No matter how much I scratched, Pepto-Bismol I swallowed, detox dieted, or even routine visited the doctor, three months later that funny feeling in my tummy was still persistent. It was in no way painful but annoying enough to make me fly all the way from London to Guadalajara. MEXICO!Of all places, I went there because that was HOME. I needed to start bringing back all the stuff and crap I had accumulated in London for 2 years, and visiting my parents is always a bliss. Yeah… So I went in the middle of last weeks of school, and mother of coincidences, the RHCP were going to play in town.
I kissed mum and dad and then straight to the phone with my friend Lululita (bless her heart)who works in one of the most respected local newspapers. For my joy and delight she tells me she covers the Events and Culture section and she's been sent to the airport to cover the arrival of the band to the city. So I kindly offer to drive her.
I try to look my best, but jetlagged and in my “I don’t brush my hair” era I really didn’t look that great as the later photos reveal…
As we drive to the airport my hands start to get sweaty cold and my stomach has an anxiety attack and I feel the urge to run to a toilet. I peed.
Well, after all my friend was as clueless as I was, and excused herself for her truly outrageous emotional damage on my persona alluding to evil-promoters'-press-ditching-mastermind-strategies. Some guy at the airport confided us that the band had arrived the previous day.
So on the show day I was up again early enough to make sure I'd be the first person in line and get the very front-middle spot. And I was.
This time around for some unusual reason I got very hungry, and when my beloved friend Paula arrived, she brought me a torta to eat and a coke to drink that I was truly grateful for, just 10 minutes before the gates opened.
I don't know what Paulita found most surprising of all, if the fact that I dragged her to her first (and maybe last?) rock concert ever (she’s more of the bohemian type) or the fact that I skipped my classes, left my boyfriend in England and flew the Atlantic to see a man for hour and a half jumping up and down on stage to the rhythm of elating melodies. Just the previous night I went for a good cold beer with her and my dearest university teacher, mentor and friend, Don Gus, and saw them giving each other looks of disbelief when I secretly confessed them I was in the country pushed by the mysterious forces of platonic love...
I can't describe what I feel at the climatic moment when the lights turn off and the music starts playing. It's magical realism, it's soulful energy tickling in the feet and ears, it is poetry for the senses, and an instant gratification for the passionate heart. I don’t think any music has ever made me feel like that before.
I looked at my friend's face the minute Mr. K walked into the stage trying to anticipate the minute she'd faint... She was JUST FINE and I was probably as shocked that she didn't faint as she was of the fact that I felt any sort of attraction towards that particular man (she’s really into older dudes I think).
We tried to go through the concert defying the force of the moshpit. This time I made sure my hair was well tight.
I was waiting to see Paula's facial expression and opinion dramatically change when the glorious moment when Mr. K. religiously takes his top off (to reveal his amazingly shaped and tattooed body) came. Strangely in a RHCP show, that moment never came and that's the only reason I could find to explain my friend's skepticism to believe she was looking at the finest man walking this Earth.
It didn't matter. For the hour and a half that the show lasted, my soul and my heart found the peace they needed. Then it was over and I was happy and smiled and thought that whatever bug had bitten me, the itching would disappear soon.
Three days later I'd be flying back to England, back to my baby's arms, finish school and then go to Argentina on holidays with him.
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