Take the Pill or Die Plastic

Chico Rock’s wild tour of Madrid continued for the remainder of my study abroad stay. Every Friday night, I would climb across to his room through his balcony, and we would pregame in his room before heading down to Chueca to explore yet another gay bar or club. Or several.

Unbeknownst to me before deciding to study for a semester in the Spanish capital, Madrid is well-known around Europe for its gay quarter. Despite being an overwhelmingly Catholic country, gay marriage is completely legal in Spain. Gay lifestyle and culture is prominent, sometimes preposterous.

Named after the Spanish word for “crooked” (or “not straight”) centuries before Stonewall, Chueca has been through more transformations than a desperate pop star trying to cling on to relevancy. All up until the 20th century, Chueca housed the city’s outcasts—criminals, freaks and other social pariahs, certainly homosexuals and sexual deviants. After the authoritarian dictatorship of Francisco Franco ended with his death in 1975 the area became one of the epicenters of La Movida, a liberation of creative expression, disregard for traditional aesthetics and a new breed of popular culture. The equivalent of New Wave but with far more transsexuals and recreational drug use. I once heard that during the mid-80s you could swipe your finger through one of the sidewalk creases in Chueca and accumulate small residues of a certain white powder, just enough for a bump. The streets were literally littered with cocaine. Then came the 90s. Chueca got chic with designers like Diesel and Custo Barcelona opening up boutiques in the now quaint but quirky neighborhood. And today, the quarter is home to more yuppies and young couples than criminals. I’m pretty sure that if Pinkberry ever made it to the European continent, the first location in Madrid would be in Chueca.

But after dark if you turn the right (or wrong) corner, you can travel back to a reformed version of Chueca’s old days of debauchery, partying until the sun comes up. That’s what Chico Rock wanted me to experience. He was adamant about having me be a part of his outrageous nightlife stunts: sex clubs and dark alleys, unknown substances and after parties. He kept saying how this was how young guys partied in Madrid, every night. He kept pushing me, challenging me almost, to stay out later and keep drinking, or keep flirting with strangers, see how far I could go down the rabbit hole. Nevermind waking up at 3 p.m. the next day, missing all my morning classes, hungover and with blurred memory of the night before.

The thing was: it was just him and his friends engaging in these excessive habits. He just didn’t want to feel like the only one, so he made a big deal about how common and ordinary it was to be so erratic, but deep down he was all alone.

I was madly attracted to him, so I kept playing the game, trying to impress him and turning into the party boy I thought he wanted me to be. I didn’t realize how self-destructive his lifestyle was until one night. November 9, 2006, three weeks before I had to come back to the states. The night I thought I was going to die.

We end our night at Royal Cool, but that’s where the story starts. The largest gay club in Madrid, the club is a neon institution that thrives on the bass thumping loud, men sweating hard and inhibitions plummeting to a new low. This is what it takes to be Cool.

As soon as we walk in, a friend of Chico Rock’s walks up to him and offers him something. I’m guessing it’s either coke or poppers since I see them snorting it. Chico Rock asks him if he knows where he can get more, looking back at me and raising his eyebrows with anticipation. The friend says no. Chico Rock calls him a liar. The friend laughs and says he’s serious. So Chico Rock drops it.

About twenty seconds later, the friend turns back, waits until we both make eye contact with him and then signals us to follow him.

The three of us walk back into a brightly lit room behind the bar. It takes a minute for my eyes to readjust. The friend introduces me to a guy with dreadlocks I recognize from going out. He asks me if I want pills, assuming that I’m the one looking for drugs, that it’s my deal to be made. I look back at Chico Rock. He nods.

“Si” (Yes).

“Cuantas?” (How many?)

“Cuantas necesito?” (How many do I need?)

The dealer laughs and tells me they’re five euros each. I tell him to give me one. He leans closer to me as if going in for a hug and puts the pill in my hand. He whispers something in my ear, but I can’t understand it, something about this being on the house. Even behind closed doors, the music from the club resonates.

I open my hand and see that he’s given me two pills. I take one and hand it over to Chico Rock, but he shakes his hands and says, “They’re all yours.”

So I take them both.

