One for the Road
One last little story from Quito before I disappear into the forest to get eaten by bears. I know you'll like this one. It involves cheap alcohol, Dutch girls (possibly lesbians), embarrassing behaviour and, of course, me. Ingredients that seem to be popular with people who read my ramblings. That's the kind of intellectual fan base I've gathered over the years.
My second last day of Spanish class just happens to coincide with a BBQ at the school. It's not quite to Aussie standard - the sausages are basically hot dogs, there's no steaks, and no back yard cricket - but there's free alcohol so we're not complaining.
We start at six and before the sun sets I've drunk more than my fair share of Cuba Libres (rum, coke and a dash of lime for those who don't know - and that's the most culturally enlightening this story is going to get). The school is pretty funky with a good vibe. The teachers, all good fun, have hung round for a free feed. The students are either from Germany or Holland but I decide not to hold that against them.
As the night progresses the weak drop away. Once the alcohol runs out at the school the cheap drop off as well. Only the hard core alcoholics remain: Darwin's evolution at its finest. Our teachers decide that it's time to go dancing. It's an indication of how drunk I am that this seems like a good idea. That and the fact that I am now magically able to speak fluent Spanish. Despite my newly discovered talent, my teachers and the other students still have trouble understanding me. I put this down to them all being drunk.
We arrive at a "discotheque". It's around eleven at night and the place is empty. And I don't mean empty as in there's bit of room to move and you can get a seat before the place fills up. I mean empty as in not one person. There's just us. I can't even find the bar tender.
The teachers head straight to the dance floor and it's at this moment I realise my mistake: I'm in Latin America. My repertoire of dance moves, which consists of such classics as the "foot shuffle" and the "arm swing", will be impressing no one in this arena.
I anchor myself on the couch and watch as Martin, my Spanish teacher, salsas (or possibly meringues - like I'd know the difference) his way across the floor with a young, pretty, female teacher practically stuck to his body. At this stage I'm thinking that even John Travolta would be feigning a knee injury to avoid that dance floor and having to compete with these guys. I'm not going near it.
It's inevitable though, I'm dragged off the couch by another teacher, Paulina. I explain (in perfect Spanish) about the shrapnel in my knee from the war and how I couldn't possibly dance, doctors orders you know, and about my agraphobia, my epilepsy, my nervous twitch, my arthritis, my leukemia ... none of my excuses work.
In a country where men learn the Lambada by the age of three from the Latin American equivalent of the Wiggles, a 28 year old man who struggles with the Macarena is something of an anomaly. I learnt my dancing style by watching Mr. Snuffleupagus on Sesame Street and in the years since I've done little to improve on his routine on the basis that if it aint broke, don't fix it.
It doesn't take Paulina long to realise we're in trouble and we stick to the most basic steps. Occasionally she attempts to mix it up with a new direction or a twirl but I punish such attempts by stepping on her toes and clashing knees. Luckily she's a faster learner than me and she sticks to the left-right, forward-backward routine I manage to master.
After several life times the song finishes and I'm not sure which of us is more relieved. I return to the safety of my couch and the sweet solace of a few more Cuba Libres. For some reason no more dance requests are forthcoming. Maybe Paulina told the other teachers about my war wound, my agraphobia, my epilepsy, my nervous twitch, my arthritis, my leukemia ...
The night continues with more drinks and more dancing (by the teachers anyway). Things start to get a bit hazy as they always do on such nights. Two German guys studying at the school have an apartment in Quito. We all decide to head back to their place and continue the fiesta.
The two Germans are both called Konstantine, which makes telling this story just a little more difficult. So instead of saying "then one Konstantine did this and then the other Konstantine did that", I'm just going to call them K1 and K2. It really doesn't matter which is which, and to be honest the night got messy enough that I'm not really sure anyway. If it helps, K1 is the taller one.
At the house we crank up the music (something similar to Ramstein from memory) and hit the cupboards for alcohol. We finish off a few bottles of something decent. I have a vague memory of Martin sitting on the couch, smoking a cigar with a female teacher under each arm.
