There’s a chicken-or-egg conundrum going on in Spain, and I can’t figure out the answer. Do people party so much here to escape the reality of their major economic crisis, or is Spain in a major economic crisis because people do little else than party?
Last night, I went to tapas with some new Spanish friends (the ones I met at the beach house). After a few rounds, we walked to the one place in the city where it is legal to drink, called Botellódromo. Granted, it was the first Thursday after the Fall semester started, which means thousands of students have just moved back into the city and are seeing all their friends for the first time. But I never want to hear another word about how Santa Barbara students party a lot—University of Granada students leave us in the dust. Botellódromo is about the size of a large department store parking lot (actually it IS a large department store parking lot, converted into a dirty free-for-all), and students were crammed into it from all sides. The overflow from this place was spilling out into neighboring streets. The stores that stay open all night to cater to these student’s partying needs ran out of supplies. It’s like Santa Barbara Halloween, minus the slutty costumes and plus about twice as many people.
Although it can be overwhelming and incredibly dirty (there is a lot of irony about girls looking very classy in dresses and heels and then needing to use the “bathroom,” basically a dirt road that becomes more of a mud hole at the end of the night due to the vast quantity of pee), Botellódromo makes for a very inviting atmosphere. Botellódromo, and Granada in general, is like a massive melting pot of young adults who are all so eager to meet fellow students, foreigners and lifelong friends (and drinking buddies!). It’s less about partying for the alcohol (like in the U.S.), and more about spending all night meeting new people and conversing (or trying to) in a different language. It’s always a plus that anything we do here, even partying, can always carry the excuse of “practicing our Spanish.”
At 5:45 a.m. we left Botellódromo for the discoteca Mae West (most Spaniards’ favorite discoteca in the city, known for being more trendy and upscale). Wearing heels is generally a must at Mae West (and for most late-night bar or discoteca scenes, actually), and Spanish girls seem to walk around in 6-inch heels effortlessly. Needless to say, my American friend Anna and I were on the verge of tears the whole night, and I think I’ve permanently crushed about 20 different bones in my feet.
Our night at the discoteca started at 6 a.m. This is simply absurd, but así es la vida. I should add that this is actually late by Spanish standards as well, but Mae West is always so crowded that it is best to go early (2 a.m.) or late to avoid claustrophobia.
At 7 a.m. the club closed and we were kicked out onto the streets. We got breakfast before heading home, which means that we ate toast and sandwiches with men and women who were commencing their morning work commute. The sun came up as I finally made my way into bed at 8:15 a.m.
The Spaniards tell us that sometimes they simply return from a night out, put on some new clothes and go to class in the morning. No wonder people treat their siestas like gold here. The Spanish government should work out some sort of deal with the discotecas—the revenue earned from the entrance fees alone could instantly turn this country’s economic problems around.
No comments:
Post a Comment