This past Thursday, my students started asking me if I believed that the world would end on Saturday. As a way to comfort them, I said that this was about the fourth or fifth time that the world was allegedly going to end; so I was quite confident that an earthquake wouldn’t hit at 6 pm on Saturday; therefore, they could continue studying for their final exams. I still warned them that if a religious person offered them a free glass of Kool-aid not to drink it!
As even the most secular Christian such as myself knows, NO ONE can predict when and how the world is going to end, which religious fantatics should know if they read the Bible as much as they claim to do. I suspect Christian fanatics use their leather bound Bibles to hit people over the heads rather than as reading material.
Speaking of being beat over the head, I went to a double birthday party for two capoeiristas in my group on Friday night at a downtown club, which advertised a variety of Latin music. I’d never been nor was this was one of the clubs that the usual Austin salsero suspects even talk about; so I was intrigued to check it out.
Since it was a special occasion, my friends had the upstairs inside balcony reserved, which turned out to be a safe haven for me and pretty much the only reason I stayed for as long as I did. The tiny wooden dance floor could comfortably accomodate about 20 serious dancing couples. So, in the beginning, I danced bachata with the birthday boy, the birthday girl danced with her boyfriend and other people in our group joined in. For that part of the night the dance floor was fun. Yet around midnight, the place swelled and reggaeton dominated the mix. There was so much bumping and grinding, I’m impressed a scantily clad woman didn’t circulate through the crowd to sell condoms.
Whenever I retreated upstairs to sit down and wait out the reggaeton mix, I entertained myself by looking down at the urban human version of mating season in the Serengeti. Small groups of women would push themselves onto the dance floor, pretending that they’re so into dancing that they don’t notice that they’re purposely dancing into everyone. And the most vicious of the group was inevitably the shortest woman in the bunch–reminded me of a club I used to go to in Tegus.
On the sidelines were the progressively drunken single men who became bolder as both the night and alcohol wore on. At the tipping point of inebriation, a borracho would grind against a woman on the peripheral. Most times, that was a successful maneuver–at least for the duration of the song. In the meantime, I was so happy that I had a collection of muscle-bound capoeira friends who I could dance with.
What finally convinced me to stay upstairs and dance for the rest of the night was one truly drunk and belligerent guy who had taken his shirt off, started yelling and the next thing I know, he lunged forward at someone. I was never clear if the situation actually came to blows, but two guys were onto him quickly and he was escorted out the back. Fortunately, no one in my capoeira group was involved and we survived the night unscathed, which is always fantastic, especially if the world was to end in less than 24 hours.
I got home around 5 am since half of us went to breakfast. Even wearing a slumber mask only allowed me 2 more hours of sleep longer than my usual 7:30-ish “sleeping in”. (Normally, I wake up around 6:30 and never have to hear my 7 am alarm for work.) My only saving grace was the fact that I don’t drink alcohol when I go out dancing, especially at a shitty bump n grind meat market dance club. So, I had enough energy to do what I’d planned for the day, but apparently I was too tired to pack my day bag for what I’d planned to do.
I made it to my afternoon intermediate tango class a little late, which is saying something since that class ALWAYS starts late, thanks to Argentine time–not that I’m complaining! From there, I made a beeline to the Pachanga Fest at Fiesta Gardens. I was amazed how far away from the entrance that I had to park. I remember thinking that the walk wouldn’t be too bad since I’d only have to make it twice. HA!
As soon as I got to the gate and saw the $25 entrance fee, I wanted to kick myself for only bringing $40. Plus, I’d left my purse in the car so I wouldn’t have to carry it around. Nonetheless, I figured that $15 would be enough to buy food with and in that heat, there was no way I was going to buy any alcohol.
Good thing I didn’t go back to my car for my credit card or I might have missed my friend’s band altogether. Afterwards, I walked to the other end of festival where the food vendors were. Thank God the lines were short and the food was very reasonably priced–so was the jewerly. Of course, anytime I’m strapped for cash, that’s the time there’s a slew of teacher priced interesting jewelry.
