Last weekend was pretty filled, with lots to recap, but more on all that later, because as so many things in my life, I’m still trying to remember all the things from the weekend before.
It’s been a new time for me; lots of changes, career path, and the new ways I’m going to fill my days (but a lot more on this later), but in a time when the only certain thing is the uncertainty of the day, there is one thing I can count on. My weekends.
The last weekend in March was spent singing Whitney Houston with my bestie at Sing Sing, and catching the premiere of Hunger Games on a breezy Saturday with my girlfriends.
Saturday night, however, was a departure from your typical night out. We started this much anticipated evening at the newly revamped Son Cubano, which I had been dying to check out. We noshed on drinks, and small plates, but by the time the place really got cooking, around 11, when the tables in the middle clear out, and it becomes a salsa dance floor, we had to salsa our way out the door, right next door to Sleep No More.
This interactive, eyes wide shut, meets Macbeth, meets the Shining, meets interpretive dance troupe has a million and one fans, backers, critics, and devotees. Some love it, some hate it. I went in not knowing much, and completely mystified. Half terrified I was going to be taken away and put into a dark room, and admittedly half excited at the prospect, I went in with an open mind, and closed eyes.
There’s not much I can say after that, except it’s best to go check it out for yourself. I don’t want to sway anyone for good, or bad, but I will say my favorite part of the evening was when I got caught up in my own moment, and subsequently mistaken for part of the ominous cast. “Is this like part of the showww?”, I heard some girl yell out to her friend, and as I cracked up with laughter, and we ran out of the room, I couldn’t help but think perhaps I should have gone along with the rouse.
The next day over my favorite brunch of eggs benedict with arepas at Yuca Bar; our Sleep No More masks already hours retired, I realized that the last 2 days had been quite a contrast of events. From belting out karaoke at St Marks place, to seeing the world wide phenomenon of Hunger Games, to then wearing a creepy mask in a huge abandoned warehouse watching weird shit go down in front of 30 other people wearing the same masks, and now sitting here at the Sunday island institution of brunch.
On the island of Manhattan, back to back randomness like that isn’t really that atypical or random. It’s just called the weekend.
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