In my last post, I do believe I promised a story did I not?

I did indeed, and as such shall now parlay upon to thee, my reader an adventure the likes of which you’ve seen before: the Travelogue. I went to Seattle. Seattle? Why Seattle?

Well friends and foes alike, because there was to be a gathering of Capoistas (folk who play capoeira) the likes of which I hadn’t seen since my voyage to NY, NY. But, like all good stories that are quickly rushed to DVD, mine included a variety of bonus features, which I will indeed share.

It was a Friday night in the Pacific Northwest. The streets were full of cars and people, hopping from bar to bar, down the street they called “Broadway”. I was sitting on a concrete wall, waiting to rejoin my comrades after I had seperated from them to eat dinner with Mestre Gulliver and Mestre No, as well as the hosts of the weekends’ events, Daylen and Sayed.

It was blustery to be truthful, but I was filled with boyish excitement at the thought that I would be soon going to a speakeasy, truly the shadiest of dens of sin. Other than whorehouses. Or crack houses. Or opium dens. Ok, a place that was relatively shady. Yet, as I waited talking upon a cell to my mates and attempting to regroup, in the corner of my eye I sensed movement, my Timmy-senses tingling to full extent, my head turned to reveal an overweight, bald, white man in a plain white button up shirt and black slacks.

Simple enough, I returned to my conversation, which had taken a bizzarre turn (I suspected that my mates were either drunk or stoned, and knowing them, either could or would be the case) and as I turned my head for a view, once again, I saw the man in white, who now had begun to wave at me. Awkwardly, I jerked my head to the left looking the other direction hoping that I would see my mates come arround the corner soon. But then, as it always does, my curiosity got the best of me and I turned my head again, this time, the man leaning against a wall, smoking a ciggarette, looking at me. Upon making eye contact again, he makes the hand gesture of “currency”, or “boom boom dollars”.

Now I am roughly confused, and partially terrified, and ask my friends quite directly where we should meet up. They tell me to meet them at the interesection of Broadway and Pine (not important, I assure you) and I leap off the wall, walking briskly to my left, far from the gentleman in white.

Several blocks later I find a pair of police officers standing duty on a corner, at which point I ask for the intersection my mates had named. He looks at me quizzicly and then points in the opposite direction from whence forth I’d come and tells me that it’s several blocks in the opposite direction. My stomach turned. I’d once again cross paths with the man in white.

As I ran back to the intersection, everything was going well until I heard the words “HEY, D’You have plans tonight?”

I turned and asked “Who, Me?”

“Yeah, do you have plans tonight?” he gestured the money symbol again.

“Um… Yes, I’m meeting some friends, I’m sorry.”

As I turned to begin running again I heard: “Are you gay?”

“What me??”

“Yeah, are you gay?”

“No, Sorry?” And I continued running until I had reached the corner in question and waited pensively for my friends, fearful that once more I would see the man in white.

So that’s the story. I waited for 20 minutes in downtown Seattle and was propositioned for sex. It was an amazing trip.

I’m not even joking.

More stories?

I’ve got one other that’s of worth for telling at this point. OH, and a word of advice? FUCK THE Las Vegas Airport. IT SUCKS. FOR REALSIES. Cincinnatti has a better airport. Yeah. That’s right. It’s that bad.