I wrote on Monday about the yearly Txitxiburduntzi celebration organized by the New England Basque Club at Riki Lasa’s house in Connecticut.
Around 5:30 last night – I memorable night to forget, if I might add – I got an email from Roberto, the Club’s president, letting me know that he hadn’t stopped getting requests to attend the party since I published the news on the blog. I should have followed my instinct and go with the tongue-in-cheek feeling I got immediately after reading his message, but I was not 100% myself yesterday so I asked if I had in some way messed up the article. He said, “The year 2104. I would love to be able to go.” (It’s fixed now, by the way).
Do you think I got it then? No. I went back to the article, re-read it, and saw nothing wrong. I even emailed him back and forwarded the announcement he’d sent a few days before, the same email I copied and pasted on the blog. I proceeded to get on with the sad evening that was last night, watched a chick-flick by myself, watched two episodes of House with the neighbor (thank you), then I came back home and looked at the email one more time because somehow, in the back of my mind, I knew I’d missed something.
Six hours after getting the email I finally saw the light. The year 2104. Two thousand one hundred and four. Right there in front of my eyes since I published the blog. Right there in front of my eyes since Roberto pointed it out at 6:18 pm last night.
I felt so fucking stupid. And I started to wonder, what other things have I missed before that were clearly stated, spelled, shown, addressed right there, in front of me? How many other times have I been so blind while looking straight up at shit?