Author: Alycia Seymour

One recent Sunday afternoon, upon sighting a candy-apple red contraption maneuvering the chilly streets of downtown Minneapolis, a shopper called out from the sidewalk, “What is that?” It’s a question Paul Selcke finds himself answering frequently. “It’s a conference bike,” he said, dinging his bell for emphasis. Monday through Thursday, Selcke makes his living teaching ESL at the Mall of America, but on weekends he’s the entrepreneur behind Cycle Seven, the first conference-bike-tour company in the Midwest. The bike, which essentially looks like an overgrown tricycle built to accommodate seven riders, is available by the hour to business groups, family parties, tourists, and whoever else—it’s even been used by speed-daters. Riders benefit twofold, from the exercise and an innovative design concept that inspires conversation among the participants; hence, the “conference” in the appellation. Selcke originally planned to start a pedicab company, but online research led him to the conference bike, and he became smitten with its efficiency and unique design.
A frigid afternoon in December may seem an unlikely time for a leisurely bike ride, but the jovial Selcke insists that, like any other winter sport in Minnesota, the key to comfortable conference biking is to dress for the weather. Clad in Sorels, a green, puffy jacket, and woolen hat, Selcke, who officially took Cycle Seven to the streets in the fall of 2005, leads by example. He likens the level of activity to cross-country skiing, and even suggests a family jaunt on the conference bike as “the modern alternative to the sleigh ride.” Though Cycle Seven operates year round, business in the winter months is, predictably, slow: Selcke books an average of two to three hours a week, compared with the ten to twelve weekly hours he has the bike out and about in more inviting weather.
The conference bike is equal parts form and function. The circular frame creates a round-table environment in which all passengers face one another—a set-up that facilitates conversation and, according to the inventor’s website, “lowers inhibitions.” While riding the conference bike, one person steers and operates the brakes, leaving the remaining six passengers free to pedal, or not, depending on respective energy levels and inclinations. Currently, riders must be at least twelve years old, but Selcke says that a new seat is in the works to allow kiddies in on the fun.
The creation of Eric Staller, an American living in Amsterdam (ground zero for global bike culture), the conference bike was designed as a part of his ongoing public artwork series Urban UFOs. The first in this succession of mobile, socially interactive art pieces was a Volkswagen Beetle covered in more than 1,600 computerized lights, appropriately dubbed the “Lightmobile.” The conference bike first appeared in 1991 as the Octos: an eight-seater tricycle with a circular frame. The bike as it now exists emerged in 1996.
At four hundred pounds, the conference bike is by no means lightweight, and the mechanics are correspondingly sturdy. In fact, the contraption is a marvel designed by automobile engineers, who borrowed here and there from the bike’s motorized counterparts: The steering is made by Porsche. The frame is crafted from powder-coated steel and outfitted with motorcycle wheels and hydraulic brakes. Over flat terrain, its average speed falls between ten and twelve miles per hour, but the hills of St. Paul are another story entirely. “With seven passengers, it’s gone as fast as thirty to thirty-five [miles per hour] down Kellogg and Wabasha,” boasts Selcke.
Perched on the bike, one feels rather like a pageant princess, returning the smiles and waves that are the almost-universal reaction generated by the appearance of this innovative transport. (Visibility has proven to be Cycle Seven’s best advertising: Selcke cruises populated areas of the Cities, giving free rides to drum up business.) Cars honk their horns in appreciation. On one recent trip, an SUV pulled over to better allow all four of its college-aged occupants to hang out the windows and yell, “You guys are awesome!” According to Selcke, this kind of thing happens all the time. He’s had a few negative experiences as well—run-ins with drunks and rude or inattentive drivers (as frequently happens with riders on run-of-the-mill bicycles), but overall, the response has been overwhelmingly positive. As one conference bike rider put it, “I don’t know when I’ve ever seen my fellow citizens being so friendly!”
While Cycle Seven may be a part-time endeavor at the moment, Selcke has big plans for the future. “This is a back-up now,” Selcke, his glasses fogged from the cold, admits. “Eventually I’d like to do it for a living.” Ideally, he says, access to the bikes could be free and underwritten by sponsors, which would be a perfect fit at public events and around shopping malls. He’d also like to have more bikes stationed around the city so he could retire the trailer he now uses to transport the bike, thus rendering the operation entirely fossil fuel free. This environmental consciousness is an integral part of Selcke’s philosophy, and part of the reason why he thinks he can be successful. “There have to be alternative ways to get people around. This is efficient transport,” he says. “Look around. All of these cars are emitting carbon. We’re leaving no footprints.”

Rimming with myriad curiosities, the Uptown office of Jawaahir Dance Company looks something of a crowded bazaar. Persian rugs, strewn end to end, cover the floor. A herd of carved wooden camels congregates on a shelf lined with gold fringe. A tangle of brightly hued scarves is heaped in a corner. And in the entryway hangs an enormous replica of a Bedouin wedding necklace—a stage prop painstakingly detailed with faux silver, turquoise, amber, and carnelian.

Cassandra Shore, the founder of both Jawaahir and the Cassandra School, appears no less exotic than her surroundings, carrying herself gracefully on bare, hennaed feet. Her long black hair is offset by a vivid turquoise blouse, and her gold earrings resemble the jingling coins that cover the hip scarves favored by her belly-dance students.

After studying Oriental dance in California, Shore came to Minneapolis in 1977—a serendipitous occasion, as she soon discovered an unexpected richness and diversity within the city’s dance scene. She established her school in 1978, and now, twenty-eight years later, the name “Cassandra” reigns supreme among Minnesotans who’ve fallen in love with Middle Eastern dance.

Among the trove gathered during Shore’s travels through Egypt, Turkey, and North Africa, her collection of dolls immediately catches the visitor’s eye. Surprisingly, they originate closer to home, having been handcrafted by a former student who now lives on the Olympic Peninsula in Washington state. Designed to represent the various folk styles of Middle Eastern dance, the six exquisite dolls are rare; only a few of each character were made.

The Ottoman “Rom” dancer is outfitted in traditional Turkish gypsy style, with white pantaloons and a vest detailed with gold embroidery and tiny sequins. A pillbox hat accented with a pink lotus-like flower perches on her braided hair, and a festive smile is painted across her face.

Another doll, dressed in a brown and turquoise striped caftan and braided yarn belt, represents a Tunisian folk dancer artfully balancing a water jug on her head. In Tunisia, it is traditionally a woman’s duty to collect water, Shore explained, and this utilitarian skill becomes art via a vigorous dance of twisting and twirling during which the full pot remains stationary on her head.

The Moroccan Guedra doll, with hair of braids and beads, maintains an atypical stance; she’s planted in kneeling position. Hers is a trance/blessings dance enacted through the upper body, predominantly with the hands—a style Shore referred to as the “finger ballet.” Draped in indigo fabric, the doll’s arms are positioned as though presenting a gift. The collection also features dolls depicting Khaleeji (Persian Gulf), Ouled Nail (Algerian), and Moroccan Schikhatt dancers, each modeling an embellished costume, painted fingernails, superbly detailed jewelry, and an evocative expression.

Serving as both decorative objects and instructional aids, these gorgeous dolls couldn’t ask for a more fitting home than Jawaahir, a word that, in Arabic, means jewels. “I’m trying to expand people’s horizons,” Shore explained when asked about the utility of her collection. “Everyone knows belly dance, but there’s a lot more to Middle Eastern dancing than just that.”