I was the last to enter the bar. There were red fluorescent lights spliced by white bulbs from the jukebox across the room. A crackling speaker hurled remnants of what were once top 40 hits somewhere, at sometime in the hemisphere. There was a man at the bar dressed in a suit who surveyed the gringos waltzing in. We had one Mexican with us, but the necks that spun 180 degrees towards the front of the house, jolted by their exhausting routine, were in no way detoured. Flummoxed and sullen red-faces grazed the scene from left to right after they spotted a woman in the group. What is this?, they wondered.

M sat us down at a table, while D#2 shot directly for the Jukebox. Habanero sat bewildered by where we’d arrived. “Has venido a este bar, P?” “Nunca en mi vida!”

A hunched man with a sweaty beer twitched behind us. Another man across the way never awoke from his slumber during the few hours we were there. Only one other patron entered the bar after us. We ordered beers, ate peanuts and talked about marriage as equal rights or marriage as an abolished institution. No one made any headway so we turned to the Jukebox. D#2 was adamant about playing Shakira. 70 pesos later and there was still no Shakira. No worries. I found out D#2 is a big fan of Juanes‘ more “metal stuff.” I realized I wasn’t a real fan of big, curvy bangs.

 

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