The first time I attended a pole-dancing competition, I was brand new to the sport. I couldn’t analyze many of the moves, but the most impressive thing I witnessed was different body types poling very well. Up until that point, I had lied to myself about losing around 20 pounds in order to do certain pole tricks. Afterwards, I realized that I only needed consistent practice, not drastic weight loss.
The same friend who’d driven me there the first time, drove again. We missed the 10 AM performance of another student from our studio, but we eventually saw our former teacher much later in the evening.
We located three other teachers from our studio, sitting in the third row. One of them informed us that the event was running an hour and a half late. Judges had difficulty submitting their evaluations electronically. The time in between performances lagged by several minutes. At one point, when only about five minutes had passed between competitors, we cheered.
Although this event occurred on the second official day of summer, that was the beginning of the heatwave. The facility jacked up the AC. Granted, competitors needed the cool temperature so the poles wouldn’t become slimy even after volunteers had cleaned them in between performances. Of course, I forgot to bring a sweater or wrap.
We dashed out to eat. Shivering had worked up an appetite. I practically inhaled my coconut lamb curry with buttered naan and mango lassi. The warm (both physical and figurative) ambiance made the food even tastier.
Once we returned to the pole competition, a woman who had a red toy car fit for a toddler on stage, was in the middle of her performance. Not only was her performance infused with humor, pole tricks and storytelling, but we later learned that the 62-year-old had practiced her routine for a year. She was elated that her four-minute routine had not left her out of breath. She definitely deserved that first place award.
The next performer was a much younger man of color. Earlier, when we were checking in to get our wristband, I’d complimented his fabulous Afro. He performed a sensuous routine to a slow 70s song. Although he’d strutted on stage in a black, flowing, feather-trimmed robe, once he threw that to the ground, his pole attire was the stuff of male dancer fantasies.
We left after our former pole teacher performed, vowing to make our attendance to the yearly competition an annual celebration. Also, I have taken away different inspirations each time I’ve attended.
In the nick of time, my bonus socks from work arrived on a Saturday morning. Their arrival had taken so long that when I’d asked for an update during a past meeting, one supervisor said that she’d heard that that email, asking for our sock size, was a hoax.
Seeing is believing. I packed my socks into my already bloated backpack for the beach.
My sister picked me up later that day. Even later than planned, thanks to my nephew. Once we rolled up to the condo entrance, the attendant told us, with a big smile on his face, that our reservation had been cancelled. He then informed us we’d stay in the rental mansion across the way. All we had to do was pay the rental fees.
I corrected him. If we stayed there, the fees would be on him.
We unloaded our things into the condo where my nephew immediately reported to his usual spot on the sofa as if it were his job.
My sister noticed that the floors had been redone, along with some furniture upgrades. We’d been vacationing at that condo for decades. For me, it had lost its shine, but that was more due to not doing anything more than eating seafood, hot tubbing, then walking on the beach in the morning.
I did the exact thing this go around as well. I’d come off a very taxing work week where four days had felt like six. Plus, I’d worked my last day with my former team and come Monday, would start a brand-new position. An overnight beach trip in between the transition brought relaxing closure.
Either the sound of birds or the sunlight peeking around the curtains woke me up on Sunday morning. I’d effortlessly slept in. Even though I’d forgotten my night guard, my jaw didn’t hurt in the morning.
As a matter of fact, I’d slept so well, I thought that tingling nerve pain in my low back, which hovered around my right hip, had been remedied with a better mattress.
Nope. I hadn’t been walking fast enough around the condo to trigger that tingling sensation. I’d skipped my morning stretches: knees into chest while lying in bed, forward bend while standing beside the bed, squatting, followed by shifting from one side to another while squatting on one leg with the opposite leg stretched out to the side.
When we reached the pier, I stretched out my back. For once, I requested that we walk slower, which was usually my sister’s request of me.
Although my nephew stayed a week at the condo, my sister and I returned home the next day. She had to finish out the school year by working on Monday and Tuesday. I, of course, worked the entire week.
On our way back home, we stopped by Bucc-ee’s. The last time I visited was my first time. The rain had pelted down so hard, I credit the weather for thinning the crowd.
This time, the weather was perfect, the crowd unreal. As soon as we walked in, I made a beeline to the bathroom. Thanks to my sister, she brought my attention to the line for the women’s bathroom, which I was about to bypass.
The line moved quickly. Women employees directed women visitors to bathroom stalls that wrapped around the perimeter of the large room as soon as they became available. Despite the efficiency of the fast-moving women’s bathroom line, men leisurely strolled in and out of their bathroom. Even men who escorted their sons walked in and out with ease.
