A week of madness....

1-17-06

Only three days have passed in Brazil, and I already feel that I have so much to write about. I feel I have been lax in my discipline, and that I may never catch up with the incredible vortex of states piling in around me. It hurts me to bypass events, to script selective occurrences, discarding moments not indelibly burned into my mind. But I find my time limited, and am constantly pulled by other challenges and opportunities of daily life.

Now I must admit that it is entirely strange to be in a new world such as this. It’s like some giant being grabbed a hold of the globe, and with tremendous force, shook things up enough to turn customs and traditions in disarray. Some things remain the same, namely objects and actions most rooted and entrenched in all human beings. Cultural constants one might call them. But everything else, including the way people speak, the food they eat, the manner in which they dress, their outlook on life; these things have fallen askew. I find myself traversing a playground of unfamiliarity. Ordering food, using the street telephone, such simple things present untold amount of difficulty. And to compound the problem, I have lost my ability to relate to this strange world, blind in a sea of unrecognizable sounds.

Despite these barriers, I have come to assume an adapt or die mentality, and I think thus far I have been doing pretty well for myself. My solitary Portuguese study in the U.S. has helped greatly. No one in my host family speaks a word of English, so I am forced to rely on the few words and phrases that I learned before my trip. We are constantly running to get the dicionairo, to try and get a point across, but I think our misunderstandings have been relatively minor, all things considering. And my teachers at the language school keep complementing me on my conversation ability, which is encouraging. I’ve only been here for a few days, but can on occasion carry out moderately rational speech.

On Saturday, this last weekend, Silvia (my host mother), Jackie, Emily, Diego, and a whole slew of other people, took a ride to the outskirts of Salvador, to visit Silvia’s mother and father for lunch. It was my first trip out of downtown Salvador—out of the little apartment and Graça neighborhood. My first observation was just how green everything is here. A living corridor of tropical flora bends over the cobblestone avenues and highways, accentuating the few open spaces in the city.

As we made are way out of the downtown area, I began to catch a glimpse of the poverty so endemic to Brazil. The favela shanty towns stretched for miles in each direction, built on hills and other undesirable landed zones. In many cities, these slum neighborhoods are devoid of basic governmental services, and are often controlled by criminal gangs who build their territorial success on the drug trade. They are dangerous places, where life is cheap, and where people scramble to eek out a living.

The Libirio family house, while not in a favela necessarily, was definitely in a neighborhood most outsiders would consider poor. The roads are narrow, winding, and chaotic; the houses built of brick and mortar and painted in subtle pastels. I rode with Marhlee—a super energetic Brasileira with a penchant for breaking out in song. She kept telling me that I was beautiful, and that I needed to find an amorada (girlfriend) in Salvador. Like many of the older women I have met here, she is a single mother, a mãe forte, apparently divorced or left to fend for herself by her husband. From what I gather, this is a rather common occurrence here.

The ride in her car was as crazy as any car ride I have taken in Brazil. Here, drivers run red lights, speed excessively, and pay no attention to pedestrians trying to cross the road. The danger of street travel was well illustrated to me when we arrived in the Liborio neighborhood. We turned onto a side street, just blocks away from our destination, and came upon a crowd hovering over something on the side of the road. The subtle mix of curiosity and quiet respect on peoples face alerted us to an accidente that had just occurred. A long pool of blood still lingered on the street, leading grotesquely to a body covered over with a white sheet lying on the side of the road. Whatever had happened, it wasn’t a pretty site—probably a quick and brutal discorporation. I was rather taken aback—by the blood, by the crowd—but everyone else in the car seemed to act as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

When we arrived at the Liborio household, I was treated to a large dose of Brazilian hospitality. As always, I was seated at the head of the table, and fed the largest portions—be it rice, beans, or meat—of the meal. Generally, the rules of cordiality pressure me into eating far more than I would normally. I think secretly that these Brazilians are trying to fatten me up, to create a living example of how a guest should be treated.

