The sound track from the Big Chill is playing as we drive up the 99, northbound- city bound. A little Marvin Gaye to prepare us for a night of Funk. Our directions- only an address, and I'm not even sure I heard the number right. How many 2's was that?
We find it though, me in my gold sweater from Berlin, her, also in a sweater of mine, her favorite jeans, and a pink and brown neglace people always think is made of bananas.
One of Fitzgerld's charaters once said "I love big parties. They are so intimate."
I think of this line, it's truth, and how much truer it is when we, two Canadian girls, can chat in German amidst the swirling, wriggling funk of a westside club.
I've stomped and bomped till the sweat runs. we're standing outside- cooling ourselves in every sense. Oh, the exclusivity of speaking a foreign tongue! And then, into our intimate bubble steps a German, sweet and impressed. He's the traveller now, but still, I dare to suspend reality, to be once more in that land where I know myself so much better. Why not?
Why not, for an evening defy physics and scientific invention and, in a moment, cross a continent, and an ocean, and an island, and a channel, and then that last French stretch to a me I like, even love, in a land I adore?