Cairo, the 13th September, 2010

GIRLIE GIRL (Cause boys will be boys and...girls will be girls...)

Being an eclectic person requires an equally eclectic selection of friends so I have them to talk about dance, others to join me in the gym, some others to share theatre and cinema goodies, deep or simply silly thoughts and so forth...
Some female friends are what I call "girlie girl" pals. They will follow me till the end of the known world if we´re going for shopping and there we went this morning.

Life cannot be all about dancing, afterwards (right?!I´m not so sure on this one...hhhhmmmmm).

First stop of the "girlie" morning:

Cappuccino and Vogue magazine for a quick breakfast before heading to the make-up store where I spend the equivalent to a fortune thanks to daily performing. The thing is being a dancer (oooooooohhhhhh, there we go on the dance subject again...) involves much more than DANCING. It´s shocking - but true - to affirm that actual DANCING occupies 1% of my worries and thought. All the other 99% go to rehearsals, dressing, make-up and all the maintenance a dancer has to do in order to always feel and look her best at the stage because audiences are lovely but they´re also ruthless judges with pointing fingers ready to tear you up if your hair is messed up (mine always is!) or you don´t look your best.

A performing dancer should always look like Central Park and Broadway (New York, New York!!!) on Christmas Eve and that takes a LOT of work to keep up to.
Dancing comes naturally to me, as natural as breathing. But the whole "image decorating" subject is alien to me. I get tired from all the care, touching and retouching, dressing and undressing, so much more than from DANCING which is the enjoyable part, the pleasure zone where everything and everyone is forgotten and all happens between me, God and the audience.

After flipping the luxurious, silk soft pages of our VOGUE (how posh can we be?) and drinking our cappuccinos, we headed to the store in search for more make-up. All my stock is empty, after so many days of work.

My friend looked extatic with excitement. I just looked depressed.
These girlie stuff are not "my thing", they never were...beauty comes naturally to me, not bought in a jar or inside of an eye-shadow case.
If I could do "my thing, my way", I would go on stage naked, no hairdo, no make-up or manicured nails, no fancy clothing or props, NOTHING. Naked and pure as an angel.
Ancient rituals of Dance were performed by NAKED women, why can´t we rescue a bit of the past´s beauty?!
But duty and reality call, as usual.

After shopping and putting some more "girlie" letters in the mail post (I am still one of those romantic excentrics that write letters to friends and lovers...from where did I come from?), we headed for my favourite thai massagist (now that seems to be a great deal of POSH behaviour, at least for my peasant standards!).

Another thing about dancers (here we go again...what about the mentioning of NOT TALKING ABOUT DANCE?!) is the care you should have with your body.
So many dancers hate their bodies and destroy it in many ways (how ironic and confusing is that?!) but, thanks God, I am not one of them.
I am aware of the importance of my body-instrument and how precious it is to me and my work-survival.

So, I deliver myself to my thai massagist while my friend waits in the living room, flipping some more "egyptian house wife" magazines revealing the secrets of "how to keep a husband" or "teach your kids to fast in Ramadan". I am sure she will have lots, but LOTS of fun, reading this incredible magazine. She might even turn into a vegetable...

My thai massagist doesn´t smile. EVER. She exhales and throws some strange sounds into the air but she does not smile. Cultural differences, perhaps. I am used to them.

The massage starts and my body jumps in several painful convulsions, I struck the matress like a drunk sailor on a bad night on the town and howl like a wolf under a nostalgic full moon.
She remains oblivious and totally indifferent to my pain.
It seems, as I confirm it again and again, even sensibility is different from culture to culture, person to person. Thai, chinese and japanese always seemed so distant and hard to understand...it seems we live in different internal words and reactions to the same situation highly differ from person to person.

NOW back to the IMPORTANT:
"I am in pain, manifesting it and being ignored".

Thailand is a predominantely Buddhist country, right? (I think to myself).
"Where is the famous buddhist compassion?"

.......... (Silence)

"Where is the basic human compassion (forget the buddhists, I am desperate here...)?

..........(Silence)


"Did you know that, under catholic thinking, you could go to hell for much less than this?

.....................(Silence).


"This massage should be considered a voice warm up for Opera singers preparing for "La Traviatta!"

............ (Silence).


"How can a human being inflict so much pain on another and not feel pity for him/her?!"

........... (Silence).


At this point, I wondered why I didn´t go to a bar to get drunk for the first time in my life and forget all my worries and sadness?!
I could struck the table of the bar like a drunk sailor and howl like a wolf under a nostalgic full moon and I would pay less money and handle much less pain...WHY?!!!!

A "Bossa Nova" brazilian cd was running the whole time during the 1.30h torture session and a figure of hindu Ghanesh was overlooking the whole movie from the beginning (not even my favourite hindu God came in my rescue...talk about faith crisis!).

How am I not surprised that, in the end, I didn´t feel more relaxed at all.
AT ALL.....................

"Evelithing youl body hults"
(translation: " Everything your body hurts") - She , finally, said to me without an excuse or word of support.

I don´t expect patting on my back, I never did and never got them but this was too much. I was just trying to take care of my instrument (body) and get a good relaxing time and, instead, I got a medieval torture session with a thai lady that looks and acts like Sylvester Stallone in "RAMBO".

Oh, the irony of life...and the surprises you can get when you only wish to have a simple "girlie girl" time.

P.S. My friend is actually not my friend anymore because she also remained indifferent to my yelling of pain. How can you be considered a "friend" (even in the "girlie" cathegory) if you don´t run to me in times of sorrow?!