On Monday, I started my first round of Portuguese classes at the Escola Idioma in the Barra district. Although you can’t really tell from the faded concrete exterior of the building, the school is pretty nice, with white tile floors and six or seven separate classrooms. I paid for three months of group instruction; about 20 hrs per week. Luckily, there are no students who are currently at my comprehension level, so they have put me in a one on one class until others arrive. This is generally much more expensive, but I get to forgo the extra charges for now. My current teacher, Ione, is probably about my age, and real fun to study with. I consciously mess up her class routine, flirting with her whenever a new word presents me with the opportunity.

Yesterday after class, Kazu (a tall Japanese guy with thin silver glasses) accompanied me to the old colonial district, Pelourinho, in search of a good Capoeira group to study with. Kazu has become the perfect study partner for me. We often go out after school, to the beach or some other marvelous place, speaking Portuguese the entire way. He has been in Salvador for six months, speaks rather good Portuguese, and a bit of English as well. This is really perfect because he doesn’t know enough English to want to converse in the language, yet has the ability to correct me when I misspeak in Portuguese.

Eventually, Kazu and I found ourselves climbing four flights of stairs, to a Capoeira studio near Pelourinho. Capoeira is a beautiful dance like martial art, sparked in the slave quarters of new world Brazil, and in the fighting traditions of Angola. It requires extreme athleticism and acrobatics from its participants, and is a truly beautiful art form to watch. Salvador, also known as the Black Rome, is a city saturated with the traditions of Africa. Capoeira is practiced all over Brazil, but is most at home in the city of all saints. I figured there would be no better way for me to stay in shape then to, as I told Kazoo, “Pratica em o dojo do Brasil.” He wasn’t that interested in the sport, but when we visited the “dojo”, he met a cute Japanese girl who used to live in Tokyo. Now he is all keen on returning, which is cool by me; I’d love to have someone to practice with.

* * *

If you ever get bored, and want to give your brain a real shock, try this: Move to a fazenda in Oklahoma for six months, where your only fun involves tipping over cows and thinking up imaginative ways to bend barb wire. Then, after sufficient sensory depravation, move immediately to a city of THREE MILLION PEOPLE. Move to a place where your personal space becomes negligent, where there is a constant hum of buses and cars, and where a thousand moving shapes and tones color your every waking thought.

Salvador is this. Salvador is crazy.

The city was first christened in 1501 by Italian navigator Amerigo Vespucci, who was so enchanted with the surrounding waters that he dubbed the place All Saints’ Bay. In a few years time, Salvador had peaked the interest of the Portuguese empire, which was expanding its vast trade network over the better part of the known world. At the heart of the Brazilian coast, Salvador became an “El Dorado for adventures and a principal stopover for East-West trade routes”, and it was picked as an ideal location to seat the colonial government. Large ramparts and military forts were constructed, and the city grew rapidly. With the rise of the sugar trade, Salvador became the principal port of entry for hundreds of thousands of Africans, pilfered in chains across the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade.

Throughout the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, Salvador remained a principal trading port for the Portuguese empire. Sugar barons grew rich off their ‘white gold’, building ornate baroque mansions throughout the city. Churches of every type arose to proclaim the faith of the people, be them the isolated terreiro Candomble temples, where worshipers sing praise to the Yoruba and Nago gods, or the magnificent edifices of the Catholic faith. Together, the city began to gradually assume a syncretic flavor, now witnessed in the endless stratum of colors displayed by the people. While poverty still slides to the darker end of the spectrum, no one shade inhabits a strict corner of society. Mixed race and mixed heritage is the favored and frequent norm.

For me, in just this last week, Salvador has been a firestorm of activity. Every night I have gone out, on some new adventure, pulled into a strange world of street lamps and bar music, where the night is often brighter than the day. Salvador boasts a constant parade of festivals, celebrating saints and African deities, with a steady stream of local bands showcasing their tunes. On Tuesday night, I hit the AeroClub (kind of like an outdoor mall) with a couple of older gents, one who looked and spoke just like Juan Claude Vandam—the French martial arts movie star. Juan was a too cool for school sort of guy, who kept making fun of the ways Brazilians say Americans words (Hip Hop = Hippy Hoppy, McDonalds = Miccy Donalds, etc.). We saw Axè, a local favorite played all over Brazil, and a number of other well known artists.

