Why Am I Wearing My Mama’s Shoes?

I should be ashamed of myself. The phrase “shop till you drop” does not apply to me because I’m still standing. But, then again, this hotel room is small, and not by any stretch of the imagination even close to the standard suite size I’m used to staying in, in the States. But, if this were, say, a typical woman’s side of a California walk-in closet (which is pretty much what it feels like), it would probably be close to full. It’s wall-to-wall hatboxes, garment and shopping bags, so many that I actually have to brush my way through a sea of tissue paper just to get to the bathroom.

How am I going to get all this shit home? I have to save the pretty bags for Mama, because she collects them. She brags (and, from what I gather, sometimes even lies) to her bowling buddies that she’s shopped in these stores, but mostly she carries them like an extra purse to draw attention, because not only do they come in such an amazing assortment of colors, but the embossed name screams out that it’s not from any store in Vegas.

I kick one of the hatboxes so that the top flips off. When I see orange, I actually giggle. I can’t even remember buying an orange hat, but I don’t care right now because I’ve had so much fun these past five days I can hardly stand it. Everyone’s been so gracious and hospitable. They’re all ethnically diverse chefs and restaurateurs, and they certainly know how to cook—in every sense of the word. I’ve eaten East, West, and South African food; East Indian dishes like I’ve never tasted anywhere; the spiciest, tangiest, most sensuous Jamaican fare ever, and some of the meals were prepared in private homes! I even got a chance to taste authentic Vietnamese food, although over here they call it “Eurasian”—which makes no sense to me, but it was better than any Pan-Pacific food I’d ever had.

Last night, Bernard, a Grenadian chef, took me to some nightclub where half-dressed men and women danced in cages that hung from the ceiling. The music was thumping and I wore this “slutty” hot-pink dress I bought on Sloane Street with a pair of FM pumps that I know Charlotte would just die for. I danced so hard and long that I finally had to take them off. That was at four o’clock this morning. It felt good dancing like a madwoman. I felt like I was twenty-five again. I need to get out more often. It didn’t take me all night to realize that. And I vowed to do just that when I get home. Once a month: go dancing. Even if I have to go by myself !

As I sit here in this yellow, white, and blue floral room, it feels like I’m waking up from a dream. I’ve spent a ton of money, done some real damage, but I enjoyed every minute of it. At home, I never splurge. Always trying to do what makes sense. For some reason I don’t understand, I didn’t feel like holding back.