Our second “line” was a tightly-packed crowd gathered around the large warming bin where brisket sandwiches should have been. We’d already foraged the sweets we wanted as we made our way to the sandwich line: beaver nuggets, peanut butter and caramel popcorn, and a pecan praline.
We eased our way into the waiting crowd and befriended two women, who confirmed that the mob had gathered around for a brisket sandwich. My sister told one of the women, who was closest to the empty bin, that once the next batch of brisket sandwiches were loaded, she should pass back four of them, one by one. That strategy worked and we bounced to our third and final line to pay.
Although we paid separately, I followed my sister to the next available cashier. I took pictures while he rang her up. Despite his masked face, the mirth in his eyes shone through as he rang me up.
“How did you enjoy your visit?”
“Are you serious?”
My sister and I maneuvered out of the establishment as deftly as we’d circulated around it while shopping. Other stupefied shoppers had stopped and stood, blocking our direct path to escape, ahem, exit. Scanning the crowded chaos, the other shoppers were either looking for separated loved ones or attempting to visually locate something they wanted to purchase.
Once outside, I breathed easier. Although I don’t suffer from claustrophobia nor panic attacks, I was hangry, but happy to be out of the crowd.
We devoured our sandwiches in the car, followed by the sweets. The brisket sandwich seemed a little thrown together, but still tasty. Next time, I’ll stick to the chopped barbecue. I’m almost convinced that one has to be in Texas to enjoy good brisket.
Regardless, I flowed into my new position as relaxed as one could be when, typical Monday, platforms glitched and directives were scarce. I loved it.
The vast majority of my international travel has been financed by working as a secondary math/science/ELS teacher. Schools automatically took care of the many details. Yet for this trip to Ghana, no school is picking up the tab although, thanks to a very seasoned tour leader, many of the bureaucratic details such as getting a visa are being handled.
The combination of our tour guide’s essential/suggested packing list and research have given me a protracted shopping errand, which I’ve been chipping away at since January. After initiating the passport renewal process, I made an appointment for a yellow fever shot and messaged my nurse practitioner about antimalarial medication.
When I picked up my atovaquone-proguanil medication, I just laughed because, at the time, I had been studying for my pharmacy tech exam and that was one of the 600 medications that I memorized.
As I thought about all the creature comforts that I wanted to have for my two-week stay, I knew that my THC-free CBD topical and hemp oils were at the top of the list. Our tour leader stated that I could bring my CBD products. Online research confirmed that CBD wasn’t on any Ghanaian narcotics list. Nonetheless, the legality was “evolving.”
So, I bought two amber dropper bottles, one for the CBD and the other for CBG, and a metal tin for the CBD topical. I want to be lowkey about the whole thing.
As much as I enjoy my electronic things, I didn’t want the hassle of charging those items. I found an international charger/adapter locally. I’m only taking my phone and airpods, leaving the laptop and tablet at home. Besides, I’m part of a large tour group, including relatives. So if anything happens to my phone, then they can send me their digital pictures.
I’m packing analog tech in the form of a journal and a mechanical pencil to jot down the experiences for this trip. Granted, the “journal” is an outdated planner from 2014, but still the pages are blank and it’s small enough to fit into the purse that I’m traveling with. Unlike my previous journals, my intention will be to use those notes to write multi-part blog posts to document my travel.
Since we’re paying good money to stay at one of the best hotels off the beach in Accra, I bought two new bathing suits. In real life, ie when not on vacation, I swim once a week, so I’ve already “tested out” the suits.
Our tour leader suggested that we spray our clothes with permethrin (another pharmacy tech drug!). I believe this was the same thing that we Peace Corps Volunteers had dipped our mosquito nets in, but I only remember doing that once the entire time that I was served, not every six weeks.
When I used to work and travel around developing countries, I’d always pack toilet paper, minus the cardboard roll, in my purse. I’m very happy that personal hygiene technology has evolved. I may use these wipes to double as a washcloth as well since I don’t want to pack a regular washcloth. I’ve not been able to find a small camping towel. Unlike regular washcloths, camping towels are fast-drying and lightweight.
Even more challenging to find than camping towels are books about Ghana. I’m not sure if this is a result of all the book bans that have become a scourge of diversity and intellectual thought, but the digital libraries of Austin and North Carolina have next to nothing on Ghana between the two of them.
I was mildly successful when I searched travel books, but there was no travel book devoted exclusively to Ghana in either digital library although I found snippets in guidebooks on West Africa, along with a niche travel book about the best street food around the world.
As usual, I’m sure once I arrive, I’ll think of several things that I wish I had brought with me. In those times, I’ll just make due with whatever is available, reminding myself that I’ll only be there for two weeks.
