Miami, the "almost" heart attack trip of a life time!

Oh, yeah...

Performing and teaching in Miami these last days was great.

Don t get me wrong, I really LOVE my job and this little- HUGE - thing of sharing my Passion for egyptian dance with audiences and students from all over the world is one of my life s biggest goals yet there are trips that are too damned exhausting to forget to mention.

Such trials of my cardiac ability to resist to all kinds of stress and umpleasant surprises have been one of my trade marks at which I, quite ironically, laugh.

When will God stop trying me and my limits, that I don t know?

When will God stop playing consecutive - not so funny - tricks on me, who on earth knows?

When will God stop trying to get me a heart attack? How on hell would I know?!

If shocks, constant obstacles and surprising turning of events on a daily basis make you stronger (if they don t kill you, I mean...), then I must be one of the noblest Rambos of Humanity with lipstick and perfume and all that jazz...

Thank that same naughty God for my sense of humour (and healthy madness), otherwise I would be gone from this world from such a long time.

The trip to Miami started so well (if only I knew!).

Choreographies to teach prepared, songs to perform edited and ready for the stage, dance dresses in the suitcase and my books and tarot cards for company.

Wonderful dinner of sushi and laughter with a close friend who took me to the airport and all the greatest vibes in the world flowing through me...what could go wrong?!

As I prepare to do my check-in at the airport, I am informed that I cannot travel because I don t own an ESTA code.

"What DA F......... is an ESTA code?!" (This was what I thought, although I said nothing and just stared at the lady who gave me the information as if it was the most common thing of all).

Without further ado, I was taken to a small room that really looked like what I imagine a torture room can be and an employee from Alitalia asked me THE question of the night:

"How don t you have an ESTA code?"

"Can somebody explain to me what is an ESTA code? Something you get, secretely, tatooed on your ass or what?!"

So I was told that, when you buy a ticket to United States, the airline informs you that the US Government is requiring (from about 6 months ago) a code you get through the internet by paying a fee.

I was not the one who bought the ticket and I am not particularly interested in the US Government new laws for visitors to Uncle Sam s country so there was no way I could know about this code.

There I sat with the staff of Alitalia - calm and detached as only egyptians can be in times like this - trying to apply on line to a code I never heard about, trying to make it on time to travel that night, as it was planned.

Lots of stuff were going through my mind while the system refused one after one of the several credit card s numbers I introduced: What if I cannot fly tonight and miss my first performance in Miami? What if the system is secrewed and I cannot apply to this Esta thing and simply miss the whole event?!

A friend was flying in at 4 o clock in the morning to help me with his credit card (mine did not work), my family was awakened in Portugal for the same purpose and chaos was installed.

I was in panic. People around me were drinking over sweetened tea and chatting.

"Welcome to my dear Egypt!"

When I, finally, got the approval of payment of the code I was told - with the traditional poker face - that this code would be sent to my email in the next 24 hours.

"What the hell do you mean?! Don t I get this code NOW?!"

The answer was a cool, oh soooooo cool, NO.

"You ll get it, eventually, during the next 24 hours but not now."

Well, if my mathematical skills are not so bad as I fear they are, then this means I can t travel tonight and I ll miss my first performance in Miami, as well as my first workshop.

Hell froze. My heart froze. I am a LOVER of my work. A L-O-V-E-R.
I know many dancers will do it for the money - which is not so much, if you re JUST an honest dancer - or for the fame, public approval, status or whatever.

I do it because I absolutely LOVE DANCE and ART in all shapes and forms.

I live for it and because of it so this is a BIG thing for me, just to know people are waiting to see me dance or to learn with me and I am going to fail them...even if if it s not my fault...it s my own personal idea of HELL.

All the faces around me were as dead and ease as mummy Tutankhamon. They didn t give a shit for my professional drama, as much as I explained to them what this meant.

"Yeah, that s rough! You may travel tomorrow night, if the code arrives. Say "Inshah Allah"!

In times like this I feel like all my diplomatic skills (the very few of them) are going down the toilet. The word "Inshah Allah" ("If God wishes") is used as a replacement for personal responsability and action. I use it all the time but, for me, it never means that I ll cross my arms and wait for God to solve whatever that needs to be solved cause, guess what!, It won t!

