Ignaki, who is actually Mexican, drove me to Acapulco where a gang of his friends had decided to hole up for the long weekend.
He has an ipod with 4000 songs on it (including the Animal Song by Savage Garden ... whaaat?).So, he was in charge of driving 200kms an hour (how fast you drive depends on the bribe you're willing to pay for gettin gcaught) and I was in charge of the music.
I figured that going to Acapulco, we should probably consider playing Come Fly With Me, because of that great line about 'if you could use some exotic booze out on Acapulco Bay'.
Of course, it was on his ipod. Well, you can imagine the rude shock when I discovered that all these years, the exotic booze has actually been in a bar in far Bombay. How did that happen??
Well, I've always thought my Spanish was fine, until three days of five DF locals speakng chilango in all its rapid-fire, more-slang-than-real-words, double meaning glory.
I don't even understand the first meaning, let alone that pithy little play on words.
One guy, Alberto, could have been speaking another language for all I knew.
By the end of the weekend, I was mute. All my 'mojo' that Ignaki was so taken with, had drained out with the energy that it took to even know the basics of what we were doing and where we were going.
Highlights:
- finding Enrique Iglesias (sp?) "Escape" on the ipod AND discovering that I am not the only person in the world capable of playing it seven times in a row. Wooooo hooooo! I know know the Spanish lyrics, although the equivalent of 'soon you will find' is open to question.
- Baby O. The fresa club where guys pay $100 to get in. Of course, I didn't realise, so on Saturday when we returned, I said to Ignaki, "Come on, you've been paying for everything. Let me just pay us in."
He indicates the board, showing 800 peso cover charge. I nearly died. And proceeded to amend my offer to just paying myself in.
Of course, inside the place is a shithole, filled with people who have spent far too much time and money on their appearance (to be allowed into heaven, no matter what cover they were willing to pay).
More fake boobs in there than at a Playboy shoot... not to mention the high heels that were floating around. Everyone stands on the dancefloor, but noone dances. They all move imperceptibly and sneak glances around to see who's watching. The girls preen their perfectly curled hair. The boys... watch the girls preening their perfectly curled hair.
I was particularly taken with one guy: he was the only person 'dancing like noone was watching'. He was tall with a big nose, great moves and knew the words to the songs, but didn't look Mexican. Maybe he was from Spain.
Half an hour later I look over, and he's being hauled out by security. You know, I will always wonder what for. Ara reckons that lots of the rich girls take their body guards so if he accidentally knocked one of them with an over-enthusiastic dance move, she could have had him thrown out.
What kind of a place is this??
By the end of the night, the poor old woman whose job is to stand in the toilet mopping the floor and handing out toilet paper was getting hugged by all the little fresa girls. The senora earns less in a year than what one of them would spend on an earring, how dare they? One of them had drunk too much and was crouching in the corner, still managing to balance in her heels.
And it made me glad I'm not 23 any more. Or 24. Actually, any of the ages that I've been up to now because let's face it, even 28 had its moments. (Byron Bay, La La Land - literally - toilets. Yes yes)
