My Turf

Just recently,  I’ve been testing my will and capacity to live the "Try everything at least once" attitude. I was in Tokyo when I first decided to try it out and be brave and do things I wouldn’t have done under normal circumstances.

For instance, I usually pass up on amusement park rides, but got on the scariest ones when I was in Tokyo Dome (including that unbelievable 30-storey drop they call the Tower Hacker). And I went salsa-dancing one night in Roppongi.

Ulk. It makes my stomach turn each time I remember. If you have been following this blog long (or if you’ve been my friend long!), you already know that I detest dancing in public. But that Thursday night, three days before my scheduled return to the Philippines, I kept thinking, "Oh, what the hell!" and egged myself on with my new Try everything at least once motto.

Salsa- dancing is something I never would have done if I were in the Philippines. But WTF, I thought then. I am in Japan, and not more than three people in the room know me anyway!

It started with me having dinner with a friend. Who had to pick up her injured boyfriend in faraway Kawasaki. Who was with his classmate. And all three of them wanted to do something fun for the night.

The boyfriend’s friend sat at the back of the car with me. Turned out he’s Venezuelan who’s crazy about salsa-dancing and led us to this bar in Roppongi where no one stays seated because everyone is on the floor swaying and twirling to Spanish songs.

So this person held out his hand and patiently tried doing this salsa thing with rhythm-helpless me. I remember how I said, "I’m sorry, I’m sorry!" about a thousand times because, really, I have two left feet and I kept stepping on his toes…the poor guy.

But in retrospect, it got pretty fun eventually. And he was a great dancer. He made even me appear okay. I started really enjoying it, especially after I decided to loosen up, confident in the fact that they’d never see me again after that night anyway.

Then of course, we couldn’t dance for hours on end without rest. Sat at the bar and made small talk. Whisper. Butterfly kiss. Hold hands. Drink–talk–drink. 

Then in the darkness, I squinted and noticed someting glinting.

"Oh, you have a ring," and held up his left hand, like it were some evidence.

"Why do you look at that?"

"Why shouldn’t I?!"

Then he went on giving me some stupid lecture on seizing the day and not letting moments pass and other irritating rhetoric that I nodded my head at, but did not at all buy. I frowned and felt more than a little irked. I’m no idiot, you asshole.

He still continued to be touchy and shit, but I’ve lost interest. And I am not that drunk. And rhum coke , two bottles of beer, and sweet talk will not earn you an invitation to my apartment. Especially not if you’re a married man.

I pulled away and put my hands in my coat pockets so he won’t be able to hold them.

A couple of minutes after, we all called it a night and trooped back to the car. In the backseat, I sat with him and waited for my friend and her boyfriend. He tried to get near again, but I put my hand on his lips (Hahaha. I swear, I really did!) and shook my head. That’s the closest you can get to me, dear. 

Sigh.

Parked in front of my apartment building, I said the customary goodbye and got off the car with nary a second glance. So much for my Japan "Try everything at least once" brouhaha.

I went up to my room and spent the rest of the night alone.