Chapter 184

Up at 9, the capoeira workshops were scheduled to start at 10:30 but the venue is far away. Some of my compadres had a coffee next door to the hotel, then we piled into taxis and went northeast, all the way to a modern art museum where they had rented a big room. Of course there was a shurgwaydinger posted at the entrance of the complex, and he made the most perfunctory attempt at making us wear fayssah mursks, mumbling without conviction and not doing anything when I just walked past.

We had one practice session taught by a Brazilian who teaches capoeira in Chengdu, then lunch break. The Amazonian and I had Subway, which got us sideways glances and condescending smirks of disdain from those who went to an uppity-looking brunch place. Whatever, my meal cost one third of what they paid, and it was ready in a few minutes.

Then more capoeira, and a roda that lasted two hours. One thing I dislike a bit about capoeira is how everything is centered around the roda, in which only two people are playing, a few are playing music, and everyone else is just sitting around watching. If whenever I go play badminton they’d just have two people on one court and everyone just waiting for their turn, I just wouldn’t go. Yeah, I get it, a big roda can be a lot of fun and a lot of energy, but I end up getting bored after an hour of playing for a short amount of time and then getting bought out just to wait on the sidelines for it to be my turn again.

Then we had an organized dinner in a neighboring restaurant. The whole area is an art district, some buildings are soulless rectangular hunks of metal and glass but there are alleys with old houses covered in graffiti and colorful murals. We were there a bit ahead of time, as the organizers had allowed a block on one hour and a half for people who wanted to go to their hotels and change. A capoeirista named Doutora and I went to a microbrewery around the corner and had a nice craft brew. Some capoeira nicknames are funny or mildly insulting or just descriptive, she got hers because she is a neurologist.

The microbrewery was frequented by Chinese hipsters, two guys were fighting with practtice swords outside. I was curious, and when I walked closer they asked me if I want to try. So I put on the helmet and the gloves and grabbed my sword. It was padded but it still hurt quite a bit when you’d get clipped. I tried a bit but then it was time to go.

Dinner was pretty spectacular, it was in a Yunnanese restaurant and the food was served in small piles on banana leaves. We ate with our hands, rolling balls of sticky rice and dipping it or wrapping it around the meat, tofu or other weird mixtures. The method and flavor profile reminded me a bit of Thailand. Then we went to the after-party bar, which was the same microbrewery we had just been to. Beers were downed, samba and salsa were danced, asses were slapped, and we had a nice percussion jam going, that ended up in a drunken roda. The Amazonian and I had developed some kind of inside joke in which we just produce the most nonsensical sentences but keep on carrying the conversation, to confuse everyone. “This shirt really fits a nice day” “Well it is Saturday after all, you know broccoli is a plant, right? And so is Billie Eilish.” “Flanel is worn by hipsters, who also like PBR” Doutora was listening to us, trying to make any sense out of it, but at that point she was rather inebriated. One Brazilian guy asked me to help her type in Chinese on her phone because she was too drunk, and now she was panicking because her mother was imploring her to come home. Yes, she’s a doctor, highly educated, having lived in Germany and traveling a bunch, but she’s still treated like a child by her helicopter mom.

The Venezuelan, meanwhile, was still on his mission. On the way to the toilet I saw him in an isolated corner of the bar with a hot capoeirista from Chengdu he had his eyes on (and, well, every hetero male would also have his eyes on her if she walks in any room), lying on a carpet, having a romantic talk. Later he emerged, I assumed the position of a baseball pitcher and asked if he’d made it to first base. “Strike out” was the answer, and we had to explain the baseball metaphors to the guys there from non-baseball countries.

I was falling asleep, so the Uzbek-Korean and I took a cab back. I took a quick shower and fell into a coma.