3604  Randy Does Rio, Part 2

Date: Fri, 8 Jul 2005 12:48:10 -0700
From: randy cook <randycook95476@YAHOO.COM>
Subject: Randy Does Rio, Part 2

There was this cute blonde. She was a tiny little
thing, mini-skirted and made-up to that deep golden
color that latins get when they try to lighten
themselves. I couldn't resist her, even though I knew
in advance that I was going to look silly and feel
stupid.

It wasn't that she was a bad dancer. In fact, she
danced rather well--light of foot and strong of body.
It's just that her passion, like her make-up, was
something extreme--smoldering sidelong glances,
provocative adornos, lingering leg wraps. Then, dance
done, a girlish giggle, as if to say, "Who's naughty?
Not me!" She was a lot of fun, if you go in for that
sort of thing. But I had the uncomfortable feeling
that people were watching.

The problem wasn't so much in dancing with this little
blonde. For me it was a matter of how to calm down
afterwards. Tango is a dance of passion, but
everything depends in keeping it under control.

Back at my table, I knocked over my water glass, which
happened to be a wine cup, breaking it. "But I was
just drinking water, not wine!" I said in
self-defence. The woman across from me was sopping up
the water using those tiny paper napkins they provide
in tango-dancing countries. "You were drinking the
cup of passion," the woman observed. I felt stupid.

It wasn't yet midnight, but I decided it would be best
for me to go. Not only had I exceeded my stupidity
quota for the evening, I had just arrived in Rio that
very morning, after a 17 hour flight. Perhaps fatigue
as well as passion had moved the hand that spilled the
glass.

I put on one of my street shoes, looked for the other,
bumping my forehead on the tabletop in the process.
Then I remembered where I had been sitting when I
first entered O Bar do Tom. One shoe on and one shoe
off, I hobbled over to that table. The shoe was right
there underneath the chair, but sitting in the chair
was a very pretty young woman whom I recognized from a
previous trip. Such a dancer! She had made me feel
like Fred Astaire with Ginger Rogers in the ballroom
of the Copacabana Palace Hotel in the 1933 movie,
"Flying Down to Rio."

Now she was smiling at me, and she went on smiling as
I explained to her why it was necessary for me to bend
down and reach under the chair where she was poised so
prettily.

"My name is Gina," she said, "and I remember you from
before." I held my shoe in my hand, wondering whether
to put it on or change it for my dancing shoes. Gina
was alone at the table, leaning forward slightly, and
still smiling.

And there will be those who will say that the
stupidest thing I did all evening was put that street
shoe back on and go to call a taxi.

But hey, I was tired!