On Friday night, Kazu and I walked the old cobblestone streets of Pelourinho, meandering our way through dense tourist infested crowds. Percussion groups played in the wider avenues, giving the old colonial town a pulsing heartbeat and rhythm. I narrowly escaped a couple of pick pockets, lustily eyeing my bulging gringo cash. Eventually we made our way to a small restaurant away from the larger old town square, and sat down for an incredibly overpriced, but deliciously produced dish of Carne do Sol. We drank two bottles of Skol, the widely popular macro beer, and talked about women and life in general.

Tomorrow I’m off to buy some clothes for my Capoeira lessons, which I’m hopping to start next week. I’ve gotten in touch with a fellow Michigander, a girl who also graduated in anthropology, and who similarly wanted to vacation in Brazil, and we’re probably going to head down by the beach after hitting the large Shop Barra mall.

Let me publicly shout out some props to my mother, who recently pulled me out of a dangerous monetary situation. Visa had put a block on my card, due to the strange out-of-country activity, and I had no way to pull out more cash. Thanks to her, my pockets are once again renewed, after her call to the bank and subsequent threats to the credit card company.

After a weeks worth of new incursions, my head is ready for bed. Sleep is like massage therapy for the mind, and I’m in dire need of some relaxation. Before I go, let me remind you of the little comment button just to the bottom right of this post. As much as I like talking to myself, I much prefer to know that other eyes are out there. Do me a favor and let me know you are alive.

(language school hallway)

(Bahiana serving me Acaraje and some Skol)

(Barra light house....gorgeous no?)

(city view near the apartment)

(feeling popular and tall!)

(yes it's me)

Arrival

I’m in Brazil and my head is exploding. “Que?”, “Não compreendi”, and “Meus Portuguese é muito basico” have become my phrases of choice. I have discovered, yet again, just how difficult it is to traverse a world where every sound and syllable imparts confusion—where every moment offers a tinge of awkwardness, and a raised eyebrow from the person I’m talking to. Perhaps I’m being too hard on myself, it being my first day and all, but God would I love to communicate right about now!

The trip down was long; so long in fact that I came awfully close to losing it mentally. Oklahoma City to Dallas was no problem, just a two hour wait and hour and a half ride. I met some great “single serving friends”, drank some apple juice, and hoped for (but never received) my complimentary in flight peanuts.

With each connecting flight, I brought myself one step closer to the universe that is Brazil. I went from no Portuguese, to some Portuguese, to “I’m the only gringo here who can’t speak a damn bit Portuguese”, as I moved along. With each flight, the Brazilian crowd grew larger, until the cultural parlance completely saturated the air-recycled environment. When everything leaped, full speed, “way over my head”, I simply ducked for cover, staring at points of the plane, trying all the while to reason through the clatter.

When I finally reached the Aeroporto Internacional de Sao Paulo I was elated but scared. Everything was new and unpredictable, and simple tasks required an untold amount of concentration.

When I went to recheck my luggage, after running through customs, I was told by the desk attendant that I had to hold onto my bags until three hours before my flight. This presented some complications, especially considering that my departure to Salvador was not for another twelve hours. So there I found myself, meandering through the airport, carrying 80 lbs of unappreciated, yet invaluable junk. In a place where people eye your stuff, fastidiously, one must be cautious and mentally present. This was tiring, to say the least, and I was awfully close to handing my bags to the nearest person with a “you take care of it!” Communist tendencies aside, I instead kept a watchful eye on my stuff, dealing with such difficulties as, “My bag won’t fit in the bathroom stall, so tough, just don’t go!”

Eventually, I found myself sitting across from the embarque corridor of the airport, just spaces away from the Banco do Brazil and the Black Coffee restaurante; also known as the sixth circle of hell. I’m not sure how it happened—how I slipped, like a farmer’s hand impregnating a cow, through a temporal vortex—but time moved far slower there than any where I’ve ever been. I would move, with my bag cart in tow, from my off-brown airport seat, to standing outside, watching the Volkswagen cars and busses roll by.

