OK, OK HERE GOES...

Probably best to start with my birthday, as I can't remember exact events before then, and hell, birthdays are generally fun to talk about.

So on Thursday, the evening of my birthday, my roommates and I went out to dinner at one of Quito's coolest bars. We basically sat around at the place until midnight, at which point they sleepily sang happy birthday to me and then we left and drove home, during which time I fell asleep in the car (embarassing photos to prove it.) This how I know I'm getting old: I can barely stay awake for my own birthday.

Friday my boss threw a housewarming party at her new pad as well as a celebration of my birthday (it started at 8:00 pm thank god!) Burritos were made by a coworker's scrupulous Danish boyfriend (you shoulda seen the way he hacked at those unripe avocados.) Wine was passed around, more wine was passed around. Coworkers, house mates and friends arrived. A cake was put in the oven, baked inside a cat-shaped tin. After a few drinks the cat cake was named the Pussy Cake, and the Pussy Cake provided hours of entertainment throughout the various stages of it's being baked. The following content is unsuitable for children, though all children like cake, so what can ya do.

As the cake baked, first it was wet Pussy, then hot Pussy, then firm Pussy, then, when covered in thin frosting, dripping Pussy. Somehow this never got old. And yes, when the cake was ready, everyone ate some Pussy, though not before my face was shoved right into the Pussy cake (tradition.) Photos of said Pussy cake are also to come.

In short it was a grand celebration, and at around 10:00 p.m. a bunch of us said our goodbyes, kissed everyone in the room on the cheek, and headed to the bus station, for we were taking an overnight bus to Guayaquil, a city in the south, to see the one-time reunion tour concert of Soda Stereo, a hugely famous Argentine band that broke up in 1997. Dozens of buses heading to Guayaquil were in the station, teenagers swarming inside of them, singing songs, giving each other shit. During the course of the long overnight bus ride, I would routinely wake up, remember the Pussy cake, chuckle to myself, then pass out again.

In the morning, groggy, rough, unbrushed teeth, we made it to Guayaquil, where it was warm and cloudy, and where we had a hostel booked but hadn't taken the address. We stumbled around a bit, got on a bus where very loud music blasted us awake, and realized we were heading in the wrong direction. Off the bus, back on our feet, we landed at the Hilton Hotel, where their glorious bathrooms were used, their glorious buffet breakfast ogled, their glorious clean pool pined for, and where, consequently the above mentioned band was staying at. Using only the charm that a dirty, tired white backpacker girl has in the Hilton (a mix of intrigue and pity) I was able to get one of the Hilton guys to find out the address for our much less appetizing hotel, and then we were out the door and off in a cab, towards a very seedy part of town.

Our hotel was called Delicious, though I'm sure you can already predict that it was not. Still, the entire city was booked, full of Soda fans from Quito, from all over the country, and we were lucky we had a place to stay at all. It was three of us staying here, in a room with red polyester curtains (the kind you'd take off the window and drape over your shoulders to be superman for Halloween,) a toilet with no seat, a fan that whirred noisily over a bare lightbulb, giving the room a dizzying strobe-light effect. When you opened the curtains you were greeted by the welcoming sight of a brick wall with a large rusty air conditioner attached. It should be obvious that there was no hot water.

We left our things at Delicious and headed out for sightseeing and dinner with a large group of friends of friends, then off to the concert, which took place in a huge soccer stadium, and which, I read in the paper the next morning, would hold 40,000 people that night. Alcohol was forbidden inside the stadium and so all around it the streets were covered in bottles, in wrappers of all kinds. We arrived late, and inside, every inch of the stadium was taken. We made a human chain, maybe 10 of us, and started snaking and pushing our way towards the center of the field. Once there, everyone is abuzz, expectant, looking longingly towards the empty stage. We wait. A cover band comes on stage and plays "We don't need no education." We wait some more. There are apparently some technical difficulties, as none of the 6 huge screens meant to let people have a glimpse of the band are working. 40,000 relatively sober fans begin to become antsy. We ask ourselves how long we will wait, at what point will the first impetuous onlooker leave the stadium angrily. We begin to take ridiculous photos of each other, of strangers around us. We sit on the ground, gossip about work, consider the moon, which is huge and yellow, shining right above the highest seats in the stadium. There is a yawn or two, blinking that lingers longer than it should.