Wait for God s omnipresent hand to solve your shananigans and you ll die waiting.

It was 4 o clock in the morning, my flight to Miami was well on its way through the sky and I was in panic, inside the Alitalia "panic room" surrounded by people who could not understand my drama.

I paied for the ticket exchange (to, hopefully, fly the next night) and went home like a puppy with its tail between its legs.

After informing the organizer of Miami Belly Dance Convention of what had happened (poor one, she must have gone mad too!), I stuck my head to my pc, waiting for the damned ESTA code to appear on the screen.

No sleep, lots of cappuccino and reading to avoid the heart attack of the day and a secret code that came to me in the afternoon. Still managed to go over my choreographies once more and visit the gym. Running like a lunatic proves to be a wise way to avoid hyper ventilation caused by an acute state of stress.

The whole trip to the airport all over again, check in with code in hands and the whole Alitalia team making sure I didn t fake it just to be able to travel. I was more inspected than a terrorist carrying bombs in his pockets.

I could not believe when I, finally, directed my exhausted self to the gate of my airplane...was I "really" traveling this time?

Cairo to Rome, a good 5 hours flight. Then an whole day at Rome s airport, waiting for my next flight which was perpetually late. Alitalia is not the most efficient of airlines and airports are becoming a poor version of bus stations of the New York Bronx.

Lack of organization, responsability and good mood to attend the customers and a way of serving people that makes you feel like they would prefer to eat dog s poop instead of working in an airport or airline. What s going on there?

Ironically, the zone of the airport where I was waiting for my next flight was round so you could walk it again and again, drawing a madening spiral movement that made you ask "didn t I see this shop just seconds ago?".

I managed to find an email spot to inform the event s organizer that my flight was late and I had no idea of the time of my arrival. I also assured her that, although I hadn t slep in two days and was extremely tired, stressed and jet lagged, I would leave the airport in Miami and head directly to my first performance in order not to disappoint the people who came that night, specially to see me.

Time passed and no news from my flight. I didn t know what time it was in Miami and I guessed I was already late for the performance but I eventually got into the airplane and headed to the sunny, wet neighbour of my beloved Cuba.

12 hour flight with two REALLY fat ladies by my sides. Should I add I have nothing against extremely thin or fat people. But I do have something against my bad luck on this trip! After all that I had already been through, all I got was two major pillows who suffocated me the whole way to Miami.

My musles were frozen, my head was too. I felt dizzy, strong headache and the blood pumping inside of my veins like it s ready to explode.

We landed, after a gruelling trip during which I could not move or even breath stuck between two monumental "bradwurst" that smiled at me as if saying "I m so sorry for smashing your bones and not letting you breath".

It was around 8.30h pm and I thought I may still have a chance to perform at the Gala of the event that night. I, mentally, located all my dancing stuff inside of my bag and the fastest way to do my make-up and hair.

Suddenly, the flight captain talked:

"Due to a strong storm in Miami, we cannot land there so I am so sorry to inform you that we will have to wait here (some airport near Miami) until the weather allows us to land."

I thought I had landed in Miami but I didn t. We were still, somewhere, waiting for a storm to go away.

What about the show? How inconsiderate of the storm to appear in such a night like this, when everybody is waiting to see me dance at the convention!

I breathed deeply and quit. I handed it to God ("Inshah Allah" and the whole thing that goes with it, really!) and tried to sleep. There was nothing I could do and I didn t want to have the famous heart attack that was so close from me during this whole trip.

It was 11 o clock and we were still stuck in the airplane, listening to loud, irritating crying babies and people starting to lose their minds...I tried to read but couldn t concentrate so I took my Ipod to the tiny bathroom and started to dance (like a crazy monkey stuck in a cage) and sing just to vent some of the pressure away.

When did we, actually, landed in Miami?! I doubted my every step, at this point.

That information is blurred, lost in the suitcases of my mind, a "lost and found" department where I cannot find what I am looking for.

I arrive to the arrival s room and find no one waiting for me, except for a lady wearing an "odalisque" dress and an Oriental Dance veil.

"Did the organizer of the event send a girl all dressed up for dance to wait for me? What a strange, yet imaginative, way of receiving me!" - I thought.