My only consolation, during this rather aggravated displacement, was the gorgeous brasileiras that would walk by me as I sat in my chair. I’m not really sure how it happened, how an indefinable number of features could meld together in such perfection, but Brazilian women “have it going on” as a more colloquial gent would say. Generally speaking, men enjoy curvaceous figures that inspire thoughts of Aphrodite and the finer things in life. I swear, every three seconds, my eyes would swagger—an abrupt left to right—and under my breath I’d mutter a que beleza, wondering how a person could be so fine. And another thing I’ve noticed; it seems that Brazilian girls tend to ‘take care’ of themselves more than Americans, at least in regards to fashion and the strict necessities of well sculpted nails and hair. Call me bias, or a chauvinistic pig, but I’ve always enjoyed the sight of a well manicured women.

Adolescent thoughts not withstanding, I preceded to sit, stand, sit, stand, and sit some more. After working up enough courage, I eventually found myself at a food/vendor counter, trying politely to order a cafézihno, and some pão de queijo. The girls taking my order would laugh at my expressions, and I’d cheerfully return with a gringo smile, hoping they would take pity.

Now, lest I fail to mention, I was in all honesty very happy to be in Brazil. Over the past year, I had invested a great deal of thoughts and hopes into this trip. Seeing the dance and sway of the palm trees, and the cultural nuances of a motorbike passing, I felt rather dizzy, like I was falling into a dream. It was good, even in these first few hours, to feel like I had ownership of something in my life—that I made this trip happen, and this reality was all but my own.

Eventually, after more physical and mental turmoil, I came upon the Leo Robideu sign, horribly misspelled, by the folks from Idioama. It was, at that point, two in the morning, and I was very happy that someone from the language school had even come to pick me up. Even at that hour, the ride into downtown Salvador was absolutely stunning. Concrete apartment buildings, tree lined avenues, and all forms of businesses stretched for miles. The barzinhos blared Baianas musicas, and huge crowds filled the entryway of each intoxicating club. Large mega structures filled the sky, and industrial sculptures accentuated the flora of the praças. Eventually, to my benefit, our car peaked over a hill, and we came upon a vision of the Bahia dos Todos os Santos—the bay of all saints. Huge waves crashed upon its shore, and I was utterly amazed.

When I reached my host family apartment, in the graça neighborhood, I was completely wiped out. I tried to offer some formal greetings to my hosts, but nothing really legible came out. Dreary eyed themselves, they showed me to a quant little room with a window that overlooked the street. There was a glass table in one corner, a tv and bed in the middle of the room, and a white cabinet on the far wall. I dropped my head into a pillow and crashed to oblivion.

The next day, with the rise of the Bahian sun, was muito movimentada (very busy). I awoke to the sound of my host mothers voice, talking on the phone in the living room, and I slowly, with but six hours of sleep, rose from my bed to greet her. Silvia, an affable women in her early forties, welcomed me to Bahia. She seated me down to the largest breakfast I had ever seen, offering me eggs, cheese, freshly squeezed juice, coffee, five plates full of different types of fruit, three loaves of bread, and a whole assortment of other goodie’s. I think she was gauging my likes and dislikes with this meal, serving me everything in an attempt to ascertain what I was and was not in favor of. Either way, I came away from the meal adequately stuffed, and well engaged in conversation. She didn’t speak any English, but my chicken Portuguese got us by.

After breakfast, I tried to make my way over to an ATM, a few minutes walk from meus casa, but failed miserably in figuring out the machine. The door to the bank proved equally unfamiliar. There were these dark metal doorknob looking things in the center of two glass panes, that, as I came to find, had no real function. A guard standing inside the bank laughed at my futile attempts to sac the fortress, eventually pointing out a button on the side door that needed to be pressed to enter. So having figured that out, I tried to surmount my next challenge, the confounded caixa electronico, and failing miserably in that regard, had to return later with my host mother to pull out some cash.

