In 1976 I am in a study program in London with about a dozen other architecture students. One of my favorite classmates, Steve Story, and I are walking along the Thames embankment at Putney on a pleasant spring day, when in the middle of some discussion or other, he grabs my arm and points at a pigeon. "Watch that pigeon," he says. "He puffs his chest and does this absurd little dance for the female pigeons who pretty much ignore him. It's pathetic. I mean, look at him." And so we watch this bird ritual for a good ten minutes. Not a single female pigeon pays attention to the dancing male, and yet this studly exhibition of fluff and footwork continues with the persistence of a telemarketer.

"It must work sometime," Steve observes, "or why would he do it?" Then Steve does an imitation of the pigeon: head down, chest out, hands clasped behind, prancing footwork and strutting half turns here and there. Not unlike a less confident Church Lady. "How's this? Are you impressed? Do you think I have the moves?" he asks. I, in the role of female pigeon, pretend to ignore him and walk along, leaving Steve to his dancing. He catches up with me and starts his pigeon dance again, just in case I missed it. "Yes. Very impressive," I say patronizingly.

A few weeks later, another classmate, Suzanne, and I decide to go to the local dance club. It is in the suburban neighborhood of Muswell Hill and full of people between the ages of 16 and maybe 25, definitely a young crowd. The drinks are tragically weak and the busy chaperones keep everything decent. Suzanne and I don't find any boys willing to dance with us, but run into Steve cruising the edges of the dance floor. No one is willing to dance with him, either. Suzanne and I are tired of dancing with each other, and we offer to dance with him. It is nearly closing time, and he doesn't want to waste time when he is after more than a spin on the sticky dance floor to a really bad band with girls he already knows. "See those girls over there? They won't talk to me. Introduce me to them," he pleads, "so they think I'm a decent guy."

Four girls, dressed up in their finest funky party dresses and retro pocketbooks, stand talking to each other and drinking sodas. They look like they want to dance, swaying on the edge of the dance floor. We introduce ourselves, introduce Steve, and insist that he is decent. His target is a girl in white. Once again he asks her to dance. "Me mum would kill me if she heard I danced with a boy. And an American boy... I just couldn't." Another girl conspiratorially leans in. "You can buy us a soda if you want, though." These girls go out in safety-in-numbers girl-groups, and this is as far as the leash goes. A couple Greek guys come over and ask Suzanne and me to dance, so off we go, leaving Steve dealing with the girl-group.

The Greek guys get a little grabby mid-dance, so we leave them and go back to see how Steve is doing. He is, from a distance, making his case. We can see him gesturing so that even a blind person could get the message that he is a decent guy and just wants one dance with the one girl in white. He falls to his knees, begs quickly, and pops up again. He is witty. He is endearing. The girl's friends stand guard around her like mother yaks around a pale calf, repelling this lovesick American cowboy.

Suzanne and I head for the bar for one last drink and to ditch the grabby Greek guys. The last dance is announced and the band launches into a peppy tuneless number. Suzanne elbows me and points in horror at the edge of the dance floor.

The four English girls stand thunderstruck as Steve launches into a dance by himself. Head down, chest out, prancing footwork, it's all there. Then he stands up and - ta-da! - waits for approval of his dance. The girls all turn in unison and walk away from him. He resumes dancing like a pigeon even as a chaperone escorts him out the door.

"Hey, it's gotta work sometime..." he calls out as the bar door closes on him.

Leslie Strom (here shown in 1976 high atop the Prime Meridian in Greenwich, England where the pigeons are) finds natural history in many weird places.

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