Into the Night

In all honesty, the words you are about to read are not the first ones coming out of my keyboard for this post. I had already put together the story of how last weekend seemed to have been scripted by a Disney writer who dreamed of becoming the new Woody Allen only to be stuck with writing lines to the Hannah Montanas of this world. The result of that frustration is, as usual, just another episode of my life where tragic-comic elements meet teenage drama. That story describes how I was struck by a life epiphany in the dancefloor of a gay club, how I cuddled ponies on a mountain, how I met Prince Charming while dressed as a princess (well party princess, but still) and how an evil hobbit stole him from me. After writing all of that, I realized that if I published such fairy-screwed-up-tale, I’d get in trouble with people here in Middle Earth. Therefore, that story goes directly to my post-mortem heritage and I start from scratch a more adult and less compromising version of the facts. 

To begin, and given that the relevant events of the last days all happened after the sun went down, it is time to provide for some insights about kiwi night life. Going out in New Zealand its, for itself, a sociological phenomenon worthy of empirical field research and posterior theoretical analysis. The first thing you must know is: kiwis love to drink. A lot. Too much. Driving around at 22h30 (!) gives you the feeling of being in the middle of an apocalyptic zombie movie a) because parts of the city are, indeed, in a apocalyptic state and b) long before the clock ticks midnight, there are dozens of people (young and not so young) literally dragging their heavily intoxicated bodies through the streets after already leaving behind a collection of empty bottles at someone’s house, which makes them look like packs of zombies. The dress code is the second thing that strikes one’s attention. No matter how cold it is, and it’s always pretty cold, girls (young and not so young) dress like they are going to a cocktail party at a strip club with their fancy micro dresses. And, naturally, jackets are a thing for sober/uncool people. To avoid all of this there are two options: you go to a gay club or you party with your own well-behaved friends. Last weekend I did both.  

Night Out.  On Friday night I headed for the best place to go out in any town: a gay club. It just so happens that this simple truth – already known for a long while by gay people and their straight friends – has also been discovered by the general population of Christchurch. Never had I seen a gay club with so little, well, gays. Given that the earthquake destroyed nightclubs and churches in the same proportion, there are not many options left to pray or drink. People are not becoming more atheist by the lack of churches but they are, at least, becoming less homophobic just so they can enjoy their weekly doses of David Guetta anthems. 

Night In. Life is unpredictable. That’s the main thing I have to say about last Saturday night. When I go to a house party with work mates, including Interns and PhD's students of an already reasonable age, I expect a civilized and enjoyable time with people I see every day. What I don’t expect is that I'm going to start my night by screaming from the balcony with a bunch of people to the home alone guy in the apartment building in front of ours and that such a guy is not only willing to put his shoes on and join a party full of strangers but turns out to be the best live male specimen I ever encountered of what I always pictured my perfect guy to be like. Damn it, he actually exits.