I finally went out last night and paid a visit to Mr Carnival.
When I arrived at his place, I was fine, I mean, I had only drunk a little wine. F. and I approached the big stage where a tribute to Celia Cruz was going on with several Cuban artists such as Lucrecia and some others and I didn't feel like drinking anything. The show was alright. F., of course , was enjoying it a lot. There even was kind of a duet out of time as screens showed Celia Cruz singing live some years ago and one of the singers on the stage sang along with her and so on. It was ok.
When it finished, we headed for the stalls. There were the gay stalls and the non-gay stalls. As it has been going on for the last four or five years, there is this division or (willing) segregation which was a good idea in the beginning because you could feel safe and in a good and sympathetic environment (it has to be noted that in Carnival feasts, there are lots of fights just because someone is looking for trouble with no apparent reason, or simply because you find yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time). Well, these last three or four years the division was ok: the area on which the gay stalls were installed was open, non-enclosed and, although many people gathered and sometimes it was really packed, you could easily walk off and find yourself outside the centre (the stalls were facing one another creating sort of a inner zone on which everybody danced and so on). But this year, they have been placed a little far off in a enclosed area where you feel completely apart from everything and where the segregation is too evident and, as a result, it looks ridiculous and unnecessary. Nevertheless, it was as packed as always, even more because of these physical limits, but you felt like in a farmyard, a corral and it was stupid. So, we went to the main stalls (just as you walk out you find them) and we had some rum&coke. Firstly one, then one more, then another and so on. Everyone was happy, having big fun and no matter who you may talk to or who may talk to you, you saw smiles, laughs and good moods. There were obviously the bad guys, those who sometimes looked at you as waiting for you to tell them something or to even slightly touch them so as to jump on you and break your bones. There were also some quarrels but none of the opponents developped such violence as the police themselves when they wanted to cut it off (wow, really shocking, you don't know who the bad guys finally are...) But, as I said, the general view was good, funny costumes, strange make-ups (I should have got the camera, maybe next weekend) peculiar people around...
After no more than three hours, I was quite drunk and so was F. He had been talking to everyone passing by all through the night, dancing, laughing, having pees on trees and, of course, drinking. By the time of our departure (around 5.30 am) we looked like zombies in Michael Jackson's
Thriller, walking on half-empty streets, swinging and rocking to either side and pale-blue in the face.
We managed to get home on foot (you normally have to wait more than 30 minutes to catch a taxi and, in our state, it would have been more than inappropiate, we could have easily fallen asleep no matter where) in about 25 minutes and our cozy dear bed welcomed us with a big eiderdowned hug...
And today, it's been a sleeping dizzy Sunday at home, trying to find the way back to the self who has to get up tomorrow morning fresh and in good shape to tackle the eight-hour split shift once again.
