On a crisp Sunday night, a cluster of high-school students in frilly sequined skirts, Quicksilver T-shirts and platform sandals pass a yellowed, framed notice posted to a door. The notice reads: “TANGO, TURKEY TROT and other objectionable dances strictly forbidden in this Hall.” The high-school students enter the humble doorway leading to the Century Ballroom.

Putting on the Ritz

Photo: Helen Freund

They drop their backpacks on a table, next to a couple in their 20s who are practicing their dance steps while chanting: “Rock step, step, step. Rock step, step, step.”

The high-school students forget any thoughts of homework that might fill their heads as they gaze at the dance floor filled with swing dancers and slip into another decade.

“So, has anyone done this before?” the ringleader of the group calls out, slicking his gelled hair towards the back of his head. He rolls up the sleeves of his white shirt as if he was a 1940s workman ready to dance his troubles away after a long day on the job.

A third of the group raises their hands. One of the girls looks askance at the fast-paced dancers on the floor. They are dancing in a range of genres, from the Lindy Hop and Charleston to the Jitterbug and West Cost Swing.

“What do we do if we forget a step?” the girl asks, nervously wiping her hands on the back of her pre-ripped jeans.

“Keep dancing and you’ll be fine,” the ringleader says assuredly. “Just don’t stop.”

The interior of the two-story, square ballroom is enough to make a person, be it a Century regular or newcomer, stop and soak in the art nouveau decor. The tinkling chandeliers and gold embossed balcony catch the eye first. Circling down to the right is the stage with a piano, drum set, and DJ console. Directly in front of the stage are white linen-covered tables and spindle-backed chairs with coats and purses thrown over them. Their owners are out on the dance floor, where decades of spins, slides and rock steps have worn away the lacquer. A small bar used on nights where admission is limited to those 21 years old and older gives the air a slight scent of stale alcohol. On the walls are lights and a number of full-length mirrors reflecting the dancing action in the center of the room.

The Century Ballroom is located in the Oddfellows Building, a turn-of-the-century brick structure in the heart of Capitol Hill. The building subtly exudes elegance with its decorative chiseled cornice. For eight years, owner and salsa instructor Hallie Kuperman has established the Century as a welcoming haven to Seattleites searching for a family-friendly venue to learn and show off their salsa, tango or swing dancing skills. Before Kuperman took over management of the Century, the ballroom used to host rock bands and raves—all-night techno dance parties.

Patrick Carey, 25, is the Century’s jack-of-all-trades: doorman, bartender and sound engineer. The only thing he can’t do is dance. Carey sits near the ballroom’s doorway to collect the $5 Swing Night cover fee and magenta Free Dance cards.

“180 people here within the first hour,” he reports. “Every time I think it slows down—”

A man in his mid-50s interrupts, asking where he can get a drink of water. His hand brushes a belt buckle the size of Texas as it moves up to wipe his forehead, beads of sweat dribbling down the wrinkles on his face.

Carey knowingly nods to a container holding bottles of Athena water. It is the 24th time he has heard a variation of that question.

“Dancing crosses all boundaries: generational, cultural, social,” Carey comments, taking a quick break to munch on a fried dumpling from the Century’s restaurant a few feet away. “The Century’s a great place—great dancers, family-friendly environment, big floor. It brings all kinds of people together.”

With a crooked smile, he reveals that the ballroom also hosts the ghosts of the Oddfellows Building. According to Carey, the Oddfellows, an old social club, offered its members jobs at a funeral home and converted the basement of the Oddfellows building into an embalming room.

“One night as I was closing up with all the lights off, I was restocking water in the cooler. The cooler was not touching the bar, I wasn’t touching the bar, but suddenly one of the hanging wine glasses flies off the rack and lands directly behind me,” Carey says, his expression serious. “No embellishment whatsoever. That’s exactly how it happened.”

Swing time at the Century

Photo: Helen Freund

It’s 15 minutes before closing, and many of the 260 people who have been swinging for over two hours show no acknowledgment of the time. Despite the large Hollywood-sized fans in every corner, people lounge on the wide window ledges for air, their heads resting on the plush, red velvet curtains. Their faces are eerily lit by the glowing neon sign outside—a champagne glass labeled “Century: Dine & Dance.”

On the dance floor, the girl in the pre-ripped jeans stands with a newly met partner, waiting for the next song to start.

“I don’t really know how to do this,” she informs him sheepishly.

The partner shrugs with a smile. “Me neither,” he says.