I was glad to see that the many “discos” of Mérida continued to profit in my absence. Traveling down Paseo Montejo (the main drag of the city), I could see crowds of teens, twenty-somethings and adults.
Yes, it is possible to spot a handful of middle-aged men posted at the bar. Once they grab their drinks, they circle the club with heads a bobbin’ and chest hair a poppin’. It would be creepy, if it weren’t so entertaining to watch.
From that description, it should be obvious that I enjoy people watching. But boy are the tables turned when I walk in a club. It definitely has nothing to do with my style or dance moves though. I just happen to be taller and whiter than everyone else. And did I mention less coordinated on the dance floor?
Alright, that’s enough selfdeprication for now. Friday night my roommate and I met some of his friends at Tequila. You’re right to assume from the name that Tequila is not a family establishment.
Like I said, people crowd around club entrances until the velvet rope trolls let them pass. And without any attractive females by our side to catch the bouncers attention, we waited outside for about 45 minutes. And it wasn’t a friendly experience either. Cocksure guys and glam’d up gals push and elbow their way around as if I’d prefer them to get in before me.
Once we made it inside, we paid the 166 peso cover charge. Two years ago it was 150 – damn inflation!
Who am I kidding? That’s only an extra $1.50. And for unlimited drinks, I won’t say another bad word about it. Especially considering my roommate’s friend hooked us up with an impromptu table. It might not seem like a big deal, but club tables are more than a small circle to stand around with your friends. Servers deliver bottles of Smirnoff and Squirt and buckets of ice faster than you can finish them. No waiting at the bar for us!
Fast forward to the club closing at 4:00 am. Everyone gathers around a little cart selling tortas de carne asada. They looked and smelled amazing. But I decided that my American stomach still needs a few days to prepare for the spicy goodness of street food. Although it felt like a college night, I’m certainly not in Athens anymore.
Final Word: I was told that I understand Spanish very well, but it’s funny when I speak it. How reassuring.