We stared at each other and she asked me: "Are you Joana?"

I answered "yes" with that relief of arriving home, after such a long, LONG trip.

"Did Nathalie send you to pick me up?" - I asked her, just to make sure I had the right person in front of me.

"Oh, no. She didn t. But I heard so much about you and I hope to see you dance. Weren t you supposed to be performing tonight?!" - She continued.

" Yes, I was supposed but here I am.It s long story. So, if you re not the one who s here to pick me up, who is?" - I told her, not finding the whole odalisque scene so funny anymore.

"Well, I don t know. I am here waiting for my mum. I was dancing in a restaurant and I didn t have time to change so I came to the airport in my dancing cloths." - She concluded.

"Oh..." (I was almost, ALMOST, stunned).

We started talking and I was imagining myself already going home with this odalisque and her mum, no matter where we would go. I just wanted a bed, by then! Any bed. In any funky Miami neighbourhood with frittata smell and salsa music in the air, "desperados" all around and big asses like mine swinging to the bitter sweet tune of dangerous emmigration.

Just before I went off with the odalisque, someone came to pick me up and we went to a cuban dinner to have a warm soup. Listening to spanish (my second mother language) and feeling the humidity of the caribbean on my skin was a wonderful sensation. Felt like "home", for some reason. I could smell Cuba from that diner.

I was told that, in Miami, some shops have letters on their doors saying:

"Here we speak english" because most people just speak spanish. I could be in heaven here!

Although I didn t do any sight seeing, I KNEW I was in the Caribe, the world of endless sensuality and warm romances...the world of Gabriel Garcia Marquez and his tanned, supernatural, raw women.

Arrival to the hotel, quick sleeping time (about 4 hours of it) and my first workshop early in the morning. I was still on the air, floating somewhere over the Atlantic ocean but duty called and I had to do my job, no matter what!

After the workshop, I headed to my room and found a nice surprise in the elevator:

not one, not two, but three GORGEOUS men who seemed to have been sent by God to cheer me up with their beauty.

God, PLEASE, have mercy on my weak heart. It is too early for these shocks and I had more than my quote of atribulation for the trip.

God didn t listen to me, as it happens very so often.

These guys were not regular handsome, they were GORGEOUS (or was I hallucinating from the whole exhaustion?! Hmmm...) and I am not used to see such beauties in Cairo. Most men in Cairo are not what you can call a "beauty" in any aspect of the word (not inside, not outside). They are funny, sociable, easy going, crazy in a sweet way, creative and such but NOT beautiful. Specially not like THESE guys. My eyes are perpetually hungry for male beauty, it s such a shame!!!

What was THAT? I gasped for air.

Is there a Mister Universe contest at the hotel and I didn t know about it?!

One of them directed himself to me and told me: "Do you know how gorgeous you are?"

Holly Molly and Maccaroni! Heart attack on the way once again...here we gooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo...................

I must have looked like a nerd cause I smiled and nooded with my heavy, dizzy head, not quite feeling my feet on the ground. This comment was sweet and truly felt, not like the ones I usually receive from sexually frustrated men in Cairo who see women as cows wearing skirts.

Simple, spontaneous and sincere and...I MUST add...coming from that divine creature in the shape of a man.

Besides the sweetness of the way he spoke, I looked at his face and got lost in the light of its beauty almost to the point of telling him "Yalla, habibi...take me away with you...let s fly, fly, fly away...let the BellyDance Convention in the hands of human beings and let s go together to the land of Gods from where you come from."

But, hey, I am a nerd indeed. I didn t run away with the gorgeous stranger. I smiled at him and left.

I had the opportunity of going to heaven on earth and I refused to take it so I am the only one to blame.

I blushed with his comment, admired the overdose of beauty inside that elevator and went to my room, like a good girl, to rest a bit before I had to prepare myself for the afternoon contest and the night s performance.

No sleeping, just a bit relaxing and dressing up to judge at the dancing competition of the event. Now...I hate to judge and feel reticent to comment on other dancer s performances cause I don t feel I have the right to do so.

I was happy with the winner of the competition, though. She was the one I voted to win and, for me, she was the best. Still a lot of maturity, feeling and soul was lacking but these are atributes you rarely see in an Oriental Dancer so I don t expect it so much.

