Category: Special Events

Proving yet again that even on a two and a half month vacation, I cannot truly bring my routine to a screeching halt. I even temporarily stopped taking tango and Spanish conversational classes to free up my schedule, which made me one of the perfect people to volunteer for the ProArts sponsored Black Arts Movement (BAM) Festival.  I originally signed up to volunteer for three days out of the twelve days of festivities and of course, those were precisely the three days that I did NOT have to volunteer with a notable exception of an hour on Saturday.

My first volunteer contribution was to pick up some dancers from the airport.  I was apprehensive about driving a mini van, but was quite relieved to discover that it drove just like a regular car.  I came pulling up to three women who just looked like dancers while wearing my capoeira uniform.  Since I’m one of the few women who don’t like making several dress changes throughout the day, I could almost imagine myself as a quasi-bodyguard even though capoeira is an impractical fighting form–as a mixed martial arts fighter told me.

 The following day, I picked up the choreographerof the group, Gesel Mason,  from the hotel and transported her to Ballet Austin, where they were rehearsing and performing on Wednesday and Thursday.  During the 15-minute drive, I learned that she was based in DC. I knew another Black female choreographer who  was also based in DC, Aysha Upchurch.  Certainly, I couldn’t resist asking Gesel if she knew Aysha.  As this increasingly shrinking world would have it, Gesel and Aysha are very good friends. Gesel seemed blown away that I’d met Aysha when she conducted a dance workshop through the American Embassy in Tegucigalpa, Honduras, where I was a HS IB Biology teacher at a private school.

I confessed to Gesel that I’d wanted to kidnap her dancers the previous night and take them to my capoeira class since we had a drum workshop after the beginner’s capoeria class.  I bragged that my capoeira group were a wonderful, friendly bunch and we did performances on a regular basis to the extent that most people associated me with my capoeira group rather than my book, which, as a self-published writer, I’m supposed to promote in every waking moment, especially since I’m on vacation. Yet, I explained that what I love doing is being sociable, volunteering, performing with my capoeira group; so I couldn’t see turning my writing into solitary drudgery.

She politely asked what my book was about and I proudly told her that it was about a sexually liberated woman who was looking for Mr. Right and attempting to be smart about it by watching how other women pick up men. Then, much to my surprise, she asked me to participate in her show: “Women, Sex and Desire: Sometimes You Feel Like a Ho, Sometimes You Don’t.”  Given the content of my book and erotic poetry, this was truly a special honor. The show, which combines different media also encourages audience participation and Gesel normally invites up to five local people on stage.

I arrived an hour before showtime in order to participate in a mini workshop with Gesel, her five dancers and the other four local participants. The workshop started off with defining what a “ho” was.  We actually had one man in the group, who suggested that a ho was someone who did something that he or she hated to do for money; in his opinion, the “something” didn’t have to be sexual. We agreed with that definition, but I felt that a “ho” was usually thought of being a sexually undiscriminating woman and that anytime someone wanted to insult a woman, they could toss that word out, just like “bitch” or any other of the numerous insulting words for women.

Most of us could not come up with a positive world to call a woman who was confident with her sexuality.  “Diva” was suggested, but any positive word for a woman can always turn negative. Yet, as I sat on stage and intermittently participated in sex-related discussions, I felt both relieved that other women had made similar choices as I’d done and enlightened by other women’s choices and opinions when it came to sex.

On Friday, I attended the BAM Cafe, which was an evening of music, capoeira Angola (not my group) and South African short indy movies, which occurred with significant overlap.  Once again, I thought I was volunteering, but found out later that I could just kick back and enjoy, which was what I had been doing prior to receiving the official word. I met the South African couple, Maganthrie and Dingi, whose films would be shown later on in the evening. After they gave me a brief synopsis of their films, I happily told them that I had visited some of my cousins who were living in Johanesburg during the time that I was a Peace Corps Volunteer in Tanzania. I added, what I thought was an interesting tidbit: my cousin had married a former cricket player and the family had moved to Joburg so he could coach the cricket team there. Dingi gave me a peculiar look before asking if my cousin’s husband was from the Caribbean.  Unbelievable!  Once again, someone at the BAM fest knew someone from my past travels.

