Gringa Rubia

I would like to apologize for being such a lazy postress. I've been getting home late and the prospect of turning on the computer becomes a much more overwhelming idea after such a long day. I have come to the conclusion that people who live in cities have to put up with a lot of not-so-great things. For instance- smog, creepy dudes that stare and the prospect of willingly packing themselves (think sardines) into a hot little train car. Suffice to say, I just might miss having a car. However, allow me to say in the same breath how lovely it is to walk everywhere and see things much closer.
In other news, a few friends and I decided to head down to the Plaza de Armas. It's a huge pedestrian plaza that's dotted with palm trees and chess tables. There, we shared a park bench with a funny old man, saw people selling their knock-off versions of classic paintings like Diego Rivera's calla lilies, Frida Kahlo's self portraits...you get the idea. Here's where the trouble starts: my friend Hannah and I saw a huge crowd and decided to go see what the fuss was about. There were roughly 150-200 people gathered in a circle around two men doing physical comedies a-la Larry, Moe and Curly (did you know they were all Jewish?). We hadn't been standing there more than two minutes when I see one of the entertainers turn to our sector of the crowd and yell out, "Senorita, senorita! Ven pa'ca al centro! Ven pa'ca!" [Translation: I am a filthy old man and I want to touch you]. He was still yelling and pointing and me, in my normally dreamy state didn't realize he was talking to me until I look over at Hannah and she's simply staring at me with her mouth agape. We're the only two rubias (blonds) in the crowd. By this time, the people around me had parted like the Red Sea, so as to ensure my passage to the center of the circle.
Aside: Did I mention that I have yet to have had a person actually move out to the way so as to allow me to continue on my path? Normally they just barrel on through. And you really have to be careful with the short ones: because of their short, stocky stature they carry the lowest center of gravity, meaning their momentum will crrrrush you (or at least you'll get the wind knocked out of you).
Continuing with the story, I look behind me to my grinning friends, figure there's nothing to fear, that I can just walk off casually, then turn around to see the pot-bellied man much closer me than I had remembered. He grinned, grabbed my hand and hauled me to the middle of the circle where his amigo was waiting. People began to giggle. At this point I realize I was not chosen at random to take part in an 'illusion', rather, I am the entertainment. "Look what we have here", says the ringleader in Spanish. He then switches to broken English. "Wherr you fron? Swecia? Sweeeedin?" The men in the crowd are yipping and whistling. I summon all the courage I can muster to say: "No, somos estadounidenses". The crowd is having a good time with this. Then one of the men tries a different tactic- teaching me how many kisses to give in Chile, as per tradition. I already know the answer-one. "No", he says, "Een Tseeleh wee gu-eeve fore keesis." Oh my God. He's going to touch me on the FACE. Maybe this is a good time for him to let go of my hand? Oh, no! I am completely helpless, stuck to the cobblestones beneath my feet. He proceeds to kiss my cheeks until my face has flushed to the point of no return: that is, I am unable to arrest it's magenta coloration with controlled breathing. Whatever, it actually never works, I just heard that if you breathe deep and cleansing breaths, you won't be so red. I pull away by the time he's gotten two in. This is really not as fun as I thought it would be.
J turn to find that Hannah is in the middle as well, also being accosted by the side-kick, who also happens to carry all of his weight in the front (read: he looked like he stuck a stock pot under his shirt). The men are kissing her, she's giving me the "Get me the hell out of here" eyes. I summon the confidence I had left (I was running on empty) and grab Hannah's hand while wriggling out of the grip of the dirty old man. We push through the crowd and reunite with our dark-haired counterparts. "I didn't even get a photo!" Tom said. "Go back, and I'll get a picture." Are you f@#$ing kidding me? I'd rather rub a guinea pig all over myself.*
I must say that in retrospect, I should have simply kept walking away. But I suppose this is how we learn lessons? We all know that I love having attention lavished upon me, but this kind of attention- um, even I must say it was a little degrading. I mean, those guys should've at least given me part of their profits for being such a good sport.
We ended up wandering off to a Haiti bar, where there are no seats, and the waitresses wear skirts so short, that it's no longer attractive; it's sad. I just hope that they make great money.


*This is practiced among South American shamans. The idea is, the body is cleansed of its' negative energy by rubbing the live rodent all over it. Then the shaman goes about killing it and slicing open the belly, searching for organs that are either green or black. From this, it is deduced that those very organs in your body are the source of your negative energy. You should probably get them looked at, 'cause you know, them docs don't know their ass from their elbow.