I have a lot of dance stories to tell, but this is where stories start to get harder to organize. They don’t neatly slot into the previous arcs. They just… happen. Sporadically. Like emotional pop quizzes.

These stories revolve around something called an Exchange, which were irregular, multi-day dance events that dotted my life at unpredictable intervals. I went to so many of them that I can’t remember all the ones I attended, or what order they happened in. Which feels appropriate, because Exchanges themselves exist slightly outside of time.

The first time I heard about an Exchange was when I was living with Jason. Up until then, I thought I understood the dance ecosystem. There were weekly dances. There were occasional house parties. And then someone casually mentioned that there were also annual dances, as if this were not new and alarming information.

I bought a ticket. I bought a couple of new dresses. I felt prepared.

I was not.

I showed up the first night expecting the familiar group of dancers I had grown to know—only to walk into a venue absolutely packed with people I had never seen before. So many people. All dancing. Confidently. People from out of town.

It turns out I had not understood what an Exchange was.

In the dance community, an Exchange is a multi-day social dance event—usually a long weekend—where dancers from different cities travel to one place to dance together, socialize, and quietly assess each other’s worth.

There are daytime classes, taught by paid instructors. There are beginner classes, intermediate classes, and then the crème de la crème classes—generally composed of other instructors and performers—where they can hobnob, rub elbows, and discuss their mutual superiority.

At night, from about 8 p.m. to 4 a.m., there are social dances. These are often held in ballrooms, historic venues, or quirky spaces. The only real requirements seem to be a sufficiently large hardwood floor and aggressively insufficient air conditioning.

There is a heavy emphasis on socializing. You are encouraged to dance with everyone.

It was amazing.

It was like discovering that a rare foreign language you spoke with a small group of friends was actually spoken fluently by thousands of people worldwide. And not only did they understand it—they were good at it.

The leads were incredible. Musical. Attentive. They allowed me room to dance, to play, to contribute—rather than dragging me around by the wrist and expecting me to make them look good while repeating the same six steps they’d memorized in 1998.

Nearly every Utah dancer I knew was put to shame.

I felt like an idiot child. I had thought I knew what dancing was. I did not. It was intoxicating—despite the fact that these were dry venues, so there was no alcohol to blame for any of my feelings.

It was getting late, and I was standing along the wall, watching the dancers, trying to decide if it was time to go home, when a woman in a corset and fishnet stockings asked if I wanted to dance.

I shrugged. Why not.

She led me into another room—one that was dimmer, quieter, and somehow more crowded. The blues room.

I had thought the entire event was swing dancing. Apparently, it is tradition to have a blues room at night and late-night dances. I was very grateful I hadn’t already gone home without accidentally discovering it.

She introduced herself as Alexis. She was from California. And then she led me through three incredible dances, one after the other.

She was easy to follow. A beautiful dancer. She leaned into the slow, close-embrace style—intimate, grounded, unapologetically sexy. She was also extremely busty, so there was… a lot of boobage happening between us.

I’m sure we put on quite a show for anyone watching. Honestly, we should have filmed it and sold copies. Alas.

Dancing with so many new people nearly ruined the local scene for me afterward. Everything at home felt… smaller. Less fluent.

A few months later, I learned there was another Exchange—this one in Denver. I mentioned, foolishly, that I had a car and would be willing to drive two or three people.

Instantly, I was transported back to my time in Idaho. My name and number spread through the dance community like wildfire. People called and texted at all hours asking if I had room in my car. After being woken up two nights in a row by dancers who thought it was acceptable to call someone at 2 a.m., I decided I had absolutely no patience for these people and opted out entirely.

A year later, the Denver Exchange came up again.

This time, I bought a dance ticket and a plane ticket. I told no one I was going—except Leah, my blues dancing, beautician friend in Salt Lake.

Leah was less grumpy than I was and had gone the year before. As part of Exchange culture, local dancers often open their homes to out-of-town guests. Leah had done that once. It had been miserable. She was not repeating the experiment.

So, we got a hotel room. And we shared a rental car.

It was April. A massive snowstorm had dumped something like four feet of snow the night before we arrived, and it continued snowing the entire weekend. The state handled it beautifully. The rental car company did not. They failed to provide a windshield scraper.

We tried to find one. No stores seemed to have them. So, we used an empty cassette tape case instead. Every trip involved freezing fingers, wet sleeves, and an exceptionally slow start.

Despite all of that, the weekend was fun—though being social for that many hours a day is deeply exhausting.

I came home and immediately caught a terrible bug. Later, I learned this was a well-known phenomenon, affectionately referred to as the Exchange Plague.

The next Exchange I remember was in San Francisco. I stayed with Alexis—the blues dancer I had met years earlier. She gave me directions from the airport involving BART and a bus. After asking several people for help, I finally exited the correct station.

When I emerged into daylight, dragging my bag behind me, I was confronted by a group of large men loitering near the exit.

I was still lost. I needed directions again.

So, I made what I felt was the only logical decision: I walked straight up to the biggest, scariest man in the group and asked him if he knew where my bus stop was. My reasoning was simple—if he was going to assault me, there was nothing I could do about it. But if he helped me, maybe the other guys would keep their distance.

He did know. The bus stop was directly across the street.

“Thanks!” I said cheerfully. “You’re my hero.”

And this enormous, terrifying man visibly blushed as I walked away.

That Exchange had more outdoor dancing and fewer classes. It was wonderful. I also ate a lot of ice cream. Most notably, I discovered Bi-Rite Creamery, which I visited every single day.

One day I ordered the Sam’s Sundae: chocolate ice cream, blood orange olive oil, whipped cream, and sea salt.

I loved it. I dreamed about it for months.

Years later, Estela went to San Francisco for a work trip. I told her about the ice cream. She went out of her way to find it and ordered the suspicious-sounding dessert I had recommended.

She gagged while trying to eat it.

She has never trusted me with a food recommendation since.

The next Exchange I remember was Emerald City, in Seattle. I don’t remember much about the trip itself—just the moment something quietly shifted. I realized that some of the friends I’d made in San Francisco were the instructors at this dance. And because I knew them, they danced with me. Which meant I was suddenly dancing with instructors. And because instructors were dancing with me, other instructors danced with me. And by some mysterious process of social osmosis, I was now deemed a decent dancer.

Nothing about my dancing had changed. But my proximity had.

After that, I got asked to dance a lot more. Not because I’d improved—though I probably had—but because I’d been seen improving by the right people. Apparently, in the dance world, skill matters… but reputation shows up first and dances with you before anyone else does.