clubbing

I decided to come back to Buenos Aires for a night before getting on a bus to drive twenty hours down into the mountains. I took the faster ferry back from Uruguay, which though smaller and without entertainment, managed to have a bar and a Duty Free shop. I spent most of the hour ride in the Duty Free shop both because I like Duty Free shops and because this was a particularly exciting one. The boat was moving fast, bumping over waves in its hurry back to Argentina, causing the Toblerone chocolate bars to fall off the shelves and the bottles of Jameson and Kahlua to rattle against one another threating disaster. People had to continually steady themselves against the perfume shelves. No one found it odd. They just went on shopping, tax free.
Though I had been relieved to leave Buenos Aires behind less than a week ago, I could not have been happier to be back, so much like greeting an old friend. It was raining, hot rain, and yet I still felt glad to be sweating amongst all the Porteños on the subway. The city has an energy that is both exhausting and utterly invigorating. I can now understand why the ones with money like to take the weekend away, it is so lovely to come back.
I walked and walked as I am wont to do in the city. I revisted some places I knew and walked on streets I had not previously ventured down. I spent the evening with my friend Leah, (from Denmark) who is still here in the city studying spanish, and Justus, (from Holland) also studying spanish. I got my last traditional meal here of meat and wine, both of which were not disappointing. The consensus was then to go to a ¨club¨that sweet young Justus had heard about from all the Brazilian girls at his school. The club was by the airport. I do not go to clubs and I have certainly never been to one surrounded by landing strips. Upon arrival, it was clear that Pascha (the name of the club) was something special--a giant two story stucco house surrounded by parking lots full of cars, taxis, police, security and then hundreds of young people, waxed, greased, chests pouring out of shirts greeting one another, smoking, exchanging tickets, money, joining lines and making new ones. Everyone knew where to go. There was a sort of beaurocratic order that we failed to work our way through. It involved going through a series of lines, showing the correct identification and then knowing which line to join in order to get in(segregated, as best as I could figure into men, hot single men, women and hot single women.) Security, also with waxed chests greased and exposed, were fierce and unforgiving though friendly with the young women (also with chests exposed)who came to give them cheek kisses over the movable steel security gates. Sweet cherub faced Justus did not have the proper identification and none of us had the proper attire and so we left so much like all the roaring planes overhead, defeated if not better-educated.It was nice to get a brief if distant taste of the Buenos Aires that I had missed out on.