Now, interestingly enough, as the day progressed, more and more women came to invade Silvia’s apartmento. Maria, Siliva’s dark and beautiful twenty four year old maid showed up, and began doing my breakfast dishes. I was happy to meet someone my own age, but laughed at the fact that there was a maid for a rather poor Brazilian family. The apartment off Rua da Paz is very modest, with a small living room/dining room, kitchen, and side bedrooms. There are few adornments in the house, and few luxuries that most Americans would take as domestic ‘givens’. For there to be poor amidst the poor is a great irony only possible in a third world country.

Well, Maria gave way to Emilie, Jackie, Maria, Alicia, and more—all friends and family of the Liborio tree. Jackie, I should not fail to mention, is a spunky twenty-one year old, with a rear end that can upset a man’s conscious logic for a good time to come. Together, Jackie, Emilie, Maria and I, spent the day at the beach, swallowing great deals of salt water at the bequest of the sea. The colors and senses of Salvador are as lively as the people that inhabit it, and the trip to the beach was imbued with such accents that I could hardly contain myself. Hundreds of loud boisterous black and tanned Brazilians occupied beach space, sipping on cold bear and great amounts of suco (juice). The waves off the bay were incredible, knocking me into the surf sand at multiple intervals. I spent the time, traveling from beach to beach, eating queijo on a stick, and flirting with Maria and Jackie in my broken Portuguese. We visited the light house, a major travel point in Salvador, and eventually made our way back home up a large cobblestone hill.

Unfortunately, the good feelings and good vibes did not last through the night. I really wanted to go out and hit the club scene, but Maria and Jackie didn’t want go. What was new to me was same old, same old, to them, and they lacked the abuse yourself after hours commitment I was ready for. Maria left, and I was stuck, dicionario in hand, trying painfully to have a conversation with Jackie, who did not know or want to know a single word of English. Eventually I got sick of my confusion, and my inability to communicate clearly, and I went outside to go buy some beer.

When I got back, I tried to continue the conversation, but failed miserably. We were clearly both uncomfortable with the situation, with the long drawn out silences, and the “your weird gringo” vibes that I probably gave off. At one point, we did have this great conversation, where I just talked in English, and she just talked in Portuguese, and we completely couldn’t understand each other. Nonetheless, we both seemed to appreciate the awkwardness of the moment, and for the first time I felt the infinitesimal spark of a connection, so taken for granted in conversations back home.

When I gave up, beer in hand, with a boa noite, I could see the relief in her eyes. Trying to talk when you can’t talk is just miserable, and she was glad to be out of there. I too, feeling a bit tired, retired to my quarters, hoping for some strangeness relief in my o computador.

…Thus completes my first journal entry. It’s twelve o’clock midnight and I have two and a half beers in my belly. I don’t usually write so much, so fast, but I don’t think that I adequately got my conversation fill throughout the day.

(first cafezinho)

(outside the airport...waiting...waiting...waiting)

(Aeroporto Sao Paulo)

(giant breakfast)

(Cuisine da Bahia)

(view from my bedroom window)

Please note: I will not be able to update my blog as often as I would like. Not only do I have to pay for internet, at a computer cafe, but I have to format with a rather foreign keyboard. So no everyday posts as I would like. Blah.

Ahhhh.....

Ahhh...my new world is crazy, and wonderful, and drop dead gorgeous.

Sorry...I have long entries to post, but no place to post them. I´m using the internet at the language school right now, and the computer doesn´t have a USB drive´, and my host family doesn´t have the internet. I have to find what I incorrectly refer to as a casa do computador. People laugh when I say this, but whats a gringo to do.

Will get back to you soon.

Ahhhhhh.....crazy crazy crazy.

Kingdom Come

Brazil beckons. In four days and counting, I depart to a new world. My brief sojourn in Oklahoma is all but over, and it would be an understatement to say that I’ll be happy to be gone. I could probably best describe my stay here as a test of endurance. Life is difficult when you are in a transitory period, when you are forced to give up the luxuries of independence, friends, and leg room. I mean living in a trailer, dealing with the eccentricities of your folks on a daily basis (granted they had to deal with mine), and having few social events to relieve stress does generally suck. And it did, big time really. But looking back on it now, I must admit to myself that perhaps this time of isolation and contemplation was good for me. Removing myself from an environment of distraction gave me time to think about my life and it forced me to ask those “hard questions”; you know, the kind that Dr. Phil grills his unwary guests with before they have chance to flee. Looking into the proverbial mirror, I became dissatisfied with my reflection, and like all great advances, I had to first admit to the weaknesses in myself before allowing myself to move on.