With the good stuff gone, K1 and I dig through the cupboards looking for alcohol. We find something alcoholic that somehow manages to smell like rotten milk (later I find out that the K's use this only for medicinal purposes). Something breaks as we rummage through the cupboards and a flat mate of the K's appears from nowhere to tell us off. Our apologies and promise to turn the music down are forgotten the moment she disappears back into her bedroom.
It's two in the morning before the teachers decide to call it a night. It is Thursday after all, and we all have to be at school in about six hours. I tell Martin that I probably won't have my homework done by the time school starts. He assures me that's OK, then he and the other teachers clamber into a taxi.
I'm left with K1, K2 and half a bottle of the stuff that smells like rotten milk. It seems a waste not to finish it. As we knock back a few more glasses of the stuff the conversation inevitably turns to a break down of the various physical qualities of the women studying at our school. It doesn't take long for the conversation to reach the two 18 year old Dutch girls, both damn attractive.
The two girls are ... how to put it ... overtly tactile with each other and from my time at the school I've developed the theory that they are in fact lovers (hey, class can get boring, the mind wanders). When I voice this possibility to the K's, K2 is adamant that this is perfectly normal behaviour for European girls and they are definitely not lesbians. As is normal in these situations, a friendly wager takes place between us about the sexual inclination of the two girls (who deserve none of this, but we're drunk).
This leaves us with the difficult problem of determining the winner. Here the alcohol truly takes control of the situation. K2 spearheads an expedition to find the Dutch girls. K1 pulls out of the mission with some lame excuse about us all looking like dickheads if we show up at the door of Dutch girls we barely know trying to find out about their sexual inclination. Naturally, we make disparaging comments about his manhood as we left.
By some miracle (what do you call the ones that the Devil does?) K1 knows the name of their hostel and by coincidence I know where that hostel is. We stumble down the streets of Quito at two in the morning. Why no one robs us I don't know, maybe we aren't worth the hassle, or then again maybe someone did and we just don't remember. My wallet is empty when I wake the next morning but then that's pretty normal for a night like this.
We reach the front door of the hostel and here the story should end (or possibly a bit earlier). The hostel is locked up tight and there's no way the night watchman is letting us in. Another (anti-)miracle: A guy who's staying at the hostel arrives while K2 and I are deliberating our next course of action. The guy just happens to be studying at our school. He's also in the Dutch infantry and has recently served in Iraq. As you'd expect from a man with military training he highly approves of our mission and lets us into the hostel and past the doorman.
Shaking our hands and wishing us luck in our worthy endeavor he leaves us at the front door of the Dutch girls. K2 begins knocking on the door until he hears voices from inside (they may have been angry voices, it's a little unclear). I think it was at this moment that both K2 and I first considered exactly how we were going to handle this conversation. It had all seemed pretty straight forward back at the K's house.
I'm still standing there wandering about this when the door opens and a bleary eyed Dutch girl looks out at me. I turn to K2 for inspiration only to find that he is busy legging it into the dark of the night. Not much help there then. I turn back to the Dutch girl who understandably seems confused by my presence and the disappearing figure of K2.
I really can't think of any reasonable way to work the question, "so are you two lesbians?" into the conversation, especially since I don't have a conversation to work it into. After a long, silent moment, I settle for "Hola!" and a doff of my imaginary hat before strolling casually away as if this was a perfectly normal thing to be doing at two in the morning in Quito.
I find K2 hiding around the corner in the shadows. We say good night to the somewhat confused doorman as we head out. For some reason we decide we need more to drink (clearly we don't) and we end up in an Irish pub (where the hell this came from, I have no idea). K2 buys me a beer to make up for his cowardly actions. After the one round the barman decides that serving us more is not really in his best interest and without access to further alcohol we finally call it a night.
Spanish class the next morning is something of a mission and I've since blocked those long, painful hours out completely. Luckily myself and the K's have morning classes and the Dutch girls have afternoon classes so we managed to avoid them. With any luck I can make it to monday without bumping into them. Heading into the forest for six weeks is currently looking like a very smart move.
My second last day of Spanish class just happens to coincide with a BBQ at the school. It's not quite to Aussie standard - the sausages are basically hot dogs, there's no steaks, and no back yard cricket - but there's free alcohol so we're not complaining.
