SHAKIRA: Rock Goddess

O.M.G. That about sums up how I feel after seeing Shakira live in concert last night. Thankfully, it was raining in Puerto Viejo this weekend (more on that later) and I took the early bus back to San Jose just in time to find out that Shakira would be playing at the new Estadio Nacional as the final inaugural event. Having been a long-time fan, the 13 year old girl in me was thrilled. The event started at 7:00 and Katie and I made a mad dash to the stadium as soon as she arrived home from her weekend trip. With the Minnesotan fear of having arrived too late at 7:30 we quickly picked up some scalped tickets, armed ourselves with Bam Bam noisemakers and glow in the dark bracelets and then headed to join the crowd. As we waited for the show to start we were subjected to all the commercialized accoutrement one would expect. A warning was shown on the large screens that in case of seismic activity we should remain calm and in our seats… We treated ourselves to foot long hot dogs and café con leche. We were giddy. The slightest change in lighting on stage caused us all to smash our Bam Bams together and howl.

And then, right on Tico-time at 9:18, there was a stir in the crowd. The cameras zoomed in on a figure dressed entirely in neon pick. It was the gorgeous Shakira, singing Pienso en Ti while making her way through the crowd and onto stage. Once on stage, everything went dark and there was a pause. In the next instant we were bombarded with flashing lights, booming bass and Shakira’s rock hard abs and hips in all her gyrating glory. Her dress was gone, replaced by skin-tight leather pants and a glitter top. The crowd was losing their minds.

Ten orgasmic minutes go by when, without warning, the sound cuts out and the projection screens go black. If you ever want to see a stadium full of teenage girls turn into a pack of angry wolves, give them ten minutes of Shakira and then rip it away. She returned about 5 minutes later with an apology and the show went on.

Many theatrics followed including a scene where she faked her own death and was resuscitated on stage with invisible paddles showing off her iconic chest thrusts. She invited several young girls to dance with her and taught them to shimmy. There was belly dancing during Gitana, again highlighting her abs. As she hit the climax of Sale el Sol the glitter top came off, ripped down the middle in a show of her bestial strength. That outfit now ruined, next up was a pair of green and black Zubas with matching top. Throughout it all there was much dancing, howling and Bam Bam banging from the crowd. At this point, Katie and I had completely embraced our inner 13 year old. This was much to the chagrin of the 50 something French tourists ahead of us, in who’s ears we banged the noisemakers. The encore consisted of all-time favorites including Hips Don’t Lie and Waka Waka. As we exited, a fireworks show surpassing any I had seen in the US lit up the sky in celebration of the new stadium.

Later, as we walked home, the adrenaline of the night began to fade and I realized that I had lost my voice, my neck hurt, and my 27 year old body was tired from a weekend of boozing at the beach. The tween in me didn’t care; she had never been happier. Smiling, I fell asleep humming the tune to Waka Waka.