And move on I have, I do believe. I feel stronger physically, psychologically, and emotionally; more than I ever have in years past. And I think a lot of it has to do with the fact that I’ve had to go at it alone. Getting thrown in the meat grinder, and then somehow making it out the other side, scarred and bruised, but alive, gives one the sense “I can survive anything”. And when you do it alone, you come to realize that your survival hinges upon no one but yourself. Your emotional state, despite the shit going on around you, depends solely on how you choose to perceive the world. If you choose not to let anything break you, than nothing will.

And there is power in that.

So I return to my life, now with this great opportunity to travel abroad, feeling full and content, ready for the challenges and wonders that this world will bring. Am I fully healed from my wounds, no. I can admit that to myself. There hasn’t been enough time for my old world to pass completely away. But now I have the tools to deal with the sting, and am ready to step forward, remembering the lessons of the past, and accepting the possibility of a new and brighter future. This gives one hope, and what better way to start a new beginning than with a hope of things to come.

* * *

Brazil beckons. In four days and counting, I depart to a new world. Like all great explorers, I charge myself with the weight of discovery, ready for normality to fall slightly askew. My bayonet is fixed, my flag waves full, and I stand on the edge of the bow, smiling at the distant horizon.

With a southern dance of a thousand miles, I will find her. She with her tropical flora, her sertão, her pantanal—in a land so vast that it could contain all of the countries of Eastern Europe. Over three million square miles, and home to some of the richest ecosystems in the world, Brazil is a land worthy of her poetry. Her five regions—the Amazonian North, the arid Northeast, the dynamic Southeast, the pastoral South, and the underdeveloped Center-West—have been likened, as Robert Levine describes, “to islands in a huge archipelago, spread across a sea of geographic diversity.”

Her culture, mixed and proud, glistens with the allure of heady exoticism, fully witnessed in the dance of capoeira (Angolan foot fighting), in the exchange ceremonies of the native Amazon, and in the structural edifices of the Portuguese. Even her clichés, be them coffee, Carnival, or Carmen Miranda, sweeps one into the passion of Saudade—a fondness, longing, and nostalgia for things once seen.

When one speaks of Brazil, such things should be mentioned. Her lilting jazz harmonics, the beat of her Blocos Afros, the swing and glide of her samba. Ahh, but there is poverty in her romance too. Hers is a nation of both “mansions” and “shanties”, where thousands struggle for a place to call home, for freedom from oligarchy, and the disparaging forces of corruption. Both “warmly hospitable and surprisingly violent, physically beautiful yet on the verge of ecological disaster, fabulously rich and appallingly poor” (Page), Brazil is an Eden full of contrast, struggling to find its course, maturation, and identity.

Disparities and cultural riches in mind, onto her shores I will go. First to Bahia, to Salvador, the once lively center of the old world colonies, and then on to Vitoria, capital of Espirito Santo. The first three months will be centered on study and survival, as I traverse the new cultural landscape and learn to speak Portuguese. Then, visa extension permitting, I’m of to the Universidade do Espirito Santo, where volunteer work awaits my attention.

All things seem possible in new beginnings, and what better a place to find life than in the freshness of a new land. Brazil offers this to me, her temperament and silhouette catching my eye, and I impatiently await our first embrace, our dance into delectability.

So with a hearty “garrrrrr”, and a pirates cold grin, let me bid you adieu, adios, and goodbye. My sail in full sweep, and my anchor discharged, I’m off to find grander things. For as the prolific Saint Augustine once said, “The World is a book, and those who do not travel read only a page.”

Slip goes the page.