We start at six and before the sun sets I've drunk more than my fair share of Cuba Libres (rum, coke and a dash of lime for those who don't know - and that's the most culturally enlightening this story is going to get). The school is pretty funky with a good vibe. The teachers, all good fun, have hung round for a free feed. The students are either from Germany or Holland but I decide not to hold that against them.
As the night progresses the weak drop away. Once the alcohol runs out at the school the cheap drop off as well. Only the hard core alcoholics remain: Darwin's evolution at its finest. Our teachers decide that it's time to go dancing. It's an indication of how drunk I am that this seems like a good idea. That and the fact that I am now magically able to speak fluent Spanish. Despite my newly discovered talent, my teachers and the other students still have trouble understanding me. I put this down to them all being drunk.
We arrive at a "discotheque". It's around eleven at night and the place is empty. And I don't mean empty as in there's bit of room to move and you can get a seat before the place fills up. I mean empty as in not one person. There's just us. I can't even find the bar tender.
The teachers head straight to the dance floor and it's at this moment I realise my mistake: I'm in Latin America. My repertoire of dance moves, which consists of such classics as the "foot shuffle" and the "arm swing", will be impressing no one in this arena.
I anchor myself on the couch and watch as Martin, my Spanish teacher, salsas (or possibly meringues - like I'd know the difference) his way across the floor with a young, pretty, female teacher practically stuck to his body. At this stage I'm thinking that even John Travolta would be feigning a knee injury to avoid that dance floor and having to compete with these guys. I'm not going near it.
It's inevitable though, I'm dragged off the couch by another teacher, Paulina. I explain (in perfect Spanish) about the shrapnel in my knee from the war and how I couldn't possibly dance, doctors orders you know, and about my agraphobia, my epilepsy, my nervous twitch, my arthritis, my leukemia ... none of my excuses work.
In a country where men learn the Lambada by the age of three from the Latin American equivalent of the Wiggles, a 28 year old man who struggles with the Macarena is something of an anomaly. I learnt my dancing style by watching Mr. Snuffleupagus on Sesame Street and in the years since I've done little to improve on his routine on the basis that if it aint broke, don't fix it.
It doesn't take Paulina long to realise we're in trouble and we stick to the most basic steps. Occasionally she attempts to mix it up with a new direction or a twirl but I punish such attempts by stepping on her toes and clashing knees. Luckily she's a faster learner than me and she sticks to the left-right, forward-backward routine I manage to master.
After several life times the song finishes and I'm not sure which of us is more relieved. I return to the safety of my couch and the sweet solace of a few more Cuba Libres. For some reason no more dance requests are forthcoming. Maybe Paulina told the other teachers about my war wound, my agraphobia, my epilepsy, my nervous twitch, my arthritis, my leukemia ...
The night continues with more drinks and more dancing (by the teachers anyway). Things start to get a bit hazy as they always do on such nights. Two German guys studying at the school have an apartment in Quito. We all decide to head back to their place and continue the fiesta.
The two Germans are both called Konstantine, which makes telling this story just a little more difficult. So instead of saying "then one Konstantine did this and then the other Konstantine did that", I'm just going to call them K1 and K2. It really doesn't matter which is which, and to be honest the night got messy enough that I'm not really sure anyway. If it helps, K1 is the taller one.
At the house we crank up the music (something similar to Ramstein from memory) and hit the cupboards for alcohol. We finish off a few bottles of something decent. I have a vague memory of Martin sitting on the couch, smoking a cigar with a female teacher under each arm.
With the good stuff gone, K1 and I dig through the cupboards looking for alcohol. We find something alcoholic that somehow manages to smell like rotten milk (later I find out that the K's use this only for medicinal purposes). Something breaks as we rummage through the cupboards and a flat mate of the K's appears from nowhere to tell us off. Our apologies and promise to turn the music down are forgotten the moment she disappears back into her bedroom.
It's two in the morning before the teachers decide to call it a night. It is Thursday after all, and we all have to be at school in about six hours. I tell Martin that I probably won't have my homework done by the time school starts. He assures me that's OK, then he and the other teachers clamber into a taxi.