Just before the events began, I took a stroll around the beautiful grounds of the French Legation to see if I could make myself useful…OK, let me stop lying!  I actually wanted a glass of red wine, but I didn’t want to be the first person there to have a glass of wine.  The bartenders for the evening said that they were waiting for the arrival of a table cloth before they started pouring drinks.  I didn’t make the connection between the two things, but figured that’s why they were the bartender volunteers and I wasn’t.  Nonetheless, in order to do my part, I offered my multicolored cloth to put over the table. Then I walked away, saving my pursuit of red wine for after the movie presentation.

As I crossed the lawn, I saw the side profile of a Black woman with beautiful orangeblonde, waistlong dreads walking toward the movie screening area.  I came up behind her and verbally got her attention. “Excuse me, did you use to teach African dance in Denver?” She corrected me by saying she used to teach AfroCaribbean dance.  “And you’re also an indy filmmaker?” She agreed.  I finally let her know that back around 2000, I’d taken several of her classes. We exchanged business cards and by this time, I firmly believed the BAM slogan: “A festival that feels more like a family reunion.”

So now, I approach each event with the expectation that I’ve got to meet as many people as possible since someone there HAS to either be someone who I used to know when I lived somewhere else or someone is good friends with a someone I’ve met in another country or state.  I try to calm myself down and not attach anything mystical to these chance meetings, but even as I type this, I cannot coldly believe that there isn’t any significance to these “coincidences.”

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.

Coming fresh from a capoeira performance, I hit Zilker park all decked out in my best white capoeira uniform ready to condition–at least I thought I was.  There are some activities that painfully remind me that I’m 40 years old and have less stamina than I used to.

Capoeira, as my first teacher in Monterrey, Mexico explained to me, is Brazilian street fighting. Some people think of it as a dance since we train and perform to distinctive music and sing in Portugese, but dance or fight, capoeira is a highly aerobic, strength-building activity.  I was 33 when I first started and I pretty much felt like a middle-aged woman with a big butt compared to the other capoeiristas.  After my first class, I felt tired and sore, but I slept like a baby.  From that initial experience, I continued to train, sleep well, lose weight effortlessly and grow stronger.

I confidently strode across the gorgeous lawn, joining some fellow capoeiristas who couldn’t make it to the performance earlier.  We all greeted one another and talked pleasantly until contramestre showed up.  We automatically formed three rows and started warming up. As much as I loved the natural setting, doing kick drills on uneven ground is surprisingly tricky.  At least I didn’t add to the challenge by wearing gym shoes.  Other capoeiristas discovered that regular athletic shoes added a significant amount of weight compared to being barefoot. Doing 60 kicks in a row with each leg was just the beginning. 

Following the 120 kicks, we lunged about 40 times and completed an insane number of jumping jack-push up-various sit up rotations. At one point, I was actually concerned that my dazzling white uniform would get permanent grass stains.  HAH! As we started “torture walking” (walking on hands and feet with straight arms and legs and asses in the air), my concern for having dazzling whites disappeared.

Around the time where we had to pick up and carry another capoeirista who was the same height and weight, I started to remember my age. The sun had finally broken through the overcast sky and there I was attempting to lift someone by squatting, wrapping my arms around her thighs and walk a few steps.  Problem was (besides attempting to do such a thing in the first place!) that I lacked the coordination to lift with my legs instead of my back.  I thought I was using my legs, but the blooming pain in my lower back and five people pointing out, “You’re using your back instead of your legs,” convinced me.

I switched partners and lifted a shorter woman who weighed about 15 lbs less than my original partner, which was great for me, but I felt bad for her–until she squatted,  lifted my ass and practically sprinted with me on her back.  I’d temporarily forgotten that she was a former Marine and a drill like that one was child’s play for her.

By the time we got to the sprints, I nearly jumped for joy.  Of course I didn’t given the throbbing back.  I had one of the massage therapist capoeiristas to do a little impromptu fix. She even showed me  a stretch to help it out. 

Although I’m a naturally fast runner, running’s not my favorite thing.  However, in special times like these, running’s definitely the lesser of other conditioning exercises! After a series of sprints, we did some well-deserved cool down stretches. I actually felt proud of myself for surviving my first capoeira conditioning.

