Catwalk!  (Meowwww)

The deed has been done.  My clubbing virginity in Barcelona officially went rent this weekend.

The site in point was this club called Catwalk and it was at an invite of an English friend Craig, who is a year older than me, and essentially doing the exact same thing.  Trying to make ends meet while playing full-time tennis.  

This absconding to a club in the middle of the night, though, initally like a blasphemy of the Holy Tennis Spirit.  But I did it anyway--just to get out and get some semblance of balance to my 25 year old life.

During my sophomore days at NUS, I used to go out clubbing every week for a phrase.  I learnt how to dance then, but the boogeying somehow naturally died down the more I got to know the Lord.  This weekend, though, was a revival of first-loves on the dance floor.  Barcelona style ;)

Much like Zouk, Catwalk had two floors, bottom electric house, and top, R+B.  Wyliam Belart played house music--very interesting mix of house, salsa, rumba and electric.  It was surprisingly good.

The club was filled with glowing-in-the-dark lights, with neon colours abounding.

Case in point, bartender's table.  1 Martini=EUR10.  Ouch!

They even had dancers to get the crowd into the groove.  Many of them had neon paint splashed on them.  Strictly no contact, though.  A couple of girls touched one of the dancers and promptly got thrown out of the club!

The toilets were probably the fanciest place in the club.  Certainly made me appreciate Zouk's interior design.

We danced till 6.30am, and most of that time was spent on the dance floor, closing my eyes and getting lost in the beat.  The place was teeming with tourists, which included touchy-feel-ly French men, grinder-wanna-be Black men, overly-talkative British ones, and the random, occasional Spaniard too shy to say hello.  

That said, it was genuinely interesting seeing how the birds and the bees worked.  Most of these observations were made on the dance floor--sadly mostly at the expense of my clubbing enjoyment (read, "friendly" men trying to feel you up!).  There was no shortage of male attention here--most of which I tried my best to shy away from.  I counted that a total of NINE boys came up to me!  Of course, all of them were eager to get all touchy-feel-ly, but I was firm and rejected them all.  It is strange, but all this time, I was thinking to myself, it's so easy to just close one eye and dirty dance with a boy (a few of the nine were pretty good looking!).  But deep down inside, I was also thinking, How can I treat my body like this?  My body is the Lord's, and I am here to play tennis.  I know that being a pro-player is God's calling in my life, and knowing that He has given me this body for that very purpose, I just couldn't bring myself to act so cheap on the dance floor.  This body is His, and His alone.

Halfway through the night, I realised that I was probably one of the very few people actually truly dancing.  Most of the others were just swaggering around nervously, or awkwardly bopping up and down.  To my disdain, I was reminded how most men were more interested in picking up girls than really groovin.  My mate Craig, as a case in point, was also busy playing chase.

Not that it's wrong.  Or right.  But it's sometimes so hard to find clubbers who are really there just for the music.  If you meet someone on the way, yes, that's fine and great.  But to me, stepping onto the dance floor is all about getting lost in the music and letting your body and the beat become one. Who cares whether you look like an idiot or not?  The point about dancing is to enjoy yourself, no?

It's the same with tennis.

We stepped out just before dawn, and stayed around enough to catch the sun peeking out from it's baby blue blanket.

All psyched up to drive back--all in all it was a really good night.  I enjoyed myself so much more than I expected!  Still, never quite as much as being on court :)