I walk out of the room and realize that: I just swallowed not one, but two pills. I just swallowed not one, but two unknown pills. I just swallowed not one, but two unknown pills from a complete stranger. I just swallowed not one, but two unknown pills from a complete stranger at a random club overseas. I just swallowed not one, but two unknown pills from a complete stranger at a random club overseas and really, I’m all alone. I just swallowed not one, but two unknown pills from a complete stranger at a random club overseas and really, I’m all alone and I don’t even have my phone.

Not only do I not know if these pills are laced (certainly they are), but I’m not even exactly sure what I’ve taken.

I ask Chico Rock how many he has taken before and he says something like, “a half,” but he could’ve said, “one and a half.” It’s so loud in the club, and I hate repeating myself. Regardless of his answer, two definitely breaks the “take only half the pill” rule—a rule I’ve tried to ingrain in my head ever since I started going out when I was 16.

So get a little worried, and decide that if I start feeling funky (a.k.a. like I’m about to die), I’m just going to rush to the restroom and vomit the pills out. Who says drugs aren’t glamorous?

The dealer with the dreadlocks told me that he worked at the club. He was an under-the-table drug dealer employed by the very own venue to keep the dance floor busy until the early hours of the morning, to have people come back Saturday after Saturday after Friday after Wednesday, to get them addicted to Cool.

So I’m waiting for the damn pills to hit me, to see what’ll take to control my body’s reaction to them.

20 minutes. Nothing.

I keep imagining me overdosing and being taken to a hospital. The whole university institute there, my mother flying in to see me.

Then all of the sudden, I’m totally calm. I think, “If I’m going to die, I might as well die dancing my heart out, right?”

Then the pills hit me: the music starts to penetrate, the songs expand and the whole ambiance changes—the realization that every one there is exactly on the same drug you’ve just taken.

So I dance and talk and flirt with new friends. My hands start getting really cold and then really hot, and then I start to perspire. Random groups of people are approaching us and talking to us. But to me, these guys are just mannequins, looking for colored pills to bring them back to life.

It’s 7 a.m., Royal Cool is about to close, so I say good bye to my minute friends and head out the front door, grabbing a “come back next time” glossy flyer with a picture of well-toned, blue-tinted torso on my way out.

But it’s on the metro that the pills, these drugs, whatever the fuck I took, really start to hit me. I sit there and just start thinking, and then I get paranoid and wonder if the people riding with me on the train can listen to my thoughts. “Am I saying these things out loud?” I ask myself. Of course not, you idiot. Or wait?

Then I get super nervous. I get off my seat, look around, looking confused. I feel like I’ve been riding th
e metro for hours. Surely I’ve missed my stop. Surely I’m somewhere far, far away past my home stay. The train stops at the next station, and I realize that it’s only the first stop. I’ve been on the train for two minutes.

I sit back down and take a look down at my hands. The glossy flyer I’d been carrying has been twisted and crumbled almost beyond recognition. The toned body now deformed. As soon as I start involuntarily grinding my teeth, the light bulb goes on: Speed!

I swallowed not one, but two speed pills from a complete stranger at a random club overseas and really, I was all alone and I didn’t even have my phone.

I get to my house and realize that Chico Rock has my keys. The light in his room is off; he’s not home yet. I can’t even remember the last time I saw him. It starts to rain, and I start to feel like shit.

But I head back out into the night to try to find him.

To be continued…

Love at First Color Sight

“C’mon, come with me,” my roommate implores in an almost whiny voice while leaning over me. I turn over, keep my eyes shut, mumble for her to leave me alone and pull my covers over my head. Not getting the immediate reaction she was hoping for, my little Badgerista begins shaking my shoulders. She’s always such an unrelentess force when it comes to getting what she wants. “C’mon, c’mon,” she goes on. Her voice is particularly annoying to me, while I lay caught between naptime and real time. “You know it’s gonna be fun.”

Is Badgerista trying to guilt trip me now? Actually, I know it’s going to be no fun. A bunch of pretentious college kids thinking it’s appropriate to act stupid because they’re wasted? No thanks. But she has been excited about this party for days, ever since she got the Facebook invite and noticed that her crush had RSVP’d “Maybe.” This blasé response gave Badgerista enough motivation to get all dolled up on a Friday night and drag her tired, groggy best friend with her by whatever means possible.

