his dazzlingly fit partner lead the students through the rumba. Excited to expound upon the country scene in Paris, he threw out all sorts of statistics on country line dancing clubs in france, associations of country music-lovers and couldn't resist proudly pointing out the fact that his classes were becoming so popular that they were obliged to create a groupe B to accommodate this wildfire trend!

But the music? Didn't French people despise anything that smacked of red state hubris and Bush's native territory? Looking around the mirror-paneled room, it occurred to me that the majority of the middle-aged, probably middle-class women were not card-carrying anti-capitalist, Charlie hebdo subscribers and probably had no idea that they were gaily rock stepping their bodies to a ditty claiming that Texan girls are by far the fairest of them all.

When I inquired as to where one might practice one's country moves outside of obscure classes in the 11ème, he dashed off a handful of well-known bars and ballrooms throughout Paris and France where country line dancing night and country balls were regular and popular events. Amazing.

Never a big line dancer back in the states, I am now dying to infiltrate the country scene in Paris and do a little first-hand research on Americana-mania in Paris, if you will. JB's Texan accent is going to come in so handy.