Some Things Never Change...

I don't know what I did right in a past life, but in the last week two different people had barbecue parties. This might not sound like something amazing to you, but lets consider my normal dinner- rice. Oh, and some vegetables to put on the rice. So when I am invited to a party which revolves around a big, meat-cooking grill, it becomes a near-spiritual event. Two in one week is unheard of... Both were immaculate, and I ate roughly three paper-plate-fulls of food each time. However, the first one is notable, for reasons I shall explain.

This first BBQ was a going-away party for a Tanzanian friend who is studying at the University of Maryland. It was a little awkward at first because she had invited her family and their friends, but also us white folks, and we ended up forming two distinct groups. One circle of chair for the foreigners, one for the locals. Kind of like at junior high dances... But once the meat was thrown onto the grill, we began to intermingle. That is the power of a BBQ, it erases cultural boundaries with its universality.

Being a member of the male sex, I immediately walked over to watch the technique of the guy working the BBQ. Even here, men cluster around the grill with their arms crossed, nodding to one another. I was pretty impressed to see that they don't use spatulas here to flip the meat. The guy was using his bare hands, and all of a sudden I felt all my manliness retreat to a safer place. The food was awesome, they cooked huge goat ribs, some beef slab thing, some pork slab thing, and of course, burgers. Here is my only gripe- the burgers were not...well, big. I know what you are thinking, but let me be honest- if you get a bun which is four inches in diameter, and then you get a burger which is two inches in diameter, you feel like something is missing. You feel like the rest of your burger has been stolen away to the land of missing socks. These were smaller than White Castle sliders..! Again, I wish I would've had a camera so I could capture how...cute these burgers looked (for reference, a burger should never be 'cute'). I'd take it with me more often, but the only easy way to carry it is a belt holder which looks suspiciously like a fanny-pak. I'm not secure enough to feel confident in wearing that.

But back to the BBQ, where we'd all had a couple beers and a dance party began. It started with traditional Tanzanian music from the 60s, which was cool but didn't inspire me to get down. What was interesting to watch was, as the night wore on, our host started putting more and more American-style music on. This caused the Tanzanians to dance less and less, and us to dance more and more. I suppose the turning point of dance-floor supremacy had to be "Dancing Queen" by ABBA, that was when we really took over. To my delight, the next song after that was none other than "Like a Prayer".

I should digress here for a moment and explain my torrid relationship with this song. I don't really know how or when it came up, but for the last year or so of my living in Seattle, "Like a Prayer" became an anthem for a group of us. There were times when I drove through campus singing it at the top of my lungs with the windows down (yes, that was with Ivan, no surprises there). But I suppose it really culminated with the final summer before I came here. That guy Davis who doesn't know the metric system, he and I began singing it as a duet at karaoke nights. No matter how good the person who sang before us was, I have to say that we tended to rock the house. Probably just due to the ridiculousness of it, but thats ok. In fact, just a few weeks ago I wrote Davis saying that I miss the days of Madonna. I've talked about throwing a karaoke party here, and my friends always ask what I'd sing. Obviously, "Like a Prayer" is my answer.

So I imagine our collective surprise when that very song came on. At this point only us white folks and the lady whose party it was were dancing. As soon as the word "God..." came on, everyone turned and looked at me, with expressions like "well, here it is, prove that you love this song." Out of the habits that I never thought would follow me to Tanzania, being ridiculous to "Like a Prayer" was pretty high on the list. How wrong I was. Man, I think I became 'Riverdance' resurrected just to dance for that one song. The Tanzanians were all sitting in a semicircle, so I walked right up to middle, started belting out the words and then when the beat dropped, I got down. They seemed shocked or frightened at first, but at the end, they were all cheering and clapping. I call it the Madonna Effect.

You know the amazing thing? I wasn't even drunk.