It’s been a while since I’ve gone to a college party. The past six months have been spent in Madrid, far, far away from fraternities, keg stands and beer pong. And ever since I’ve been back, I’ve been in this funky mood. Like Madrid was maybe too much for me to process in such a short time. And it doesn’t help that all I do with my free time is sleep.

“It would be nice to go out and have a drink,” I sit up and say, rubbing my eyes and scratching my head.

“Yes! I promise it’ll be a blast,” Badgerista says all giddy as she skips out of my room and into the restroom.

“So if I had said ‘no,’ you would have just gone without me?” I ask loud enough so she can hear me. I’m surprised at how awake I am. Her giddy must be contagious.

“Oh no! I knew I would convince you,” she says walking back into my room with a blow dryer in her hand. She is wearing a pair of navy blue skinny jeans topped with an embroided maroon blouse. It’ll be fun to be her wingman tonight and help her out in the boy department.

“And shower! There might be cute guys there tonight.” After all, she always looks out for me.

As we arrive to the front door of the apartment where much revelry is to be expected, I see a thin girl with dangling earrings standing in front of a table with a money box. Cover?

“It’s a fundraiser!” Thin girl shouts over Kanye West’s “Gold Digger” blasting inside. I look back at Badgerista and give her this look to make sure she understands that she owes me. “College feminists are putting on The Vagina Monologues,” thin girl continues as if trying to convince us of the worthy cause. I hold up my index finger indicating the need for one sec, turn around, grab Badgerista and move us out the way so that we can discuss.

“Are you sure this is the party?” I ask still holding on to her shoulders. “I think it’s a lesbian party…”

“Yeah, yeah, this is it! C’mon! Where’s your sense of adventure?” Badgerista spits a little, and I reconsider having taken those shots of vodka before stepping out of our apartment. Badgerista seems super eager to mingle with the vaginas… but at least her boy crush will be easy to spot. So on we go to the feminist, theater, lesbian party. And I think, “Didn’t really need that shower.”

The small apartment has an unused chimney adorned with blue twinkle lights and the wooden floor is sticky with spilt beer. It’s crowded and hot in the living room, even though it’s February in Chicago and the windows are wide open. The body heat is stronger than the weather.

Much to my surprise, it’s not really a feminist/theater/lesbian party. From first impression, it looks like quite the assorted crowd. Later I find out that much of the social diversity that night can be attributed to the fact that one of the most popular actresses in school had just been cast in The Vagina Monologues, and she had used all of her party prowess to make the fundraiser a huge success.

Badgerista and I walk towards the kitchen after tossing down our coats. She keeps an eye out for her crush while I keep an eye out for the free alcohol. After we pour ourselves a red cup of jungle juice each, Badgerista has to use the ladies room because her bladder doesn’t know the concept of patience. I head out the back door to the alley so I can smoke a cigarette.

The smokers’ circle in the alley is being entertained by no other than “The Drunkest Girl at the Party,” whom I, of course, have the privilege of knowing personally. We lived in the same dorm, right next to each other, freshman year. She doesn’t come off as your typical feminist per se, but she is producing the show.

“Hey! You’re here!” She shouts in my general direction.

“Yup…” I say, unwilling to match her enthusiasm. “Anyone got a light?”

“Oh here you go,” she lights my parliament. “So what have you been up to? Haven’t seen you in ages.”

“Just got back from Madrid…”

“Oh yeah! So was it everything you ever imagined and so much more? Are you going to do that whole ‘coming back from study abroad’ speech about how being in that foreign country for, like, half a year totally changed your life?” She says so mockingly that I almost take her seriously.

But all I can be when it comes to Madrid is earnest, so I say, “Yeah, actually. It did.”

“I love reading all those stupid study abroad blogs,” she ignores my genuine response and goes back to the mock show. “You think you’re the only person that’s ever gone to a different country and had culture shock? And it’s culture shock about the dumbest things, like, ‘Oh, you can order beer at McDonalds?’ Fucking get over it!” She shuts up for a minute, perhaps afraid that she might come off bitter if she keeps going. I happen to know that just earlier in the school year, her plans to study abroad in Prague had been scrapped due to a dismal GPA. “Did you start a blog while in Madrid?” She asks in a more serious tone.

