Al Huevo!
Saturday night I finally made it to the notorious Huevo. I started the night by meeting a fairly sketchy Chilean friend while waiting for the micro. He tried to borrow change, of which I had none, but then kindly told me where to get off in order to get to Café Journal--the infamous "gringolandia" of the Viña/Valpo bar scene--where I was meeting Amanda and Rio. It was actually cooler than I'd expected--very British ex-pat inspired, with an interesting assortment of mostly American hits from the 80s and 90s, but also some decent 80s British punk, blasting from the poster-lined walls. We met a large group of Hawaiians, as well as one of their highly-sketchy host brothers, Sidney, who I did my best to outrun most of the night.
In classic gringo fashion, we finally made the move to Huevo in a sizable pack of overly blonde indecision, and were greeted by a line stretching around the corner of the gigantic club. Even though there was a live band playing, the place wasn't that full, but I was actually fine just hanging out and chatting with some very friendly (and not sketchy) Chileans we met on the salsa-themed rooftop terrace (each level of the club is dedicated to a different type of music and dance). I even found myself a very tastey piña colada, some of which I managed to spill on my shoe (it was very full, and my coordination has never been great when it comes to food, regardless of the presence, or lack of a presence, of alcohol). Our Chilean friends found this endlessly funny. Even the bartender lady laughed, but then she got me paper towels. We ended up hanging around and talking, and forever thinking about joining the dance floor, for many hours until the other Emily was about ready to fall asleep on her relatively clean shoe.
On the micro ride back to Viña, I snagged the last available seat (the buses are packed at 4am in this city), and ended up finding myself next to some woman who was very much passed out and who, as I slowly figured out, had very recently vomitted on her leg. Whenever the micrero would stop shortly, her torso would drift forward, her head threatening to hit the fiber glass wall in front of us that separated the seats from the driver, and, depending on whether or not the threat was realized, she would or would not wake up. I plan on never vomitting on a bus.
Sunday was grey and gross, and after realizing that the family meal wasn't going to happen at 2 like usual, but instead at 4:30 in the afternoon, and then not finish until about 6, I realized I probably wouldn't be leaving the apartment. It was okay, though, because when we finally did eat, we had delirium-inducing tacos. Okay, so that's a bit of an exaggeration--they weren't anything like my beloved Mexican tacos árabes, but they were nonetheless tastey.
In classic gringo fashion, we finally made the move to Huevo in a sizable pack of overly blonde indecision, and were greeted by a line stretching around the corner of the gigantic club. Even though there was a live band playing, the place wasn't that full, but I was actually fine just hanging out and chatting with some very friendly (and not sketchy) Chileans we met on the salsa-themed rooftop terrace (each level of the club is dedicated to a different type of music and dance). I even found myself a very tastey piña colada, some of which I managed to spill on my shoe (it was very full, and my coordination has never been great when it comes to food, regardless of the presence, or lack of a presence, of alcohol). Our Chilean friends found this endlessly funny. Even the bartender lady laughed, but then she got me paper towels. We ended up hanging around and talking, and forever thinking about joining the dance floor, for many hours until the other Emily was about ready to fall asleep on her relatively clean shoe.
On the micro ride back to Viña, I snagged the last available seat (the buses are packed at 4am in this city), and ended up finding myself next to some woman who was very much passed out and who, as I slowly figured out, had very recently vomitted on her leg. Whenever the micrero would stop shortly, her torso would drift forward, her head threatening to hit the fiber glass wall in front of us that separated the seats from the driver, and, depending on whether or not the threat was realized, she would or would not wake up. I plan on never vomitting on a bus.
Sunday was grey and gross, and after realizing that the family meal wasn't going to happen at 2 like usual, but instead at 4:30 in the afternoon, and then not finish until about 6, I realized I probably wouldn't be leaving the apartment. It was okay, though, because when we finally did eat, we had delirium-inducing tacos. Okay, so that's a bit of an exaggeration--they weren't anything like my beloved Mexican tacos árabes, but they were nonetheless tastey.
posted by Emily Schulman | 8:51 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home