Carousing with my roommates Friday night, we stopped into the bar Bros, which serves wine and oranges, for some reason, at the foot of the hill that we live on. It was empty, with only a bartender standing guard; there was, however, a great party going on downstairs. We followed the music (for this is my motto in life and will be my epitath in death: He Followed the Music) down the stone stairs into Bros's cellar, where there were many happy Brazilians moving at the end of the room. We hung back for a second, ate some food,and then I took the plunge.
We were only discovered when I started dancing. As I graced about the floor, a tall Brazilian approached me. I thought he, too, wished to dance, but he only wanted to find out who I was. It was Felipe, the birthday boy. He guesstimated me to be American (because he spoke only Portugese and I spoke only the language of dance), and, after a brief announcement to the party goers to give me a sort of movement perimeter, I was accepted into his circle.
After a time of joy, tears, and more laughs than I could understand (but I laughed regardless) we all sang Happy Birthday in Portugese and I performed the traditional American birthday dance. It was actually the same dance I always do, but I insisted.
When I left the cellar, I said ciao and gave Felipe a hug, because, I believe that love can cross bounds of language, culture, and invitation only parties. Love, in fact, is the universal language. And that, knowledge, was my birthday gift to Felipe.
1 comment:
You really are a great man.
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