Opa! ("Oh, Pa...")

It seems perfectly fair to me that people whose cultures get made fun of in America should have the opportunity to get their own back once in a while. But dear God, I would rather witness such hilarity from a distance. Especially since last Saturday.

There's this great Greek place right up the road from where we live (one of the perks of our neighborhood is all the cool restaurants nearby, although my sister spoils that one good by constantly insisting on eating World Wrapps). We've been there a few times already, and my parents decided last Saturday that we should have dinner there. When we got there, it started out as a pretty normal meal--we snarfed down the calamari appetizer, while I tried to convince my parents to branch out from Chicken Souvlaki--and then the most beautiful woman in the world appeared.

Or so I thought.

What really happened was that the head waitress announced there would be some bellydancing while we ate. The woman who was going to dance for us came out in a pretty traditional costume, and before I saw her face I thought, "She's probably really pretty." And truth be told, her body was in really good shape...but her face looked kind of like a shrunken head. A shrunken head covered in eyeliner. Still, she danced very confidently, which turned out to be the bane of my poor father.

As she danced, she made her way in between tables, every so often winking at someone or leaning on their shoulder. Which I thought was cool until she did both to my dad. The look on his face was priceless, and I don't know if I was more embarrassed by the shrunken head hitting on him or how constipated he looked. After she had moved on to the next table, my dad thought he was safe, but during the next song she came around again and draped her shawl over his head.

At this point my dad must have figured that the more he resisted, the harder she would try to seduce him, so when people started tipping her by sticking money into the hems of her costume, he decided to tip her himself. I must say I admire his courage for sticking a few dollar bills under the strap of her top, but his efforts were all in vain. The Shrunken beckoned to him and made him get up, then dance with her for the next thirty seconds.

I knew that I would be scarred permanently if I watched my dad try to shake it Greek-style, so I only stared for about five seconds before hiding my face, pretending to be laughing uncontrollably. (Which, actually, I was.) But the Shrunken obviously thought it was funny too, because she made the entire restaurant get up and learn the basic steps. I felt very stupid trying to bellydance, but I was consoled by the fact that I was better than my mom, who looked like she was trying to be Tom Jones.

After the dancing, I wanted to escape ASAP, but somehow my parents decided to order dessert. I suppose the baklava ice cream did make the situation considerably better. And I'm definitely planning on eating there again--just not on a Saturday. And if on a Saturday, not until I look like Shakira.