It's like college but not. Woke up at 3 (and that was early), showered, had a cupaccino and my first Sherman Mint of the day. Had a Bloody Mary and another cigarette for breakfast, chilled and chatted by the pool, blogged, ate a mesclun salad with mozarella and tomatoes for dinner. We left the hotel at 9:30 pm.
Watched the legendary Paul Van Dyk. We squeezed our way through the all-ages (actually more like under-aged) crowd. I have to admit, although I'm no lover of trance, Paul sure knows how to work the crowd.
Yeah yeah yeah, I know, not exactly my usual *thing*, but gimme a break, a girl's allowed to want some sun, warmth & part-AAY...
South Beach. The usual suspects are just as I had imagined here. Old cuban taxi cabis, weathered and leathery in their white embroidered habana shirts, drive languidly in low-rider cadillacs. Richly tan Latino women cruise around in convertibles, decorated with flowing black curly hair and long acrylic nails.
Latino muscle-bound men (the no neck, pumped upper body kind) with wife-beaters strut along next to their tourist counterparts - white dudes with large arms and small waists in pink polo shirts with the collar turned up. Friends are still passed out from the night before, and the rest are still in transit. So, with creamy frozen cappucino in hand, I stroll onto the beach to check out the scene. This is about as much time I spent at the beach all weekend...
People-wise, it's like Jamaica but not...
Look and feel-wise, it's like Burning Man but not...
College girls on spring break.
The air hangs in mid-breath, warm and humid. Perfect for a refreshing Shermant mint at the pool.
It's like college but not.
Like college...six to a room, party till dawn, watch the sunrise, go to sleep in the morning, then do it all over again. There's the requisite 'pre-party in the room' prior to hitting the clubs.
But not...instead of drinking 40s, at dawn, now it's drinking Grey Goose vodka straight from the bottle (not me of course), at dawn. Instead of hiding in the speakers or sitting on the nasty-ass ground at 1015 Folsom (which, by the way, is a tourist destination club), now it's table service.
Friday Night - Spundae party at Green Lounge. We trekked out to the design district (aka warehouse area), where the locals go. I was impressed by a good-looking & well-dressed crowd in a swank, outdoor bar - complete w/ bamboos and a tiki-style grass hut.
It was crowded and hot, thank gawd (actually thank Dave!) for table service. We left around 4 a.m., and like true college kids, partied some more in the room before going out to watch the sunrise.
Just when you think you can't push the limits anymore, you somehow manage to push it a little further. And the irony is, the older you get, the more extreme the limits.
...never faint in a phone booth, or in my case, in the bathroom on an airplane. I was actually not dreading my red-eye back to nyc because I was in the first-class cabin, and was ready to for a few hours of good sleep as I had only gotten five hours the night before.
After a doze, light snack and movie, I went to the bathroom, and while washing my hands, suddenly felt nauseous - and remembered thinking how strange that I suddenly felt nauseous. Then I blacked out and crumpled to the floor.
Not sure how much time passed, probably only a few seconds, I was conscious of being barely conscious, and struggling to keep conscious. I remember feeling scared, because I couldn't make myself move, and I couldn't figure out where I was or what I was doing. Finally, I realized I was sitting on the floor in an airplane bathroom, pulled myself up to the sink, and pushed open the door.
I mumbled to the stewardess, "..fainting...need sugar...orange juice..." The stewardess jumped up and got orange juice in a flash. Luckily, there was a doctor on the plane (someone else in the back of the plane had fainted earlier!) and they brought him over.
I felt nauseous, had blurred vision, and experienced sweating, heart palpatations, shortness of breathe and a ghostly complexion (so I am told). He asked me a few questions, nodding calmly, and finally said, "You have low blood pressure and have experienced an episode, probably because you've been dehydrated, sitting too long and got up too quickly."
Apparently the 'cure' is to lie down with legs propped up - good to know. I eventually regained color and felt calmer, but started shivering and still felt nauseous. (too much damn orange juice)
Not only did I not get to enjoy my comfy first-class seat, I spent the better portion of the flight lying down on the floor of the steward area, with legs propped up.
I threw up twice in the plane, and once on the car ride home. Ughs. I hadn't really slept at all on the flight, and by the time I got home, was completely DEPLETED - in every sense of the word. Brushing my teeth and sleep never felt so good.
The only thing I've eaten in the last two days since then is bread with nutella, bread with hummus, kashi crunch cereal with soy milk, and a soy patty. And, I slept twelve hours last night.
Lessons learned - eat more salty foods, do foot exercises and remember to drink v-8 (salt) & water on flights. Oye.
I was woken up FIVE times last night - four times by the jackass that lives next door.
The first was a dripping that sounded more like rain falling from the bathroom ceiling. I thought, "Oh lord, PLEASE don't let the bathroom ceiling cave in on me. AGAIN. (that's another story for the telling)" I tip-toed out, half expecting to see a gaping hole and the night sky, but only saw that the smoke alarm and some alarm-like contraption in the bathroom were both dripping buckets of water. UGHS. I kick the waste basket under the drip and go back to bed.
Then, an hour later, I get woken up again by incessant pounding on the door and whining. The jackass was drunk and yelling, "I closed a deal for 500K! I closed a 500K deal!" My roommate yelled back "We don't care. Go away! Shut up!" The jackass slurs and whines some more, "Please. Please acknowledge. Please." What a jackass. This happens two more times. The jackass starts blasting horrible 80's music, or something. At which point I wake up. AGAIN. (third time if you are keeping track) Then, another resident comes stomping down and bams her fists on his door, and curses him & his music out, "What do I need to get you stop blasting your music at 4 in the fucking morning?!?! Your music is so loud it's SHAKING MY WALLS, SHAKING I SAID." The jackass whimpers, "Ok ok it's off, I'm turning it off." (fourth and fifth times)
Meanwhile, I'm on with 311, and while the operator is taking my info to get the police to come, the music stops. damn, too late.
I, in my usual passive-aggresive way, write a note and slip it under his door in the morning as I leave for work. What I wanted to do was pound on his door until he woke up, then yell at him. But of course, this is what I said in a note: "PLEASE don't EVER knock on our door at 4 a.m. EVER again. We feel like shit this morning thanks to you. 4b"
