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November 18, 2008 / Kate

Holy Cross!

We went to Santa Cruz last week for one night because I needed some new armpit hair extensions, and that’s the best place to find them.

We stayed in our friend Linnea’s beach shack on a farm. In Santa Cruz, you can have beach and farm merging into one. That’s a pretty damn nice way to go.

Those of you who know us well know that we are incredible snobs. We are food/wine/coffee/pastry/meat/anything SNOBS. Whenever we go to a city, we run tests on the things we like to snob about. We hit the wine shops (two decent ones in Santa Cruz), we do several pastry runs (thumbs up Santa Cruz!), we sceptically order coffee (BOO Santa Cruz! I want my 12 dollars back! (I tried coffee in several places and it was all burnt and terrible)). Linnea and Mari took us to a wonderful restaurant that exceeded our standard of deliciousness.

While wandering around downtown, we played, “Homeless? or Hippie?” and never could decide. There were a lot of young, able bodied people in ripped clothing asking for handouts on the sidewalks. There were many people without shoes on who had formed large, shoe-like callouses on their feet. There was also a lot of loud, off key singing on the sidewalks.

Mari talked me into attending her “Zumba” dance class the morning after our arrival. She coerced me into agreement after my third glass of wine at the delicious restaurant. It seemed like a GREAT idea that evening, but when I walked into the studio, I realized that it was going to be a humiliating experience. The dance class was like a more joggly and Shakira-y version of a Jazzercise situation. Keith smiled sweetly from the observation window, clutching a warm cup of tea while I attempted to wiggle and hop my way through one vaguely Latin song after another.

My body is IRISH. It is meant to move to the same whiny, repetitive tone in a properly stiff manner. The only thing jiggling and bouncing should be my neat and tidy CURLS. My body does not understand that hips have the potential to move on their own. The tiny, ancient Philipino man in the front row was better at shaking what his (presumably tiny and ancient, Philipina) Mama gave him. My favorite dance classmate that morning was another man in the front row, however. He was a 70 something Don Juan type. Incredibly buff, with an enthusiasm for Afro-Latin dance like none other. He was better than the cheerleader teacher! He knew the butt shakes and the hip thrusts like the back of his chiseled hand.

In conclusion: I am snobbish. In summary: I would visit Santa Cruz again.


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