when the sturdier of the two drag queens had finished removing all of her jewelry, tearing off her hose, wiping off her makeup and changing into her (or his, at this point) street clothes to shirley bassey's "this is my life," we got up from the mats on the rooftop terrace, walked down the two staircases that circled the sprawling bougainvillea overhanging the courtyard, exited onto the street and went in search of the next house marked by the o with the grave accent. and blindfolded at the bottom of the next staircase we covered our faces with brigadeiro, cream cheese and mango, deigning sometimes also to give each other tastes of the contents of the covered containers. no one, the one of us said on the way to the next house, would believe that the city could ever have gone out like this. (and i, for my part, would never have thought that those were the houses behind those charmingly decrepit façades.) up the next staircase (and through the wildly unexpected modern kitchen) the woman was giving a workshop on whips. and then, on the way to artistas, everyone was seeing the world in buttons.
lunch was supposed to be late, but the cachupa ended up an early dinner. and for the better, probably, because it's sleeping food. if we weren't already tired from our last night's night walking, the cachupa did the rest. groggily, over tea, we agreed that it's difficult to get a really good coffee at the beach. bitches. them and us both.
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:)))) such great nights & days
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