background, I can hear gunfire from a TV. A lone head of broccoli lies on the floor, ready to roll through the scene like tumbleweed.
As I step inside and clear my throat, looking for someone to greet, a leggy woman chewing on a rib of celery bounds downstairs in her boxers.
“Hey!” she says smiling, before zooming past me.
“Hey,” I say to myself and slip off my shoes.
As I plunge deeper into the house, the wreckage only grows. Water bottles stuffed with cut limes line bookshelves with no books. Drying sports bras and athletic pants drape over door handles. A coffee table is littered with value-sized bottles of electrolyte replacements. Everywhere clothes, bedding, and salad greens.
By the living room, I have found the yogis. I introduce myself, asking for David, our host, or Esak, the organizer. It is quickly apparent that nobody knows anything. The yogis, about twenty or so, are milling, typing on laptops, chatting about studios, exuding the same vulnerable feeling of freshman orientation. Which makes me feel a lot better. Esak hasn’t arrived yet, and as I make my way around the house, everyone tells me, “David’s around,” but nobody seems to particularly care where.
When I find him, now close to 1 A.M., David is making an avocado sandwich in the kitchen. He is tanned and trimmed and bearing a bright white band of teeth that wouldn’t look out of place on daytime TV. We shake hands, and I thank him profusely for giving up his house for the next two weeks. He looks slightly surprised by this expression of gratitude, like no one would think twice about letting a small community of complete strangers camp in their living room. Then he whips out a bottle of spray butter and dusts it over his avocado. So maybe David and I approach the world differently on multiple levels.
When I ask him about sleeping arrangements, he looks surprised again.
“Anywhere! Just poke around. I think most of the good spots have been taken. Maybe some carpeted floor upstairs.”
I scrounge and make introductions. By 2 A.M., I am spread out in a sleeping bag on a small uncarpeted section of the main hallway. I fall asleep with the lights on, giggling conversation down the hall still constant.
• • •
I wake up the next morning before my alarm goes off. Approximately twenty-five times. First there are the feet stepping over me. Then there are the coffee grinders being used to puree various nuts, spices, and supplements. Then the collisions at the bathroom—the frantic result of a house filled with individuals hell-bent on maximizing their hydration—the eruptions of the teakettle, the laughter, and the crotchety grumblings of freakishly athletic yogis complaining about their sore backs.
Somehow, however, by the time I actually scrape myself off the floor, the house is empty.
The wreckage from last night has been pulled into little pods. What once looked like a weird vegan tent city has been raked into order. Bedding materials are neatly folded, backpacks bulging but zipped, and those loose rolling veggies lassoed together and placed into their appropriate Whole Foods bags.
I triple-check my watch to make sure I’m not late. We still have an hour to get to a yoga studio located about five minutes away. But perhaps the schedule changed. I still haven’t seen Esak. Regardless, I decide I need food, and so closing the front door behind me with no way of locking it, I pick up a protein shake from a gas station and head to the studio.
At 10 A.M., we take our first class of the day. From that point on, we never really stop practicing for the next two weeks. The delirium of a single class becomes compounded by repetition until the entire experience expands into one long waking dream.
I learn that puking can feel euphoric when I disgorge the protein shake into the studio toilet around noon.
I learn a tiny blond woman covered in upbeat cheerful tattoos—a tiny rainbow, the outline of a star—can effortlessly balance her
As I step inside and clear my throat, looking for someone to greet, a leggy woman chewing on a rib of celery bounds downstairs in her boxers.
“Hey!” she says smiling, before zooming past me.
“Hey,” I say to myself and slip off my shoes.
As I plunge deeper into the house, the wreckage only grows. Water bottles stuffed with cut limes line bookshelves with no books. Drying sports bras and athletic pants drape over door handles. A coffee table is littered with value-sized bottles of electrolyte replacements. Everywhere clothes, bedding, and salad greens.
By the living room, I have found the yogis. I introduce myself, asking for David, our host, or Esak, the organizer. It is quickly apparent that nobody knows anything. The yogis, about twenty or so, are milling, typing on laptops, chatting about studios, exuding the same vulnerable feeling of freshman orientation. Which makes me feel a lot better. Esak hasn’t arrived yet, and as I make my way around the house, everyone tells me, “David’s around,” but nobody seems to particularly care where.
When I find him, now close to 1 A.M., David is making an avocado sandwich in the kitchen. He is tanned and trimmed and bearing a bright white band of teeth that wouldn’t look out of place on daytime TV. We shake hands, and I thank him profusely for giving up his house for the next two weeks. He looks slightly surprised by this expression of gratitude, like no one would think twice about letting a small community of complete strangers camp in their living room. Then he whips out a bottle of spray butter and dusts it over his avocado. So maybe David and I approach the world differently on multiple levels.
When I ask him about sleeping arrangements, he looks surprised again.
“Anywhere! Just poke around. I think most of the good spots have been taken. Maybe some carpeted floor upstairs.”
I scrounge and make introductions. By 2 A.M., I am spread out in a sleeping bag on a small uncarpeted section of the main hallway. I fall asleep with the lights on, giggling conversation down the hall still constant.
• • •
I wake up the next morning before my alarm goes off. Approximately twenty-five times. First there are the feet stepping over me. Then there are the coffee grinders being used to puree various nuts, spices, and supplements. Then the collisions at the bathroom—the frantic result of a house filled with individuals hell-bent on maximizing their hydration—the eruptions of the teakettle, the laughter, and the crotchety grumblings of freakishly athletic yogis complaining about their sore backs.
Somehow, however, by the time I actually scrape myself off the floor, the house is empty.
The wreckage from last night has been pulled into little pods. What once looked like a weird vegan tent city has been raked into order. Bedding materials are neatly folded, backpacks bulging but zipped, and those loose rolling veggies lassoed together and placed into their appropriate Whole Foods bags.
I triple-check my watch to make sure I’m not late. We still have an hour to get to a yoga studio located about five minutes away. But perhaps the schedule changed. I still haven’t seen Esak. Regardless, I decide I need food, and so closing the front door behind me with no way of locking it, I pick up a protein shake from a gas station and head to the studio.
At 10 A.M., we take our first class of the day. From that point on, we never really stop practicing for the next two weeks. The delirium of a single class becomes compounded by repetition until the entire experience expands into one long waking dream.
I learn that puking can feel euphoric when I disgorge the protein shake into the studio toilet around noon.
I learn a tiny blond woman covered in upbeat cheerful tattoos—a tiny rainbow, the outline of a star—can effortlessly balance her
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