Sometimes, there’s no escaping the cultured.
What I can put down as my worst moment was being mistaken for someone culturally-sensitive. And being led by my hosts to a neighbourhood cultural centre to watch a performance of Thai classical dance.
They could have taken me downtown to jazz clubs, strip bars, KFC…any place other than to a performance of classical dance.
My mother was a dancer, but I cannot lie. I hate dance. Because I do not understand why placing the index and ring finger atop the thumb and drawing it across the eye signifies a deer being chased through the woods by a handsome hunter who goes on to abstain from sexual advances until the performance is well into its 13th hour.
You cannot contemplate rumpy-pumpy with lap dancers either but that’s because the moralistic bouncers will beat you; from here to intensive care.
Just when I was about to break off bilateral relations with my hosts and make a run for it, two children ran onto and across the stage.
They bumped into the lethargic performers. Two of whom fell on each other, softly.