Let’s talk about Spanish nightlife.

Wherever you live, whatever you do at some time, the time comes to move on to the next activity, and you know when that is without looking at the clock, or by looking at it. I’m talking about the mundane here – dinner, afternoon nap, sleeping, going out at night. When you come to Spain, you will have that same feeling, at the same time. But you will have to wait three hours before it is time to do it.

The Spanish take their comida – lunch in our sense – at 2:00, when siesta begins (which lasts until about 4:00). They take their dinner (la cena) between 10:00 – 11:00. And then there are various “going out” exploits for drinking and such. The real nightlife begins between 3:00 and 4:00, and lasts until between 6:00 and 7:00. I am not lying.

Billy said last night, “All right guys, let’s go out to the discoteca!” It was of course 12:30. Far too early. I tried to explain this to no avail. We all went anyway. Billy had the idea that I should change my hair to be more “European” by getting a “Faux-hawk.” I need not repeat what I told him he could do to himself. He also lampooned my form of dress. He had to “tool-ify” me (my words, of course) so I would be more acceptable visually among the Spaniards with their euro-mullets and their ambiguous insults to Americans. (Not hating on Spaniards here at all – I dig them quite much.)

The discoteca is of course not my idea of a good time, neither at home nor here. But the time comes when I must experience it at least once, and where better than here on a Saturday night. The tapas bars were chock-full at at 11:30, and we were still in our apartment, having eaten three hours prior. We went to bars/clubs between 12:30 and 4:00. The first one was shite, in my opinion: electronica-pop and the meaningless gyrations of so many hips, with so many eyes focused downward. The second one was much more to my liking: decidedly more “spanish” music, but certain others hated its authentic nature, and so we left again. By now it was finally time to go to this place with an 8 euro cover charge, called “Coco Loco.” Although I lamented the price which was about 16 euros too high for my entry, I have to admit – it was rather happening. Apparently THE place to be in Grau de Gandia between 4:00 and 6:00 this morning.

I never smiled the whole time because I was not having fun, but nonetheless I complicitly waved my hands in the air and sweated in my corduroy coat – chic in certain circles in the US, the object of derision among the striped-shirt crowd. I was glad to go to sleep.

I cannot make this entry any longer unfortunately because I have to go, but those time issues are interesting ones. And I probably won’t go to a discoteca again. Tomorrow I look for apartments and such. Wish me luck.

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Preston

Agent of Change, Former of Entropy, Seeker of a Stateless World.

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