“No… but I did write a lot. I started a journal. I know, it sounds cheesy… but some of the things, I just had to write down,” I notice that the circle begins to lose interest in what I have to say. So I stop. I save my best stories for an attentive audience. I stomp out my cigarette and walk back inside. I make my way through the crowd of people mingling in the kitchen, refill my jungle juice and go back to the living room looking for Badgerista. She’s probably still waiting in line to use the restroom. It’s almost midnight, and the dance party has already gotten started. The tipsy underclassmen grind and groove in the dark, moving in slow and out of order patterns as if submerged in water. The blue twinkle lights shine on.

Through all the commotion, I notice a boy swimming in his own world towards the back of the room. The boy with a face like an indie singer. A face I’ve never seen before: thin pink lips, wavy brown hair and bushy eyebrows above eyes the color of dark chocolate melting under a heat lamp. He is dancing with his girl friends completely unaware of his allure. Wearing Bermuda shorts, a sky blue thrift shop tee and tan sandals, he’s not at all concerned with concept of matching. I like his spectrum. His wrists are wrapped halfway up his forearms in a disharmony of hues. A heavy metal watch on one wrist, a thick black leather wristband on the other, mingled with orange, lime green and plum rubber bracelets and thin threads and loose bands from summer camps gone by. Around his glistening forehead, a cherry-colored bandana soaks up the light sweat caused by him bobbling and bouncing to the beat. The rest of the room suddenly turns black and white, while he is sharp in Technicolor. And I vividly remember thinking in that moment, “That’s the boy I should be with.”

“Ah, isn’t he super cute?” Badgerista asks interrupting my daydream and joining in on the adoration brigade.

“I think he might be…”

“Gay! Yeah, a girl waiting behind me in line for the restroom told me. Right before she headed out the door to try to pee in the front yard.”

“Wow, you had quite the adventure…” I say handing over my cup of jungle juice offering for her to take a sip. “So what’s this guy’s story?”

“He just transferred from some school in North Carolina,” she says after drinking from my cup and handing it back to me. “According to the girl, he’s kind of shy, doesn’t but gets really silly when he drinks. And he has all the girls here swooning over him tonight. He doesn’t have many guy friends. You should go talk to him.”

“To a complete stranger? And what am I going to say to exactly?”

“Isn’t that what you do to guys in Boystown? Figure it out!” She says implying I should have more game.

“Haha, don’t pretend like you know what I do in Boystown. Besides, this is different. Completely different.”

Right at that moment, “The Drunkest Girl at the Party” stumbles in to the living room, turns off the speakers and slurs in a loud voice, “Ok guys! Party’s over! Cops are here! Everyone out through the back. Come on. It’s over.”

Badgerista and I grab our coats from the pile that’s accumulated by the chimney and make our way out.

I didn’t get to talk to the Boy in Color that night. And after weeks of not seeing him around, I gave up. But my memory of him that night never faded.

It wasn’t until the beginning of my senior year, when I was moving in to my new student house on the off-campus party block, that I saw him again. Moving in next door.

Cupid Wears High Heels

Girls in Madrid never leave the house on a night out unless they’re wearing bright stilettos. They don’t enter the club unless they can flirt with the bouncer. They know which heavy metal black doors lead to the hidden dens of delight and which lead to a dead end, or worse—a tourist trap.

And girls in Madrid don’t go to the gay quarter of Chueca unless they don’t have anywhere else to be the next day, because they know that going out with they gays means going out with a bang. They feel free to expose more of their inner slut without the straight males drooling at their feet, waiting to catch another glimpse of their lingerie. It means drinking cocktails all night, stomping on broken glass, climbing on table tops, bugging the DJ to play their favorite song, bumming cigarettes galore, finding out why this dance is what they love and of course, playing the innocent game of matchmaker with all the shy, cute boys standing all alone.

I’m the boy standing all alone. My classmates are off to London for the weekend, and I haven’t seen or heard Chico Rock in weeks, but I’ve decided not to spoil tonight. I’m an undercover club connoisseur at heart and a just because my partners in crime are M.I.A. will not deter me from infiltrating after dark.

