Continued

We went to Havana Outpost which is in Downtown Brooklyn. It's hella cool. You walk in order and pay, give your receipt to a guy in a truck who makes the food and sit outside in cafeteria-like benches. The food was ok. We had chips and guacamole, chicken quesadilla, and mango slices.

It was a beautiful night and it was decorated tastefully Mexican. I don't know wtf happened, but I must've eaten an onion or something and my whole mouth was on fire, but the fire felt like it started from the back of my throat. Not good.
Whatevs....

They have a compost station where everything has a place for dumping. Glass bottles in one spot, waste in another, paper plates somewhere else....I thought it was cool.

We hit it on the train to Bembe.
We got off the train and began walking when this guy walks up to me and asks me where the club was. I get weirded out when people come up to me in the street because that's how I got robbed the last time. Anywho, one of the girls I was with knew where it was. She was like "Follow us."

The dude was like, "Well I'm driving. Do you want a ride?"

I immediately got uncomfortable. It was one other dude in the car with him which I guess isn't so bad. She said, "Give me your phone." She held on to it and she headed to his car. BFF was with it, so I came along.

Bembe
I thought it would be a lot bigger than what it was. You walk in and there's a guy drumming. It's dark and the entire bar is made of beautiful hardwood. The bathroom is co-ed stalls with the sink outside.

I was wearing tight skinny jeans with a low-cut black shirt and a belt and 2inch heels.

We went downstairs and it looked like something out of a movie. The dancefloor is not bigger than someone's living room. Everyone was dancing to the Afro-Cuban beats. It was hot and tight.
We were there for about a half-hr before we had to leave. I could feel the powder makeup I had on stinging...(That's what happens when I sweat at least)

Rochelle said she knew of a bar down the block we could go to that was a lot cooler. We went and omg...we were the only black kids in the bar. They were playing 80s music. Rochelle and BFF were having a blast. I just wanted to go home. Rochelle strikes me as the type of chick that loves to be in the mix with white people while appearing extremely Afrocentric. Like, by doing that, she's appreciated more for her "individuality" and let's face it - white people do appreciate it more. But, she was like, "Let's dance like those white people. Let's act like those white folks" (who looked like fools - happy fools) and I was like, "I'm good being myself."

And thus, my problem with the Afrocentric set - the closed-mindedness of a few. I may have a 16inch weave down my back, I'm the first in make-up and heels, but I will never say I'm trying to be white or anything that's not colored. I love being a black woman. While, surprisingly, a lot of "conscious" women I've encountered (who have the most Afrikan features) are fucked up in the head when it comes to their identity.

That's a post for another day.

Anywho...they decided they wanted to leave at around 1:30 and I was more than happy to oblige. My feet were killing me (I'd been in those heels since 8pm). We walked about 3 blocks up. Rochelle's sister finally showed up to Bembe. She wanted to go back. We walked her back (!!!!) And hopped a cab home. I was starving. BFF didn't want to stop anywhere. She was sure she had something at home. We got there and of course there was nothing. It was 2:30 am. No one was cooking anything. I ended up eating Nilla wafers with whipped cream and water.

Niice.
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