Underneath my dazzling capoeira whites was my new tankini that I’d bought for the occasion since a new tankini top can double as a sports bra until the elastic wears out. Plus, I like versatile clothing and packing light. We walked over to Barton Springs pools, which was my first visit. I didn’t appreciate how cold 68 degrees was until I stepped onto the ladder to enter the pool. I immediately called over to my friend to take my picture since, at that point, I was quite sure that I’d never swim there.  So, even though I didn’t swim, I look pretty damn good with my capoeira body in my new tankini.

All in all, it was a good experience.  It’s taken a day and a half to recover, which is good since Sunday should be a day of rest. Now that summer’s approaching and school’s winding down, I think I’ll attempt another conditioning next month.  Once a month for a 40 year-old has to count like once a week for a 20 year-old–Teresa logic!

Had I paused to think about it, I would have brought my camera with me on Saturday.  Yet, I was in the midst of juggling several activities, starting with writing, filing my on-line sales taxes then dashing off to school in order to water the school garden and prune the spice plants, both to keep them from growing wildly and to use in my turkey casserole. 

But once I returned to my apartment, I slowed down and painted for nearly an hour. I’m nearly done with the geometric design on the 12 x 12 box that I had to repaint.  Yes, I was morally obligated to repaint over the atrocious oil painting that originally covered that innocent wooden box and go for something that a painter with my questionable ability couldn’t mess up too badly.  From across the room, it actually looks beautiful with its square and triangle design in my signature bold colors. I don’t even notice the flaws until I’m an arm’s length away and when I stray that close, I just have to snatch it up and take my .5 brush and clean up some of the lines. I  learned a few years ago that the most challenging thing for me to paint freehand is a straight line…and yet I still try.

I cleaned up remarkably well, put on some jean shorts and a fun, colorful top that had beaded work (one person commented that I looked particularly “ethnic”), and took 2 hours worth of tango lessons followed by a “Salsa on 2” workshop, then scooted over to Central Market to enjoy one of their tasty dishes, shrimp and mango over rice along with an even tastier Malbec just before Ritmo 3 played.

Initially, I was worried since some girlfriends had showed up to join me, but no leaders.  I don’t mind being the early bird to get the table for the group, but I would like to have a reason for changing out of my regular shoes and into my dance shoes.  After the first song finished, the first of several male friends finally appeared and we cautiously got on the dancefloor, careful not to collide into all the little kids who were enthusiastically dancing.

Things definitely picked up after the band break.  The sun had gone down, the latecomers had arrived and I nearly danced the soles off my shoes.  Nonetheless, I felt wonderful and when I got home around 9:30 I saw the radiance in my face.  I thought back to my 40th birthday celebration back in September where I’d spent the whole day dancing.  Although I’d just done it on a smaller scale, I think I should make it a point to do that more than twice a year.

As soon as I’d read that Buda (pronounced byu-DAH, despite its spelling), a small town  a few minutes south of Austin was hosting a crawdad festival, officially called the “Louisiana Swamp Thing” that included a free plate of crawdads and all-day music with headliner George Clinton with Parliment, I immediately started singing “Atomic Dog.”  My fellow capoeiristas, Liz and her daughter, Luna, and I trekked down to Buda to make our funk the P funk.

After initially driving by the town since there were virtually no advertising signs along the highway save for a scrolling bank prompt which announced all the upcoming events for the town that happened to display something other than the event we were going to when we initially drove by, we parked miraculously close for arriving so late at 6 pm. We wanted to get there early enough to eat before listening to Clinton, but late enough not to wait around too much. I figured that people who had come in the morning, eaten and drank to their fill, had to go home before being overtaken by the food coma. Everything’s a tradeoff; so we got a good parking space, but missed out on our free plate of crawdads. Nonetheless, I was very happy with a delicious bowl crawdad etouffee followed by a fresh batch of  crisp, flaky beignets lightly dusted with powdered sugar. 

We then watched the last part of a unicycle football game.  As impressive as the athleticism showed by playing football on a unicycle was, I was preoccupied with how much their crotches must have hurt conditioning for that sport.

