Ozomatli Is in the House

Giddy feelings came over me. All of a sudden, my ability to speak flew away like a scared bird. I stuttered like a fool: "We love you guys! Thank you so much for coming to Argentina."

When I caught wind that my husband's and my favorite live band--three-time Grammy Award-winning "Ozomatli":http://www.ozomatli.com/site.php--was coming near our expat home of Buenos Aires, Argentina, we were beyond excited. We rushed to buy tickets and eagerly waited for the day of the concert to come.

When the golden moment finally arrived, we settled into our randomly chosen hotel, the smiles glued to our faces. Wanting to shake a bit of the excitement, we decided to take a walk through the hustle and bustle of the big city. Within a few hours, we were ready for some relaxation and made our way back to the hotel.

As we rounded the corner leading to the entrance, we found a cluster of motorists honking their horns incessantly. A few more steps and we saw a large van blocking the narrow road, with hurried bellhops unloading large pieces of luggage.

Looking down at one, we saw a large Ozomatli sticker. "Interesting," I thought.

A few more steps, and we were passing some personal luggage. One was plastered with the name tag in plain sight: Jiro Yamaguchi, the percussionist of Ozomatli, was in our hotel. What was going on?

Like magic, all of a sudden there they all were. Ozomatli was checking into the hotel at which we, by chance, had chose to stay. It was unbelievable.

Giddy feelings came over me. All of a sudden, my ability to speak flew away like a scared bird. I stuttered like a fool: "We love you guys! Thank you so much for coming to Argentina."

I was beginning to feel like a small schoolgirl--not such a great sensation, being in my mid-30s.

Then my groupie shame came to an end. "Hey, you guys, nice to see you," said the bassist, Wil-Dog. He had a welcoming smile, and his arms stretched out to give me hug. Wil-Dog remembered us from being at so many of their shows. I took the invitation and was surprised with a strong, friendly embrace. Jamie got a bro-hug, too. We talked for a few minutes, and then they all excused themselves to go work off the jet lag.

Later that night, we heard the antique elevator come to a stop on our floor. "Peak your head out the door and see who it is," suggested Jamie. "Who knows? Maybe it's one of the band.

Taking his advice, I looked. Sure enough, it was Wil-Dog, in the flesh.

"Hi, Wil," I squeaked, my inability to deal with being close to an adored musician returning. "Do you have a few minutes to talk?"

"Sure!"

I couldn't believe it. He'd said sure. A stupid smile came over my face. Words spilled from my mouth: What was Wil-dog's favorite part about being a musician?

His answer helped my admiration soar: "Being able to help less-fortunate kids."

Comments

No comments yet, why not leave one of your own?



Leave a Comment or Share Your Story

Please Sign In. Only community members can comment.


 
SMITH Magazine

SMITH Magazine is a home for storytelling.
We believe everyone has a story, and everyone
should have a place to tell it.
We're the creators and home of the
Six-Word Memoir® project.