The Other One. Of Course.

Day 29

An unspoken rule for all travels abroad: There are always 2 of whatever you are looking for. And you always chose the wrong one. There are always 2 train stations and you go the east station while your train pulls away from the west station. There are always 2 cafes where you’re supposed to meet your friends and you go to the one you know while they think malicious thoughts of you at the one they know. There are always 2 entrances and there are always 2 exits. There are always 2 levels and there are always 2 sides of the street. There are always 2 rooms in a restaurant and there are always 2 benches on opposite sides of the park. And in my case, there’s 2 polideportivos (gyms). And for the first time in my life I arrive early… to the wrong one.

All day I had been like a child waiting for Friday when they serve pizza at lunch. I had finally found a place to dance salsa and the nice Spanish girl was great enough to tell me the time and the name of the place but failed to actually get me directions to get there. Having biked across the country using Google maps I figured I couldn’t go too wrong using it again to search down this mysterious ‘polideportivo’ she mentioned, where the group would meet. After 5 intense minutes of squinting at the screen and dragging it here and there with the small white hand I decided that I had found it and I memorized the route there like it was my social security code.

And then I head out, leaving unnecessarily early in case I see a store I want to stop in, or the more likely case, I get lost and have to ask for directions. I’m making good time, going just a little slower than Google maps had predicted, not that I’m sure their invisible walker measuring man waits for stop lights or has to dodge late night dog walkers. I triumphantly turn the corner and there it lay! The erroneous Polideportivo. I let the people I had just passed in my eager jaunt pass me so I can see how you enter this megalith building. Not wanting to waste time exploring to find the room, I bust down the office door like a mom with a lost child and politely ask where the salsa class meets. The man attending and his gaggle of gawdy make up faced custodians sitting around like roosting hens, all cackle at my question. I repeat my question, thinking that I perhaps misstated my question using the wrong verb tense. But the office manager just shook his head and said “salsa??? Dance??” and mimicked a salsa move that Shakira could do before she was even born it was so bad. Not wanting to confirm his mockery of my passion, but desperate to get the information I wanted I said yes. And he said, ‘definitely not here.’ Taking him to be an ill-informed liar I wandered the grounds, my ears tuned for the sound of salsa music. I couldn’t hear a damn beat anywhere. Just futbol games for miles. Despondent, I shuffled up the stairs to walk the long way home. The office manager stopped me on the way out and asked if I had found the group. I admitted no and he said that they were probably at the other polideportivo, about half the distance from my piso. So kind of him to mention that right when I walked in. but at least I understood his directions to the other polideportivo. So all was not lost!

I should have expected misgivings tonight because all day the clouds wore mischievous dark grins, laden with thunder and rain, not breaking for anyone though. I smiled back, loving the playful mood of the sky and the wind and the freakish light that always seems to be switched on before a storm. All the way home on the train the trees and bushes raged with trembling arms raised high, urging me home home home!! But I defied their warnings, instead venturing out to dance. And so it goes, headstrong I don’t get to dance at all. And the rain clouds still haven’t burst.