Who are you? Who, who, who, who?

Decided to share, what I hope, is a funny one with you as I’ve got a few long rants coming up on the brewing debate on the US education system and I thought I’d entertain you at least one last time before I got all serious and philosophical.***

As I race to finish up my Friday night class I pause for a moment to give myself a quick pep talk about the coming roar of reggaton, drinking and general debauchery that my young friends Tara, Sarah and Tara will no doubt have us partaking in.

The typical night out starts with me tackling the streets of the Mariscal toting my teaching backpack and ignoring men, if you can call them that, that shout statements I would not dare repeat here. I meet up with the ladies at some side bar where they have either brought along some of their students (strange I know, but their students are the same age as them) or have already met “new” friends for the night. We have a round of Pilsners along with some nachos, also known as a plane old plate of tortilla chips and share the weeks stories with each other. At moments, I am thoroughly engrossed by the things these girls seem to get themselves involved in on a daily basis, at others I find myself daydreaming about home, wanting a nice glass of California wine, the company of my friends and the humm of a small restaurant. As my normal bed time of eleven o’clock approaches I think about at least five excuses, all admittedly lame, to get out of the impending storm that is about to erupt in front of me and will have me questioning just who I am. I pick the best one, voice it to them and am immediately shot down -they know me to well already, I will almost always stay.

Moving from the bar to a dance club usually involves a loud discussion between one of the three girls, one of their “new” local friends or students and the bouncer, always ending with our group being ushered in as celebrities. With the Tara’s and Sarah you become the party, people flock to you, drinks are bought for you; new “friends” are made as “old” ones are thrown out. This type of attention I am not used to and I’m not sure I will ever get used to nor want to..

I make it through the night by dancing and hopefully finding at least one normal soul to talk with. The first of which is the norm and the later extremely rare but preferred. Let me preface by saying that I am not a dancer, I sometimes pretend to be but I am not. I get uncharacteristically self-conscious with my body, even more so when dancing with someone that I like or am attracted to. So I typically only dance when I’ve had a couple of shots of liquid courage and with strangers that I hold no attraction to. That being said there are two types of people that will dance with you here. One is the local who feels sorry for you and will make you their dancing cause of the night the other is the local who wants to sleep with the gringa disguised as the local who feels sorry for you and will make you their dancing cause of the night. To differentiate between the two is, luckily, fairly simple. Clue number one, you are repeatedly and insistently told you are a good dancer rather than being taught the steps to the song. Clue number two, somehow you are no longer doing salsa or Machala moves and all the other men in the club (again not sure if the label of man works here, especially since it seems as if there is an age LIMIT of 20 to be at these Clubs), are staring at the two of you with their jealous mouths gaping. It takes about one point fives seconds of seeing gaping mouths before excusing myself to the bathroom. Looking in the mirror I do a quick rendition of MJ’s Man in the Mirror just for kicks, wipe the sweat from brow and start to plan my escape home. It will take convincing the girls to switch clubs and in route, exactly as we are passing a hot dog stand, strategically mentioning the fact that we have not eaten yet. As we are eating our hot dogs with pineapple sauce, potato chips and pickled onions (another guard against unwanted moves) we will discuss the happenings of the night thus far. If I am lucky I can convince one of them to go grab a cab with me, if not, I am stuck out until one of them remembers they have a boyfriend and wants to go home to pull the late night US drunk dial. Either way I have to wait until I can convince someone to walk with me to the taxi’s, as walking through the Mariscal by yourself, after 9:00, is equivalent to walking through a lions den that has 10 new baby cubs in it. You just don’t do it.

Eventually I get home and race the suns rays to bed as I try to answer The Who’s question, just who am I right now? The answer doesn’t take long and I'm happy with it. I’m a soon to be 32 year old, living it up in Ecuador, putting myself in situations that I otherwise wouldn’t put myself in at home, doing what I am meant to do, teaching, exploring and learning, and loving every minute of the challenges that those things bring.

P.S. Comments on age, especially regarding extremely young dance partners and soon to be 32 year olds, will not be tolerated! I know, trust me I know...