So a shot of vodka gives me that last minute boost to go out and try to find the low-key, local gay hangout spot, Why Not? After discreetly circling a few times around the block, I see some guys knocking on a wooden door and a big guy dressed in a black tee letting them inside.

Gays in Madrid must have some sort of fascination with old Hollywood glamour. Why Not? is way smaller than I envisioned, more of a lounge really, and starting to get really crowded. A dim glass chandelier is the only source of lighting. Along the walls hang sepia-toned photographs of classic Hollywood stars.

Alone and increasing self-conscious of my state in the small space, I scan around for new, potential friends. I notice a group of adorable young guys, wearing graphic tees and jeans, laughing and drinking, teasing each other with light punches and head grabs. But then, as I’m about to approach, I look up and see two navy stilettos coming down, stomping down the stairs. They belong to a tipsy girl with bangs. She makes her way down, waving, winking and throwing kisses to several different guys to her left and right.

Her, I make a mental note and slowly walk over to try to intercept her as she heads towards the bar.

Navy Stilettos used to work as a bartender at Why Not? and knows the entire staff. She’s in school and wants to work in magazines. She belts out whenever she dances and thinks the DJ here is the best in town. She drinks vodka tonics and her ex-boyfriend was Mexican.

We have so much in common that our interaction gets less forced as the minutes go by (and as we down our vodka tonics). She invites me to her table, and I meet the rest of her girl friends and this well-built, dark-skinned Puerto Rican boy with a buzz cut, wearing a tight button-up shirt and designer jeans. He’s Navy Stiletto’s current boyfriend’s younger brother.

“Es su cumpleaños!” (It’s his birthday!) Navy Stilettos shouts as she hands him another drink. I congratulate him with a smile and think, “an 18-year-old with those arms?” We flirt for a while, but I tend to go for older guys, so he’s just eye candy at this point.

As the night progresses, Navy Stilettos convinces her bar friends to let the Birthday Boy get on top of the bar for a much deserved celebratory dance. They clear the empty glasses and Birthday Boy climbs on without much hesitation and starts dancing to Paulina Rubio’s latest hit, “Ni Una Sola Palabra” as the crowd cheers on. Then Navy Stiletto, jealous that her friend is hogging the spotlight, extends her arm and Birthday Boy brings her up to the bar. Then, he looks down at me, comes forward and extends his arm towards me, encouraging me to join them. My first instinct is to reject his spontaneous invitation, but then I look around, estimate the possibility of an embarrassing disaster and decide… why not?

I’m just as much of an attention whore as the next guy, but it’s intimidating dancing on top of the bar, in prime position to be gawked at and judged. And I’m wearing all my clothes. Just imagine what it’s like for those guys that do it all in briefs. Hence, I have the outmost respect for go-go boys, strippers and other exhibitionists.

We get off after a few minutes but my heart is still pounding. I definitely need another drink and a cigarette to calm down the adrenaline rush. I borrow a lighter from Navy Stilettos, and she congratulates me on my bold move to get up on the bar.

“Oye, las chicas y yo hemos estado pensando,” (Hey, the girls and I have been thinking) Navy Stilettos says with a flirtatious look. The look of a girl in the midst of plotting. “Queremos darle su regalo de cumpleaños,” (We want to give him his birthday present) she says nodding towards Birthday Boy.

I pretend to be clueless even though I know something’s up. Birthday Boy looks delicious despite his age, so I ask, “Que es su regalo?” (What is his gift?)

“Tu.” (You).

Hours later as the sun is rising, I find myself in Birthday Boy’s room. He shares a flat with his older brother, whom Navy Stilettos is spending the night with.

Birthday Boy and I have already made out on the dancefloor of the second club we went to. In the single stall restroom of the third club, I unbuttoned his shirt and felt up his toned torso. Now, alone in his room, the only thing left to do is continue the make out session but with far fewer articles of clothing and in more comfortable positions on his bed.

