Shall We Dance?

I went to a club last night.

We got there at 2:30 in the morning. 

Sometime before 2:30, I realized I didn't have any I.D. I thought that might get me out of the club thing. 

It did not. 

The place was called Voodoo Motel. It played music like 10 minute techno versions of No Tell Motel. (Which, incidentally, is a real motel in Tucson.)

I, incidentally, do not know how to dance to techno music. Or hip hop music, for that matter. But I am very skilled in the art of dancing fake ballet to Taylor Swift. 

Is there a Taylor Swift club here?

I, consequently, was very happy that everyone else was drunk. 

At about 4 a.m., when I had reached my quota of second hand smoke, I left the dance room to get a water. I was a little concerned that the "water" was going to be a bottle of vodka in disguise, but the bottle was sealed, it looked legitimate, and I happened to be very thirsty after 2 or so hours of trying to figure out how to correctly move to techno. 

I planned to sit out in the bar for a little while to escape the heavy smoke, flashing lights, and awkwardness of realizing that those people behind you are totally making out hard core. 

But as soon as I got in line for my water some guy started talking to me. 

Umm... excuse me. What do you think this is? A bar? A place to meet people? I would just like to get my water and go.

So I pulled out my new favorite rejection line-- 

I just looked at him and shook my head. "I don't understand." I said, "No entiendo. Sorry."

It didn't work. Darn bilingual people and their command of the English language. 

"You speak English?"

I winced inside, "Yes." I knew I should have learned French. 

"Where are you from?"

"The U.S. I have to get my water."

"When will I see you again?"

"Umm... I don't know." Hopefully not again in a place called Voodoo Motel, or any place similarly named. 

As I was walking out, water bottle in hand, the guy came up behind me and told me I disappointed him. 

So I told him that I had to go back in to dance with my boyfriend. 

It worked better than feigning solo-lingual. 

When we left around 5 a.m. I wanted little more than to feel the Arctic breeze of the Argentine winter and breath in the casi-fresh air of the city. 

My lungs sang a short verse of hallelujah, and then we got into a taxi to go get some breakfast. 

I was warm for practically the first time in Argentina (it's amazing what 500 bodies and 400 cigarettes shoved into a 15 by 15 foot room will do for the indoor temperature). 

So, naturally, I wanted ice cream. And a lot of it. 

And so I grabbed the menu and said, "I just want some helado."

And then the two people I was with looked at me like I was crazy. 

The two people who I had just watched drink glass after glass of vodka, the two people who told me staying out all night in a drug-induced-dancing club was a good idea, looked at me and said, "You want ice cream? For breakfast?" 

Ya. I'm pretty much hardcore. 

And then they proceeded to buy a large pizza, while I just sat in the corner and shook my head. 

At 7 a.m. I got back to the apartment, washed the smoky smell out of my hair, and sat down to read my Spanish version of Twilight. 

I was delightfully tired. And sooner than later, I dropped my book to the floor and slept until 1 p.m. 

The rest of the day was pretty much gone to me. 

I ate some McDonalds. (I know, I know, that is so politically incorrect. But I am out of pesos. And McDonalds takes my dollars. Also, it has indoor heating.)

I checked two new grocery stores for peanut butter. Nada. (Dear Argentina. You are missing out on the peanut butter front.)

And then I wandered around a bit before coming back to drop my book on the floor and fall asleep again. 

It is now 1 a.m. People all over this city are drinking their pre-party vodka. Soon they will start talking about which club they'll get their present-party drinks at. And hours later, they'll be sitting in 24 hour cafés looking for post-party hangover food. 

As for me, I'm going to sleep this one out. 

But have fun Buenos Aires. Have fun.