Dad sent me a link this morning to the New York Times article on how cool Buenos Aires nightlife is. It was well-timed. Last night I went out clubbing with Daniel, Molly, and Karen, and didn't get back until 6 am. (Actually, I think it was 5 am, because clocks moved back an hour, but even so, it was a lifetime record.) When I don't eat until 11:30 and hit my first bar at 2, it's easy to look at my watch in the middle of dancing and realize that, if I were in San Francisco, I would be waking up pretty soon.
Nightclubs here, called boliches, are inexpensive, lavish and enormous, but somehow less intimidating than the handful I've been to in the United States. Nothing really gets started until after 1 or 2 am, and things reach their peak at 4 or 5 in the morning. Most of them have entrance fees around 30 pesos, or 10 USD, but if you get on the lista (a process that I don't really understand involving submitting your e-mail address via the club's website) then you can get in for free before 2.
The club I went to last night, called Amerika, is either a gay-friendly straight establishment or a straight-friendly gay establishment, depending on who you ask. It cost 40 pesos to get in, but there was a canilla libre, or open bar, with all the cheap, grenadine-spiked champagne you could drink. And, even more exciting, free bottles of water. (Again, Dad, this might not be a Grandma entry.)
Before we went to Amerika, we met one of Daniel's friends at a gay bar, where Molly, Karen, and I probably made up half the women in the crowded room and the ladies' room was deserted. Amerika was a far more diverse crowd — maybe about 50-50 gay-straight. (I could be totally off, since I generally have a terrible gaydar in the US, and it's way worse here.) There was also a solid showing of drag queens in various stages of hormone therapy.
The dance floor is in the center of the ground floor of the club, with a table in the middle and giant screens all around. The screens alternated between flashing the name of the DJ, the words "Desperate Houselovers," and a movie of a bodybuilder flexing. Nicky would have been thoroughly alarmed. I loved it — mostly because I kept imagining his reaction.
To either side of the biggest screen, two minimally-clad dancers wriggled around on little balconies. Women in bikinis on the left, and men in thongs on the right. The club also had a second floor made up of interlocking balconies, with another dance floor, a lounge area with couches, and — my personal favorite — a long, dark passageway where people go to hook up. (Don't worry, Mom and Dad. I walked through that area quickly.)
The cumulative effect was one of an exuberant bacchanalia, but the fun thing about Argentine boliches is that you can control your level of engagement pretty easily. I spent a fair amount of time sitting on a couch on the balcony and people-watching. I danced a little with Molly and Karen, but by the time we left the dance floor was just really getting going.
I woke up this morning far too early with a sore throat from talking over the music and the uncomfortable feeling that I was going deaf in one ear. The club scene is a little too intense for me to partake in all that often. (Although, come to think about it, I was out until 4 on Thursday.) But I think I can say with some authority that (to quote the Times) the "behemoth gay discos" really do keep people up till sunrise.
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