I went to an Episcopalian Eucharist this morning, just to soak in the meditative calm that is generally associated with churches on their most popular day of the year. No less than three babies were hurriedly carried, screaming, from the sanctuary. But the hymns were lovely and reminded me of home. I should start going to church more regularly.
The roomies and I were treated to brunch of lovely blintzes with strawberries, cooked by resident Chef Jeff, and the Easter bunny did leave behind chocolate eggs and hot cross buns. After the feeding, we trundled off to the beach in my gorgeous little car, and joined the throngs of Australians enjoying the sunny day. I laid back and promptly fell asleep.
Last night was a long and fun one. I was the female escort for my three Columbian friends at a salsa dance party downtown, and for reasons I cannot fully explain, I chose to wear strappy stilettos. By eleven, my feet were numb with pain, and pain isn't particularly conducive to quick, sultry dance steps. I managed to catch the heel of one shoe on the straps of another, and took a nasty fall smack on my knee. It's a lovely bruise to accompany the motorcycle gash. Just another battle wound, really. I tried to pretend I wasn't fazed, and thankfully my partner and friend just kept on twirling me like I was a rockstar. I do love dancing.
At some point rather late in the evening, I consented to dance with a burly Asian-slash-Australian-looking dude with long curly hair pulled back in a bush of a ponytail and giant biceps bursting forth from a tight sleeveless-tee. I don't know why it surprised me that manhandled me in a way that would have qualified as abuse in most Westernized countries. You can tell a lot about a man by the way he dances, and I suspect this guy makes crude demands of hapless young girls when he gets into more private settings. Note, he wasn't the uncomfortably sensual type, or one of those guys who "oops" touches you provocatively. He simply drove me forcefully past where I was able to follow his lead, and kept throwing me around, laughing as if it was good fun. It was like rape on the dance floor. In lieu of being vocally rude, which I probably should have been, all I could do was survive the song, desperately looking towards my Columbian men in hopes they would recognize my distress and step in. They were preoccupied with blondes.
Then, the real kicker, the brute dropped me! He shoved me into this treacherously low dip, and rather than feeling his mammoth arms scoop me back up to a standing position, I felt the smack of my horizontal body against the wood floor. It was surprisingly painless, but I did struggle to think of a more embarrassing moment as the crowd around me stopped dancing to ogle, giggle, and ask if I was alright. No one asked the thug if he was alright in the head. He wanted to keep dancing, and just kept on laughing maniacally as if it were all good fun to chuck a girl on the ground. I don't know if he actually meant to do it, but the dance continued as viciously as the first half, and I tried to pretend I didn't want to spit in his face. When the song ended I scrambled quickly back to the Columbians. For the rest of the night, I danced only with Manuel, who leads as if I'm a delicate and gorgeous thing to show off. He's the sort of partner that makes a girl look good. Somewhat more enjoyable than watching the disco ball as if it were the moon among stars and I reclining in a country field.
I suppose it takes all types to make the world go round, but maybe we as a humanity could do with fewer men who like to harm small animals for fun. Long live the bunnies. Long live the Christian ethic. Merry Easter to all.
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