(from my head to yours)

(travel itinerary)

A Happy 2006

1-1-06

With one great shift, the clocks arm swings forward. The pageantry and din of the holiday, issued from countless sources, fills every nook, cranny, and open space. Glitter and noisemakers accentuate as confetti falls to the floor. Cheerful revelers, with hands upturned to the sky, invite the dawn of a new age, where hopes and dreams, and all that is everything may continue to live on.

At a bar, a man with spiky hair grins. Just a few feet away, the dance floor overflows with sweat and movement. The strobe light bounces quicksilver off each smiling face. The crowd surges with excitement, as the pump and spring of the music falls and rises with each crescendo.

Dressed in a blue athletic shirt and torn blue jeans, the man sips slowly on his drink, cranberry and vodka melding frostily in his throat. “This is awesome!” he sings, glancing momentarily at his brother standing next to him. “I’ve never seen this place so busy.” A mass of curls breaking out from under a Quicksilver hat, his brother nods appreciatively, and then returns to the drink held in his hand.

Four dark giant speakers, resting at the back of the room, drown out the emphatic stresses of conversation. In the clamor, people lose their syllables, and the ‘what’, ‘huh’, and ‘silent nod’ becomes the only way to communicate. Striding through this heavy mix of sound and body, the man raises an eyebrow, noticing a girl as she walks on by. Black tresses falling across her back, the girl is Latin, beautiful, and for a slight sliver of a moment their eyes meet across the crowd. She smiles briefly, almost imperceptibly, as he glances back. For one tiny instant, as the throng parts and then closes again, they latch on to each other, offering signs of a silent, but shared, approval. Before his heart has a chance to rise in his chest, before a wink or another smile can be passed, she is gone—lost in the movement of the crowd.

“Aieeeeyahyaieee” he mutters to himself, shivering at the thought of her smile, however briefly perceived. The music jumps from House to Usher. Club ballads scream their hedonistic popularity. “Let’s get out there” the spiky haired boy says, motioning to the dance floor, and slurping up the last bits of red ice water in his drink. Setting his plastic cup on the nearest table, his brother snaps his fingers, and begins to make his way toward center stage. The area is long and rectangular, rimmed by narrow countertops for people to set their drinks on. On a raised platform, the DJ sways back and forth, raising volume and tweaking pitch with each transition of song. Brilliant colors flood the dance floor, projected from spinning globes on the ceiling, and people wave orange and green glow sticks through their hands, tracing DNA like patterns in the air. Senses overwhelmed, the mass shuffles in its strange little world.

Just as the rhythm begins to penetrate his body, he sees her, again, not steps away. She flaunts a shirt rimmed with silver sequins that plays with the light like the globe swinging over head. Sliding down the sweep of her halo, and fortified with liquid courage, he glides towards her without hesitation. Feeling his movement near her, she turns, smiles, and begins to dance. “Hot diggidy dog!” he thinks to himself, seizing her hips and dancing with her. “This is one opportunity I just can’t pass up.”

Together they move, back and forth, swinging under arms and around shoulders. The girl’s eyes are black, dark and inviting, and she teases him with her smile and sway. He smirks back, leading the dance, and at times looks away—feigning the indifference of a man with nothing to lose. Together they meld, her black hair and his blue eyes, lost in the freedom and thrill of the movement. “God!” he thinks as he smells her perfume. “This is such therapy!”

Like all great moments, the excitement builds, with its climax, and then slips, falls, and fades away. The song loses its breadth and her hand slides from his. Their eyes wander to other things, bored with the present moment, looking for other ways to momentarily fill themselves once again. Content with his little slice of happiness, the spiky haired boy sits down at a nearby table, next to his brother.

“That was awesome,” he states “what a great New Year.”

“Definitely” his brother replies, a tired late night stupor lining his face.

“You know, this is it. The beginning of a new year. And not just a new year but a new beginning. 2006 is going to be my year, my time, and no one will take it from me.” The spiky haired boy beams, his brother gives him a ‘yeah, whatever’ look, and they both get up to leave.

The drone of New Year’s partying continues long after they walk away. Lights continue to flash, people continue to smile, happy with the direction that a new beginning gives. The early morning sunshine awaits, ready to throw light on a billion fresh faces. In the mind and in the heart, they look towards the dawn, and all is born anew.