Pacific Beach, CA.

4:40 p.m. on another postcard-perfect California day.

There were about a dozen or so of us spread out in the room, stretching our limbs out across the pale ochre gym floor with varying degrees of flexibility.  Cool breezes emanating from the nearby ocean circulated throughout the studio, offering relief from the muggy environment of too many sweating athletes in too small a space.  The late afternoon sunlight filtering through the dirty windows gave a dreamlike quality to everything, with shadows flickering here and there and beams of light highlighting the strong, muscular figures of the students. 

In front of us, our instructor led the class through the warm-up regimen with a minimum of conversation, which suited everyone just fine, even the first-time students.  There was an energy in the room, thick, palpable, ALIVE, a concept they call axé in our teacher's native tongue.  This axé was carefully built up in part by the intense collective focus in the room, and also by the haunting, beautiful sounds of the music that played...the distinctive twang of the berimbau and the commanding voice of mestres past and present, the heart and soul of our art.  To disrupt such a powerful, important force with something as mundane as idle chatter would verge on vulgarity.

Placing my palms flat on the floor, I leaned further into my stretch, attempting to push these forgetful old legs back towards their previous glory days.  Recurring illness had kept me away from my classes for far too long, and though starting over was not a prospect I was keen on, it was still a joy to get back on the horse and ride again.  My breath was slow and even as I relaxed into the stretch, and when cued, I began to roll myself up, inch by inch, each vertabra simultaneously complaining and cheering as the kinks worked themselves out.  I was almost fully upright when from the corner of my eye I could see someone step into the doorway.

All martial arts require concentration and discipline, even one as loose and relaxed as capoeira can be, so it was no surprise that the stranger was mostly ignored by all and sundry.  The man stood for a moment, shifting from foot to foot, waiting to be acknowledged.  A dark-skinned gentleman of Pacific Island descent with a shock of thick, black hair, our intruder was very tall, probably ringing in around 6' 3", and had the substantial build of a man who works hard...but loves his food.  His eyes were merry as he shouted the most non-sequitur phrase you could have possibly brought into the tranquil scene described previously.

"Hey!  Hey, guys!  Youse guys wanna have some STEAK?"

If my life was just like it was on the television, his remark would have been the dramatic turning point in the show where that unexpected character walks into a noisy dancehall and all action stops dead, to the tune of the ear-splitting squawk of a record player scratching into shocked silence.   The gathered energy whooshed out of the room like an errant balloon, zipping and zooming its merry way right out the door.  The collected raised eyebrows of our entire group turned to face the man, the instructor included, and our Samoan friend looked a tad uncomfortable.  He seemed to realize he'd made a bit of a faux pas.  The moment hung awkwardly in the air, and nobody said anything.  In the background, the bateria played on, suddenly much louder than we remembered.

Paulo broke the silence first.

"...I...er...I'm sorry?  What did you say?"

For all his stern lecturing and seriousness in the course of his lessons to us, our contra-mestre embodies the warm, friendly, welcoming Brazilian spirit at all times, even in cases where he'd be perfectly justified in being a bit more brusque.  His face was set in his usual amiable, gap-toothed grin, though this time said grin had a touch of puzzlement in it.  Our beef-bearing benefactor was encouraged by this positive reaction, and stood up a little straighter.  He spoke again.

"Steak.  I have steak.  Does youse want some steak?"

We all continued to stare at the strange man, wondering if this were some kind of odd practical joke, or perhaps just the random ramblings of someone missing a few crayons from his super-deluxe Crayola box.  Offering to donate some water, some Gatorade, even some breadsticks to hard-working martial artists?  Sure.  As difficult as class was sometimes, something to reward our aching bodies with afterwards would be quite the treat.

But steak?

"Er...no, we are fine.  But thank you very much!"

"Are you sure you don't want any?"

At this point, Paulo's smile seemed a bit strained, and we were all itching to get back to business after the bizarre delay.  The man standing in the doorway sensed this impatience and shrugged as he turned to leave.

"Your loss, then," he said indifferently, lumbering back to whatever strange place he came from.

The stranger was probably not even out of earshot before every one of us dissolved into loud, raucous laughter.  Even the teacher was chuckling to himself at the epic meaty drama that had just played out in our studio. 

"You know, I know we're working out," he said, mimicking the vomiting that would surely occur if one were to mix serious heart-pounding exercise with a nice, juicy filet mignon.  "But I really had to think about that.  Really hard.  I mean...it's steak!  He wanted to give us free steak!  Wow!"

Paulo's grin was even wider than before, and just as infectious.  It certainly didn't help that his thick accent inexplicably made the comment exponentially funnier.  We were goners.  Peals of laughter echoed throughout the room, bouncing off the walls and posts and windows and people and intermeshing beautifully with the strains of whatever Mestre Suassuna had to say about the joys of playing o jogo.  Each person had their own clever remark to share, and even though the class knew it was important to hunker down, concentrate, and rebuild the axé that had escaped us, each member of our little intentional family took the time to enjoy the moment we had witnessed.  It seems like a small, insignificant moment in the scheme of things, but moments like this are much more important than they appear on the surface.

Inside the gym, we can escape harsh reality and put a laser beam focus on an art where the most pressing issue you have to face is whether or not you can pull off the suicide-crazy kick-and-evade combination presented to you by the teacher.  Pulling it off leaves you on a high, feeling a sense of accomplishment from the approving nods of the higher-ranked students and instructors...but if you don't?  Well, it's disappointing, most certainly, but the consequences are a strictly small potatoes extreme close-up sort of affair.  There is no butterfly effect for your missed spinning kick.  The effects end blessedly short of anywhere drastic, right there at the double doors of the studio.

Step outside this world, and it's not so easy.  Every single student in this group has their personal cross to bear.  Everyone has to step into a reality where even the most optimistic of us tend to think it's just too hard out there some days.  Sometimes it's hard waking up in that adult life, full of consequences and errors and worries, and that's where a creep with free steak comes in to save the day.  When you think of your most precious memories, it's not always the big life-changing blowout events that stick out in your mind, but rather, smaller, more low-key affairs. 

Affairs like a gut-busting belly laugh with 12 of your favourite sweaty, smelly, usually overly serious friends.

I lunged deeply to the left, stretching my arm overhead to loosen up my right side. Wiggling my fingers to release every little speck of tension, a thought occured to me.  I leaned just a touch more to the left, and spoke in a conspiratorial tone to the woman next to me.

"You know, Erin, I'm sure it was for the best that we turned him down.  He probably didn't have any goddamned eggplant anyway."

At this point, we had all calmed down and settled back into our warm-up routine like good little children.  Trying to remain focused, my vegetarian friend attempted to suppress her laughter, but was woefully unsuccessful.  Her freckles danced merrily on her cheeks as we chuckled one last time at the absurdity of today's events.

"Alright, ladies, that is enough.  We are back to class now, okay?"

"Sim, Senhor.  Desculpe."

And then it was as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.  Slipping back into dedicated student mode, we all lunged then to the right to stretch the other side of our bodies, and quietly dissolved ourselves back into the humming energy of the music and physical work and the sunlight and the ocean breeze and the glorious shared experience of these lives intersecting just at the right time.