Luna happily played on the playgrouond equipment while Liz and I talked until about 30 minutes before George Clinton and Parliment were due to grace the stage.  We figured that was the perfect time to join the slow-moving port-o-potty line. Once we joined a misleadingly short port-o-potty line, dusk rapidly set and Liz asked the pertinent question of whether we’d be able to see once we’d closed the door to the port-o-potty.  I’d already been juggling two other port-o-potty concerns:  1) available toilet paper and 2) handwashing facilities (I hate it when places with port-o-potties don’t have accompanying port-o-sinks! Do they want an outbreak of cholera?). Her third consideration motivated me to suggest that we wait in the longer, slower women’s bathroom line at the permanent facilities in the park.  Of course there were only two stalls, but the bathroom was well lit and new toilet paper rolls were invitingly lined up along the tops of the stalls. Plus there was a sink with running water.

Liz and I passed the time, swapping capoeira stories, when the woman in front of us asked an exiting woman about the condition of the second stall.  The woman, who’d obviously had too many mind-altering substances, brashly slurred, “It’s fine! It’s fine!” and stumbled out into the night. The next two women in front of us, timidly peeked in, shrieked that there was too much “poo” and rejoined the line, waiting for the first stall. Sensing the chance to shave off at least five minutes off my public bathroom line wait, I looked at it and declared it usable, to the horror of the other two women.  I proudly and loudly declared, “I didn’t live in developing countries for nothing!” closed the door with relish and secured the lock as if someone would have actually interrupted me.

Whichever diarrhea-suffering woman had hovered over that toilet had misjudged the target by about two inches and hit the back of the seat.  Therefore, the front of the seat looked squeaky clean in comparison; so I used my balance training from yoga/capoeria/tango, put all my weight on my left foot, lifted the lid with my right foot and hid most of the shitty scene.  Granted, I still hovered to do my business, but at least I’d pyschologically minimized the damage.  Flushing the toilet with the same balancing maneuver I’d used to lift the lid, I was quite proud of myself and informed the same two women who were still waiting for the ever elusive first stall that I’d “fixed it”.  They still didn’t find it to their pleasure, but a woman several women back in line jumped at the chance, stating, “Just cop a squat!” and closed the stall door with the same relish as I’d done moments earlier.

Now you know when I spend this much time on a shitty public bathroom story, that George Clinton and Parliment must have stank worse!  Where shall I begin? (Of course that’s merely a rhetorical question since I’m sticking to a chronological unfolding of this story.) The show began nearly an hour late, during which they played back-to-back tortuous country music save the one Johnny Cash song to deter mass suicide.  I figured the DJ either wanted to see how dedicated we were to listen to all that crap or was just attempting to make the headliners sound just that much better in comparison.

As the band members rolled out one by one all decked out mostly in outrageous looking costumes, we anxiously awaited to spot Clinton.  Among the many things we learned in the women’s bathroom line was that Clinton had shaved off his rainbow-colored locks. Yet, I figured I’d still recognize him by his stage presence alone.  About forty-five minutes of listening to various Parliment members doing their thing, which hardly hit the spot, Clinton strutted onto the stage decked out in iconic Fidel Castro camouflage.  He spread his arms wide, bowed to the audience, removed his camouflaged hat and rubbed the top of his head to emphasize that the dreads were gone.  A third of the crowd had already left.

After another forty minutes, they finally played “Flashlight”.  True fans scattered among half the crowd who still remained, broke out with their little flashlights.  And like a lover who spends too much time on foreplay in an attempt to get an erection, Clinton shot his load prematurely. His voice, the last we heard of it, sounded painfully gravelly and he could not continue the fifteen minute version of “Flashlight. (I’m estimating here since we didn’t stay for the end of the song, but every other “song medley” had lasted about that amount of time.) 

The only silver linings, besides how close the car was once we made our escape, were the sheer professionalism of the band who took turns singing the lead and the guy who played Sir Nose.  Just imagine a medium brown brother (almond joy?) with rock hard abs, impressive flexibility and knowledge of basic belly dancing moves and break dancing poses.

As I looked back at the stage, I noted sadly how that much-anticipated show had managed to decimate (literally means to reduce to one tenth) its original crowd.  I imagine that the people who stayed until the very end were too high to realize that anyone in their right minds had already left.  At least they got to hear “Atomic Dog”, assuming they had not passed out beforehand.