Then I performed, feeling my muscles and head completely exhausted but HAPPY!

Audiences are always wonderful with me and that is the nicest thing about performing. People feel me, no matter what I dare to dance and I often choose "difficult" themes to dance to, instead of the crowd pleasing ones most dancers tend to pick up.

I am lucky that way. The stage loves me, it has always loved me. No matter how many backstabbing I may get from people I love, or used to love, the STAGE has never failed me as my number 1 LOVER, FRIEND, SUPPORTER. It is my HOME, indeed and I am totally comfortable at my home.

I am deeply grateful for the love I felt from that night s audience and from the students of the workshops I gave.

Dreaming about a Salsa night on the town of Miami, all I did was eat pizza with common friends from different countries and sleep a bit until my next day s workshop.

My head and body - with a major jet lag on it - never recovered.

I taught my crazy tabla solo - so hard on the students - with my head on the clouds and not quite feeling my body.

After finishing this workshops and kissing students goodbuy, I bathed and headed for the airport to return to Cairo.

Now...seriously? It is all over? Did I stay here for one day and a half, working, preparing to work and travel, and getting amused by men s unexpected beauty?!

Oh, yeah, baby. Life s full of diversity and this one is a tough cookie to crack. So, crack it.

I DID.

Returning on Delta Airlines (the worst service and food on the air!), I arrived to London one hour late and this made me loose my connection flight to Cairo.

I, originally, had two hours transit time to catch my other airplane to Cairo but, as we arrived late, I had only about 40 minutes to make a new check-in and board the new flight.

I missed it. It was impossible to make it in such a short time, no matter how much I ran the marathon at Heathrow airport. I missed it.

"No, GOOOOODDDDDDD!!!!!....."

"YES, MY DEAR RESISTENT GIRL! Oh, YES!" (says God with a sarcastic grin on his face).

I went to the assistance office and they transfered me to an Egyptair flight in the afternoon, meaning that I would be waiting in the airport for the whole day.

Should I rip off my cloth right here and yell? Should I tear up my hair and do the "boogie woogie" in a rage attack as to avoid punching any poor victim that has no fault in my dirty business?

Then a little miracle happened: I looked for a place to sit and found a fresh floor space with a view to a parking lot like any other parking lot in the world but not quite so.

I got a cappuccino from a vending machine and took off a "muffin" from my bag. Seated on the cold floor of Heathrow airport, I started to see the most nostalgic, beatiful rain pouring down in front of my eyes.

I ve never seen London s rain but now I understood why so many people say it s special.

It s because it IS special, indeed.

As it often happens to me and my childish sense of wonder, I became an open mouthed observer, following the track of the rain falling on trees, London taxis and departing and arriving.

I have no idea how long I stood there, drinking my hot cappuccino and eating my "muffin" while staring, marvelled, at my first London rain but in that moment I said out loud :

"Thank you , God. You have the strangest ways of showing me the beauty of this world but you DO show it to me. THANK YOU."

Just guessing the rain washed my exhaustion, as well as London streets. I felt like new after that and decided to go shopping at the airport which has some great shops to dig in.

Creams, perfume, book ("The Kid", by Saphire), english tea, cookies and cheese as well as local magazine which proved less than interesting (english press stinks!).

Time flew and I arrived to Egyptair airplane as a new person, not quite prepared for the costumary freezing frenzy of this airline.

I suspect there is a contest between airlines to see which one will kill its crew and passengers from freezing to death first. Egyptair wins the prize, I tell you that.

Air conditioners in Egyptair flights are always tunned with North Pole s temperature (right before global warming) and it s not strange to see wise passengers wearing snow attire in these flights.

I covered myself with two blankets and still got a tremendous cold from which I am still recovering.

Most importantly, I arrived ALIVE to Cairo and breathed deeply ONLY when I put my feet at my home.

In the end of the story, I am glad for the frenzy and the several attempts of heart attack (besides the amazing exhaustion of it all) because I, once more, shared my LOVE and ART with new people whom (I m sure) left the event with a wider, more interesting and real perspective of egyptian dance.

Grateful and happy, ready for NEW (hopefully more relaxed and obstacle-free) challenges!