I hadn’t tipped Montreal Shot Bar in Istanbul as the place I’d learn the art of traditional Kurdish dance. But there I was, two Efes beers deep, hand in hand with a local waiter, trying not to out myself as what I am: a fully-fledged dancephobe.
Under normal circumstances, I’m allergic to dancing. As a child, I’d run screaming from any kids' club that played the Macarena like it was an air raid siren; I never mastered the Cha Cha Slide or S Club 7 dance routines, and don’t get me started on Tube Girl.