The lights shut off suddenly, the moon is at its brightest, a guitar chord reverberates in the stadium and pushes everyone to their feet, hands in the air, mouths screaming. Soda Stereo begins to play. The screens turn on slowly, one by one, until finally everyone can see something, even if its just one guitarist's forhead or another's left ear. Friends climb up each other's shoulders. Cellphones are pulled out, held in the air, lighters for the new millennium. In front of us are a large group of guys who despite their machismo bravado, can't seem to stop clutching each other once the music starts. Hands remain permanently on shoulders, a kind of huddle/hug we can't be part of.

Surprisingly, despite the size of the stadium, there are many songs in which the crowd is tranquil, and you can feel that same expectancy in the air -- they are waiting for the song they know the words to, the song that is on the radio so frequently. If you close your eyes you could be in a small room, listening to good music on a great stereo. The band is great but doesn't put any effort into riling up the crowd -- this is a reunion tour after all, they don't need new fans.

Finally they play the song that 40,000 people have been waiting for, and again cellphones go in the air, blue lights like stars, fists raised, hips shake, this is what we came here for. It is an amazing finale and we slip out of the stadium before we are trampled.

(10:00 pm, so tired, have not started my Spanish homework yet--what else is new-- but must keep going, will at least finish telling about the concert weekend, will write more this week.)

So here we are, three of us again, outside of the stadium, bladders full, looking for a place to pee in the middle of nowhere when we notice a large neon glowing sign for Juniors, a bar across the street. We hurry across the street and try to push open the door but find it locked. Out of nowhere appear three guys, one with a key. "It's a club" the keyholder says with a little smile. "Fine" we say, "can we use the bathroom?" "Sure," he says, still chuckling, and unlocks the door. Amanda, a coworker, is in front, then I, and in back is Lorena, also a coworker. We rush in, past little tables full of talking men, through a hallway towards where we imagine the bathroom to be, but simultaneously in front of us we see an upside-down naked woman, wrapping herself around a pole, bathed in bluish fluorescent light. Amanda stops short, then I, then Lorena, a train wreck of naivety, there's some yelping, I decide it's fine, we'll just walk past the stripper to the bathroom, but the others are already running out the door and outside the keyholder and his posse are laughing, laughing at us as we push past them briskly down the street.

We walk one block, find another bar with a locked door. "Is this another club?" Amanda asks the keyholder here knowingly. "Yes," he says, with the same smirk we recieved at Junior's. Our bladders decide we have to go in, we'll stick together, it will be fine. We walk inside but this time there are no tables, no pole, no dancer even. It's just a room, dark, with flashing strobe lights, empty save for a man or two lurking in each of the corners. We run to the bathroom, all of us get in, we lock the door. Amanda pees ("Don't look!") while Lorena and I discuss our gameplan. I tell her to get out the hotel keys, instruct her that when we leave the bathroom we are going to run for the door, and if anyeone approaches us she is to stab them in the eye with our keys. I find my eyelash curler in my bag, not as effective as the keys but anything jabbing your eyes is relatively effective. They think I am crazy, but I'm from New York and I like to have a plan. Amanda is not worried about being attacked by shrouded men in corners, she's just afraid they are going to make her dance ("Dance Amanda, Dance!" we'll joke for weeks to come, saying it in a preposterous British accent that has nothing to do with anything.) We don't even use the bathroom, just open the door and run for the door, weapons in hand. Lorena makes it out first. I run by bang my leg against a speaker and end up limping out the door, Amanda doesn't see the speaker either and hobbles out the door as well. Once outside, keys and eyelash curlers are replaced in bags, and we get in a cab and head for the bars. It's time for a drink.

Alright, I think thats all for tonight... more tomorrow!