Two American volunteers arrived that morning: Bradford and Sergio. They had wanted a private room with a double bed, but the albergue could not accommodate, so we all slept on separate bunkbeds in the same dormitory that night. I took off to the city center in the morning and
bought lots of shit. For lunch I stopped into a Mexican restaurant that my guidebook had hyped. Like any good Mexican food, it was cheap and overextended its welcome in my stomach. For 13 soles (roughly $4) I ate nachos, garlic bread, tortilla soup, two chicken tacos, guacamole, and refried beans. I also read a Borges short story while I took my time with the food. Then, I met up with Adam for a quick tea and a
view and a walk up to Plaza San Blas.
That evening we went out with the Spanish girls to celebrate Adam’s birthday—he was turning 23 the following day. After a beer-and-a-half around the albergue, things started with dinner at a funky restaurant called Fallen Angel. The general décor included an
aquarium below our table, house music, modern art, futons, and shattered mirrors in the bathroom. The night before the spot had housed a “Sexy Party.” We ordered a bottle of Chilean wine to drink and various types of lomo to eat, discussing the youth and the politics in our respective countries. After the meal and a few glasses of wine, I dropped my water glass on the table—it spilled and shattered. Glass on glass. Embarassed, I made matters worse by proceeding to drink from Ainhoa’s wine glass instead of mine own.
Afterwards, we went to the same Irish pub from a few nights before. No Guinness this time, though, but rather a local brew instead. We were supposed to meet up with Katie, but arrived some forty minutes late and she wasn’t to be found. The big question between us soon became—“Where was Jimi Hendrix born?” Adam and I maintained that he’s Enlgish—“Have you ever heard him talk?”—but Andere contended that he’s originally from Seattle. Her and I made a wager on the matter: a Cuscueña—at a bar and city to be announced later.*
We didn’t have to pay cover at the next spot, a disco named Mamá Africa, because Andere and Ainhoa pretended to be American, which meant that they didn’t speak while we waited in line. Once we arrived, the hour was getting nigh upon midnight, so Ainhoa and I headed to the DJ booth to try and get the man to announce Adam’s name over the loudspeaker, be he didn’t have a mic. By this point I had switched to whiskey and coke and Adam to gin and tonic, while the girls nursed a beer and then a water. We danced,
we dance…Until the DJ went rather overboard with this Mission-Valley-style Green Day→Offspring→Marilyn Manson combo. I didn’t and don’t want to be thirteen ever again, so when he switched back to J. Lo→House of Pain→Black Eyed Peas→Wild Cherry, I felt relieved, but really not all that relieved.
By about 2am we left the disco. The girls considered going to another, but then decided to go home—they had to work the next day. The next spot, Africa, pretty much sucked wookie: suffocating crowd, blinding strobe lights, bad techno. We left after one beer and headed back to Mamá Africa. But, by this point in the early morning, unless you’re already tongue kissing, there’s not much going.
*I found out yesterday that I lost the bet.
