It’s about noon and I’m sitting in the back of a small Hyundai going approximately 70 mph through heavy traffic in Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic. My sister Liz and I are being driven to a Budget location in the center of the city to rent a car. The trip was a spontaneous idea formed by my sister and was brought to my attention one Wednesday through a text message. When I received it, it was perfect timing, because coincidentally she wanted to go during the same week as my fall break. And I sure did need the vacation.
Since I arrived on Thursday, I constantly questioned everything that I first experienced.
One. Two. Three. Four.
One hundred. Two hundred. Three hundred. Four-hundred.
I was counting the steps to bachata — a style of music native to the country — and counting the money and my Dominican dollars. Both were failing miserably.
Fast-forward to that night when my sister and I are driving, feverishly searching for the notorious Venezuela Avenue. We didn’t know how to get there, and the hotel map was futile against the constant twist, turns and round-abouts that ruled the city. Eventually we made it. The street was covered in lights and trash, food and persistent vendors, and women and men adorned in tight fitting clothing and doused in perfume and cologne. The sight was not far from an image of a nightclub in New York.
The club, called Drink, was smoky and crowded. Music blared across the entire room, and after awhile, the sound became muffled by the numbness of my ear canals. But it didn’t matter — no es importa. The bass in the songs was clear enough where my body naturally found its rhythm, and in that small moment I experienced something that had been missing from my life since childhood. Pure, uninhibited fun. I was happy, and my happiness was not fueled by a material item, nor by alcohol or another controlled substance.
During my brief moment of enjoyment, I felt a burst of heat on my back, and in the corner of my eye I saw orange and yellow lights.
Oh my God, there’s a fire behind me. Wait. There’s a fire behind me!
I jerk around to see the club bartender pouring alcohol on the island, then take a lighter and ignite the liquor to create a literal wall of fire.
But he wasn’t done yet. The bartender then drank a copious amount of the alcohol, then proceeded to take a burning bottle and engulf it in his mouth.
He was breathing fire and spitting fireballs to match the beat of the music.
Was it dangerous? Possibly. Was it worth it? Of course.
My sister and I stumble out of the night club and look for our next destination. We wanted adventure, and essentially, we wanted to feel something deeper than our monotonous lives at work.
“I want to move here,” Liz said.
I looked at her perplexed demeanor and searched for any signs of doubt on her face. But there were none. Instead, there was conviction in her voice as she smiled.
“I think I’m going to do it.”
No, I’m not moving to Santo Domingo anytime soon, but wouldn’t it be nice to move to a place where you could honestly feel comfortable in your own skin and never question your identity? Perhaps one can find that in America, in your own backyard, or down the hall in your dorm room, but here’s my genuine advice.
If you are truly happy and content with your life, please do not accept the status quo. What is life without passion?
Human suffering is inevitable, and to a certain extent, we were innately designed to be questioning beings, but doubt leads to change. However, stress and fear are not necessary to living a full life.
One. Two. Three. Four.
One hundred, eh. One hundred.
We didn’t have any more Dominican dollars, but that was ok. We were happy and we were able to perform the bachata.
That, in itself, was enough.