I'm left with K1, K2 and half a bottle of the stuff that smells like rotten milk. It seems a waste not to finish it. As we knock back a few more glasses of the stuff the conversation inevitably turns to a break down of the various physical qualities of the women studying at our school. It doesn't take long for the conversation to reach the two 18 year old Dutch girls, both damn attractive.
The two girls are ... how to put it ... overtly tactile with each other and from my time at the school I've developed the theory that they are in fact lovers (hey, class can get boring, the mind wanders). When I voice this possibility to the K's, K2 is adamant that this is perfectly normal behaviour for European girls and they are definitely not lesbians. As is normal in these situations, a friendly wager takes place between us about the sexual inclination of the two girls (who deserve none of this, but we're drunk).
This leaves us with the difficult problem of determining the winner. Here the alcohol truly takes control of the situation. K2 spearheads an expedition to find the Dutch girls. K1 pulls out of the mission with some lame excuse about us all looking like dickheads if we show up at the door of Dutch girls we barely know trying to find out about their sexual inclination. Naturally, we make disparaging comments about his manhood as we left.
By some miracle (what do you call the ones that the Devil does?) K1 knows the name of their hostel and by coincidence I know where that hostel is. We stumble down the streets of Quito at two in the morning. Why no one robs us I don't know, maybe we aren't worth the hassle, or then again maybe someone did and we just don't remember. My wallet is empty when I wake the next morning but then that's pretty normal for a night like this.
We reach the front door of the hostel and here the story should end (or possibly a bit earlier). The hostel is locked up tight and there's no way the night watchman is letting us in. Another (anti-)miracle: A guy who's staying at the hostel arrives while K2 and I are deliberating our next course of action. The guy just happens to be studying at our school. He's also in the Dutch infantry and has recently served in Iraq. As you'd expect from a man with military training he highly approves of our mission and lets us into the hostel and past the doorman.
Shaking our hands and wishing us luck in our worthy endeavor he leaves us at the front door of the Dutch girls. K2 begins knocking on the door until he hears voices from inside (they may have been angry voices, it's a little unclear). I think it was at this moment that both K2 and I first considered exactly how we were going to handle this conversation. It had all seemed pretty straight forward back at the K's house.
I'm still standing there wandering about this when the door opens and a bleary eyed Dutch girl looks out at me. I turn to K2 for inspiration only to find that he is busy legging it into the dark of the night. Not much help there then. I turn back to the Dutch girl who understandably seems confused by my presence and the disappearing figure of K2.
I really can't think of any reasonable way to work the question, "so are you two lesbians?" into the conversation, especially since I don't have a conversation to work it into. After a long, silent moment, I settle for "Hola!" and a doff of my imaginary hat before strolling casually away as if this was a perfectly normal thing to be doing at two in the morning in Quito.
I find K2 hiding around the corner in the shadows. We say good night to the somewhat confused doorman as we head out. For some reason we decide we need more to drink (clearly we don't) and we end up in an Irish pub (where the hell this came from, I have no idea). K2 buys me a beer to make up for his cowardly actions. After the one round the barman decides that serving us more is not really in his best interest and without access to further alcohol we finally call it a night.
Spanish class the next morning is something of a mission and I've since blocked those long, painful hours out completely. Luckily myself and the K's have morning classes and the Dutch girls have afternoon classes so we managed to avoid them. With any luck I can make it to monday without bumping into them. Heading into the forest for six weeks is currently looking like a very smart move.
posted by Zonski at
1:12 PM
2 Comments:
Comment by
Zonski, at 8:29 AM
I've just realised that over-trusting use of the spell-checker has resulted in my intended, but badly spelt, "agoraphobia" (i.e. the fear of places from which escape might be difficult) to "agraphobia" (i.e. the fear of sexual abuse).
I'm going to leave it. It's strangely appropriate.
Comment by
Anonymous, at 6:16 PM
what can i say d-diddy; your ability to ferret the more meaningful things in life (i.e. booze, lesbians etc.) is being exported globally and we are all the better for it...
Supertemp