I finished eating, made a mad dash to my car to get my credit card, still ticked off at myself for not bringing enough money from home. I contemplated how high the ATM fee would be when I locked the door, closed it and then checked my pocket for the key…too late. Shining in the afternoon sun laid my car keys in the back seat. And the spare key was also locked safely in the car inside my purse .
I was miserable for a few minutes before remembering that I had my smart phone. I looked up a locksmith, gave my information and made another mad dash back to the festival. I withdrew $100, bought the jewelry set I wanted and returned to my car, waiting for the locksmith who rolled up 20 minutes later. As I excitedly watched him safely open my car and unlock it, I jokingly asked him how his last day on Earth was going. He didn’t realize that there had been a doomsday prediction, but wisely quoted the Bible about God returning like a thief in the night, which no one can predict. Besides, it was 5 after 6 and so far the only doom-like thing was how much I had to pay to get my car keys back. The moral of that experience would be: “Stupidity always costs more money.” I know there’s a cliche about a fool and his money parting, but I like making up my own sayings.
I rejoined my friends at one of the four concert stages and put the bad feeling behind me. My late night from the previous outing prevented me from staying at Pachanga Fest until the end. Besides, I was long past due for a shower. Sometimes, I feel ridiculous taking a shower on Saturday night since I go to bikram yoga on Sunday mornings, but this one was justified.
I started off strongly in bikram and could even go deeper into some positions…until it hit. I slowly became hot. Much hotter than I normally feel in that hot yoga class. I looked at my face in the mirror and it was more flush than usual. Was I about to faint? Was I getting my first hot flash? (Didn’t dawn on me at the time that I’m not menopausal yet!) Was THIS the rapture? No to all the above. The bikram instructor just had the room a little too hot and had slightly cooked all of us.
My two minute shower afterwards felt divine. My Sunday post-bikram routine is to go straight home, do laundry, clean my apartment, eat and then blog. The first thing that threw things off was my washing machine acted up. It made a sound that I’d never heard before. Of course, I turned the knob, pulled it, pushed it, turned it some more, pulled it, pushed it until I was satisfied that I tried everything I knew to get the washing machine to work.
Again, just like the previous day when I’d locked my keys in the car, I walked away, counseling myself not to let it ruin my day. I figured I could still clean my apartment. I tossed my yoga mat into the tub to rinse it off and no water came out of the faucet. Well, that certainly solved the mystery of the “broken” washing machine, but now I had post yoga funk on me and was supposed to meet a friend in 2 hours to watch a dance presentation and go to dinner afterwards.
I grabbed my swim bag, threw in the dress I was going to wear, my new jewelry I’d bought the day before and hit the gym to take a shower. Things went smoothly until I got there. I’d stripped down, took my toiletry bag out of the gym bag when I realized that I forgot to pack a towel. I was geniunely surprised since I always have a towel in my swim bag. I redressed and went to the front desk to rent a towel, which I assumed would be about 50 cents to a dollar at the most.
I nearly fell back when the woman told me that renting a hand towel would cost me $3! I could buy a beach towel for that price. She asked me to hold on while she finished helping the guy in front of me. Yeah, I held on all right. Onto my money, that is. I returned to the locker room, stripped down and used the clothes that I came in as towels. I was determined not to spend anymore money on my stupidity. I got the feeling that it was my cosmic turn to be the stupid one, but I could get around literally paying for that one.
I made it to the show just in time. I briefly wondered if my car would get towed or something since my luck was running that poorly, but I quickly forgot all about my stupidity enhanced misfortune and enjoyed the high energy dance performance. Afterwards, we went out to dinner, had a lovely time catching up and it was as if things were back on track.
On the way home, I picked up a big container of distilled water just in case. I always had stored water in my apartment when I lived outside the States, but am quite vulnerable when the water goes out now since I don’t buy bottled water. That doesn’t even make sense to me since tap water’s potable in this country. Now that I have my water stash, it’ll probably never cut out again.
I usually don’t have such a concentration of mishaps like the past 48 hours. Maybe that was the rapture. I’m glad I survived it and am alive to enjoy all the beautiful, wondrous things life has in store.