On the Various Insecurities of the Perpetual Traveler
“YOU DANCE LIKE AN ANIMAL!” he growled at me through gold teeth and an accent heavy as lead. At first I smiled, a dumb wide-eyed gape, thinking he meant it in a primordial, ferocious way. Like I danced like a goddamn tiger would if it was bipedal and moved by the sounds of Midnight Oil’s “Beds Are Burning.”
He shook his head, clasped my shoulder, and laughed, “No, no, you dance like shit!” And just like that the confident winds and homemade wine that had pushed me onto the stage of an Eastern Bloc nightclub rolled back, replaced with the sobering flush of shame.