Part One: The Terrible Journey into the Desert (and back)

WARNING: I suggest you get comfortable. If you have read with any thoroughness up to this point in my blog, you will know that I love to tell a story and I nurse a hankering fetish for embellishing every detail with a single-bristled brush. Get comfortable, because what has happened to me over the past couple of months could be turned into a movie, or worse... I will never be the same person again after this.

My fingertips don't even know how to begin recounting this tale. The keyboard is an old friend, but we have a lot of catching up to do. In the days since my miraculous return we have been exchanging a lot of averted glances, awkward topics, changed subjects, and little white lies told between fond greetings of homecoming.

Lucid English: how I've yearned to hear thee and speak with thee for so long. A conversation from here to the end of the earth is what I would have if only I had a friend close enough to spill it with.

The Desert. I thought I loved it before. Now, I could die happy if I knew I would never see another grain of sand for as long as I lived. What a terrible place. And what fierce people it breeds. I think they eat weakness for breakfast. The desert is a place that can kill you without vicious animals or poison plants. But just for fun, they have those too. In the Jungle, life can hide amid the living tapestry all around. In the desert, life is an island under attack.

Minneapolis: a fine place. I have enjoyed it since moving here, and had no REAL intention of leaving it for good. It just kind of looked like I would never see it again.

Chicago: A town that seemed harmless enough. I underestimated how much of a CITY it is. It's the kind of place I see Minneapolis wanting to be more like, if only it would just listen to me - "PLEASE, for the love of God - remain as you are! Don't ever grow up! Stay this size, this population, this very low degree of criminality, of evil.

I KNOW! I can't tell a story this way. Not the "whole story" at least. This is a good warm up for me though. Just listing the major elements individually without putting them in close enough proximity to cause flashbacks.

THE STORY WILL BEGIN HOW MOST OF MY STORIES (big or small) WILL PROBABLY BEGIN...

So I was in a club one night. This one felt different, even though it was absolutely the same. People think that all the clubs in town have addresses and neon signs of their own - that simply isn't true. People think that those who go to clubs are going there to be seen - this also is a journey from the truth. Some clubs in town exist for people to hide from the light of day, and do what could be considered either the epitome of dancing or the total opposite of it. (forgive me for being so dramatically contrary. It just feels appropriate.)

A dance is a social exchange wherein two or more people interact physically with one another using meticulously studied and practiced repetitions to be performed and reacted to in harmony. A partner dance usually consists of two people; a leader and a follower. A man and a woman. To perform the dance, the leader must spend a considerable amount of time before hand, studying and coordinating ones actions to the movements of a partner to learn how to manipulate the steps and subsequent movement enacted by their union with grace and ease.

What I learned was that not all dances require feet and coordination. Some people dance with words. They simmer a cinnamon butter of sweet deceit across your lips and in your ears until they see you float from your chair. Till your eyes hang heavy with trust and lust and handfuls of fairy dust.

Have you ever handled clay? When you first remove it from the gross soggy bag, it's hard. It's like corpse skin. Rigid and unyielding. Yet, do we not have masterful urns, vases, and sculptures? Physical proof that there are people out there patient enough to sit there and knead every bit of hesitance out of that clay until it becomes exactly what they want it to be.

Where was I going with all this? Oh yes. Dance clubs. SECRET dance clubs. The kind you have to be invited to. And if you get there, you must be hosted by a member, or opt for your own membership, which they may or may not extend to you. And if they extend you this membership, you had better have a four digits in your pocket to drop without blinking an eye. But - as we of the 'fairer sex' are accustomed to, sometimes a seemingly valiant gentleman will step down from his white steed to offer to cover the brunt and hassle of a large expense for you for a chance at your good favor.

It was nighttime, and this fancy guy I had met at a wine bar in October had picked me up at my place in a towncar limousine and promised me a lovely night. I wasn't sure where we were going, because when I asked, he said it was a club I had never heard of before. I said something to the effect of "yeah? try me." thinking that I had a pretty healthy lush's knowledge of the city's bar and club scene. When the driver opened my door, I looked up upon a building I frankly didn't recognize, although it seemed to be pretty close to downtown or the warehouse district. We walked through a rather nondescript street level door down some elegant stairs to a sultry womb of red velvet, rich leather, and mirror glossed black marble everything. My jacket was taken and hanger'd before I could even say, "thanks." We were moments from being shown inside - when the maitre'd held things up and ungraciously handed a card back to my date (who I am referring to with intentional anonymity in hopes of un-writing him from this blog, because I think he was a sleaze to begin with.) and said something like "I'm sorry sir, there is a problem with your membership. Thank you for visiting us this evening."

He got embarrassed fast. Clearly he was bringing me to this place to show me a good time and spend some money on alcohol and maybe some food to try and impress me, but he had ended up making an absolute fool of himself on accident. (More on him later.) I turned to him and tried to show that all the pomp and expenditure really wasn't necessary and that it was cool if we just went somewhere else. There were a lot of other fancy places in town if he wanted to impress me, but honestly - he could have taken me to psycho suzi's and just picked up the tab at the end and I would have liked him all the same. But as I was trying my best to bandage his pride and be fine with everything, he pulled out his iphone and was calling a cab, and wouldn't even look at me or turn towards me or acknowledge me in any way! I touched his shoulder in hopes he would just turn around, but nope. He confirmed the address with the cabbie, and walked out the door with a curt little "Thank you" which I wasn't sure was directed towards me or the maitre'd in some pathetic attempt to save face. I was disgusted, and now rather embarrassed myself.

I turned back toward the coatroom man and shrugged my shoulders saying "I suppose I need my jacket back please."

That's when I first heard the voice. "Miss? Excuse me, Miss?" I turn around to see the source of those satin words. It was a gorgeous middle-eastern man, who was gorgeous in the way that only the ancient and mysterious east can produce. His suit must have cost as much as my home. Not that I'm entirely shallow, but I took him very seriously. He mentioned with utter humility that he had overheard the scene that had just gone down and asked very graciously if I would like to join him at his table. I was struck with that social pause that holds your tongue a moment or two before answering someone - even if you already know the answer will be "Yes."

I sat down at his table as he explained that he had just been at the club tonight to meet a business associate for drinks & business chat. I had found him, NO; he had found me at just the right moment. It seemed like fate. Coincidence. What's the difference. Opportunity is opportunity, and opportunists reach out and grab it when they see it.

God... this is going to be harder to write than I thought. I'm going to have to quit right here for the night and collect myself before trying to go further with this thing. I'm sorry. It's hard to type when your fingers keep forming fists and your teeth try to grind each other down.

Well tune in next time for a continuing tale of international first class flights, lies, champagne, Arabian oil palaces, human trafficking, sex slavery, and a daring escape that would put James Bond to shame. Shames Bond.