Spanish law dictates that people must arrive to clubs after 1 am on weekends, or else face public shame and risk becoming a pariah. A popular form of socializing in Spain entails going to bars or clubs until the late morning hours. In a feeble attempt to fit into this culture, I decided to scope out a local club in December. Convincing myself to shower and get ready at 10 pm was as difficult a task as any, but by 11:15, I was out of the door. With the assistance of Google Maps, I located a spot nearby which stays open until 4 am. The first red flag appeared as I was approaching the entrance.
“Hey maestro! David!” one of my students shouted as I breezed past the entrance. Why was he at the club? And why was he smoking a cigarette? We exchanged greetings and I went inside to a sparsely packed and dimly lit club. Promptly, I gave my order to the bartender, a Jack Daniels & Coca-Cola. After grabbing my drink and paying, I wandered around the club observing and listening to the “Spain Top 50 songs” Spotify playlist that was playing over the speakers. As I was fininshing my first drink, a young-ish guy approached me and offered to buy me another which I happily accepted. Finally, after an hour someone spoke to me. I made a new conversation buddy, or so I thought. His name was Alexei and he was from Eastern Europe. For work, he spent his days driving freight trucks. His English was good enough for us to converse comfortably. He was shocked I to learn that I was from the USA. I got the “what is an American doing here” question that I have come to love and respond to differently each time it is asked. Alexei’s eyes lit up after I handed my Texas driver’s license and he was even more shocked to see my age. See, Alexei was only 24 but reads as a strong 35, my age. Cigarette smoking is still very much en vogue here much to the delight of dermatologists I would assume. After maybe 20 minutes of introductory conversation, Alexei leans in to ask if I smoke anything. Now, in the past, I have been known to enjoy an intoxicated cigarette or some reefer madness. Alexei’s slight grin and head tilt informed me that he was pleased with this answer which led him to his follow up question, “do you like to snort anything like cocaína?” I sheepishly shook my head no, and wouldn’t you know it, the conversation fizzled out shortly therafter. We chatted for a few more minutes before Alexei headed to the back patio. Frazzled, I finished my drink and walked back home. I was not interested in hitting the slopes with Alexei and nor was I particulary enthralled by the droves of twentysomethings which had recently entered the club. It was 1 am in Spain and I decided to break the law and take my ass home.
Once in the comfort of my Spanish apartment, I couldn’t help but laugh at the situation and relax for a bit before heading to bed. After flipping through channels, I landed on a film with an interesting title, Esta abuela es un peligro, or This Grandmother is a Danger. I expected to see a Spanish thriller about a frantic, gun-toting grandmother. Instead, what I got was Martin Lawerence in a fat suit and a dress. Esta abuela es un peligro is nothing other than Big Momma’s House. And just like that, I decided that was enough confusion for one night and went to bed.
From Bayou to Beyond 