Cookies and a Class Reunion
The first day we woke up in a bed instead of crammed into an airplane seat turned out to be eventful, to say the least. We stumbled downstairs after having a very long day and a night's sleep that didn't make up for half of it. Coffee (sorry, I mean cafecito) and pastries galore greeted us and lo, it was good.
After we finished ingesting a clearly unhealthy amount of carbs, Adri and Alejandra decided that we weren't done quite yet and decided to start decorating gingerbread cookies that Ale had baked before we got there. Ale, as it happens, is a trained chef, so... can't disappoint the cook, right?
After we got our artiste on we had lunch and killed time napping until it was tea time. Yes, tea time. Otherwise known as a-little-meal-before-a-big-meal. The British do it, too. So, we had tea and some family members came by. I spent most of the time talking to Adri's cousin about the games he designs and convincing him to go to the US to pursue a graduate degree. I think I was successful.
Originally, we were supposed to go out and meet up with Adri's high school classmates for their yearly reunion (only like 6 people, nothing crazy... or so I thought) the day we flew in but our schedule didn't allow it. So, as you probably guessed, instead of cancelling we just rescheduled and started our walk down to the Main Square to meet up with them. I had no idea what to expect, only that I was tired from traveling and really craving una cerveza.
Let me tell you: they did not disappoint.
Now, I'm a beer drinker. I like IPAs that will sneak up behind you in a dark alley, smash you over the head with a bag of wet hops, and leave you for dead. Huari, the Bolivian beer that was available, is decidedly not that. Don't get me wrong... I enjoyed it. It reminds me of Pacifico. Very light.
See the pitcher and the collection of shooters in the picture on the right? It was some concoction of beer (maybe Huari, maybe not, I've no idea) and liquor and God knows what else. They called it la pecera del amor or the fishbowl of love. Why, you ask? Because, according to Adri (jokingly, but probably seriously, too), if your table finishes the entire pitcher you end up loving everyone around you and they all look fantastic.
We finished the pitcher.
It was thanks to that pitcher that I was convinced to go to a discoteca. Let it be known that I do not dance, I do not enjoy being around people dancing, and I don't like the combination of the two. Fast forward to Noche Diabla...
When we got there I noticed there was no sign outside that I could find. When we knocked on an unmarked door it was opened a crack and a man said it was closed to the public for a private party. About twenty seconds later we were walking in. Turns out the private party consisted of the co-workers of one of our group, though I didn't know that at first. For about an hour I just thought we were VIPs.
Here, the tipples continued to flow, but my newly acquired compañeros had changed to tall glasses of Cuba libres, though I stuck with the Huari. That was, until I got kidnapped by a 4'11" Bolivian woman in her 50s and had the drink poured down my throat. My constant reminder of "No hablo español !" didn't seem to faze her. That's okay, though. Go big or go home, right? Er, you know what I mean.
After a bit I was dragged to the dance floor. Yes, I was going to dance. I'm nice like that. See, there's just one small problem: I dance like a sober Irish guy at a wedding. I'm neon White and have no natural rhythm whatsoever. I'm not sure who's more embarrassed: me or the people subjected to the spectacle. So here's the thing: for some reason I thought "dance at the discoteca" was going to be like this:
When, in fact, it was closer to this:
...which is way more my speed. Still, it was a good time. Adri's friends were really fun and I'm told they liked me, which is always a plus. I didn't bring my camera but I did take a few with my phone, though the flashing and color-changing lights made it really hard to get a good shot.
All-in-all, it was a good day that I don't think I'll ever forget (at least, the parts that weren't erased by a tiny old Bolivian woman).