He pins me down with both arms and sticks his tongue in my mouth. He is a sloppy kisser, but I don’t mind. The best way to deal with it, I’ve learned, is to be sloppy back. He has full lips and likes it whenever I bite down gently on his lower one. Birthday Boy straddles me and sits up to unbutton his shirt. He does it slowly, one button at a time, while I play with his thighs resting close to my ribs. As soon as he takes it off all the way, I lift forward and begin licking his caramel-colored chest, firmly stroking his nipples with my tongue.

He pushes me back down and starts taking off my shoes and socks while looking up at me and smiling, almost innocently. It’s endearing. He’s like a puppy eager to play.

Then he unbuckles my belt and unzips my pants, digs down through my boxers and starts going down on me. I caress his head with one hand and use the other to lift my tee-shirt all the way up closer to my chest so I can caress my nipples while he  sucks me off. The fact that he’s a sloppy kisser is not such a bad thing after all.

The morning after, Navy Stiletto flashes a huge smile as soon as I walk out of the room, hung over and wearing last night’s clothes. She hands me a cup of coffee, and with glee, mentions that she heard us last night. We both smile and gently chuckle, but for some reason, I get the impression that she got more satisfaction out of this situation than I did.

Noise Complaints (Part II)

After a few drinks out in the balcony, Chico Rock and his friends are ready to hit the city, and he wants me to join them. So I go back to my room through our connecting balconies. I take off my flip-flops, put socks on and my black shoes and change my shirt. I dash to my closet and get my jacket. It might rain tonight.

When I get back, I learn that the girls are not coming out with us; they have some birthday party in Salamanca to go to. So it’s just going to be me, Chico Rock and his friend, who has not spoken a single word to me the whole entire night. He feels threatened, I can tell. And I like it.

We get ready to leave the house, and Chico Rock whispers for us to be quiet going down the stairs and out the front door. He lives with his parents and older brother and they’re usually asleep by this time, I gather.

I try hard not to make a sound, but it’s the Bacardi shortly before midnight that causes me to giggle at even the slightest distraction. This tipsy, even a subtle touch from a cute boy can make me lose my composure.

We get on the Metro and get off in Chueca. Our first stop is Rick’s, a discrete gay bar a few blocks away. It doesn’t take me very long to realize that the Mediterranean décor and photos of Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman hanging on the walls play up an allusion to Rick’s Café Américain in Casablanca.

Chico Rock gets me a drink and hands it to me, then begins dancing to some trashy Spanish pop song. I take a minute and just look at him dancing slowly in front of me. I like the way he moves, controlled sways in one direction then the next, like a drunken rockstar on stage. It’s enticing. All I want is to dance up against him.

“Que haces aqui?” (What are you doing here?) his friend asks in a cold and condescending tone, disrupting my fantasy. It’s obvious that he is not very pleased that I have intruded on their boys’ night out.

“Estoy estudiando por unos meses,” (I’m studying for a few months) I’m short with him. It’s a defense mechanism, or maybe the thrill of the competition, that prompts me to blatantly treat him with indifference.

“Pero, tio, que no eres Latino? Sabes Español perfectamente.” (But, man, aren’t you Latino? You know Spanish perfectly).

“Eso no quiere decir que no pueda aprendar algo nuevo,” (That doesn’t mean I can’t learn something new) I say without looking at him. My sight is still fixated on Chico Rock. I down my drink, put the glass down on the bar and drag him to the small dancefloor a few steps in front of us, leaving sour-faced friend by himself.

What follows are a few minutes of getting up close and personal, of me getting so close to him that I can feel his breath on my neck.

“Oye, chico rebelde sabe bailar!” (Hey, rebel boy can dance!) Chico Rock yells to his friend, making sure he doesn’t feel left out. They have already given me a nickname, Rebelde, stemming from the time my ancestors beat the crap out of the Spaniards in the Latin American revolutions of decades ago (with the help of the French, let’s not ignore some historic justice here).

I don’t really know what to make of these two guys and their past. Obviously, there is some territory being contested, and we’re all looking to conquer. But the exact details of their friendship (or more) remain unclear. They’re both being intentionally vague whenever I ask.

Their night out turns into a night tour of real Madrid, not found in any gringo guidebook. I’m in the passenger seat; Chico Rock is my guide.

So after hitting some other bars, we end up at an infamous sex club not too far away. There are no signs and only locals know what lies behind the heavy metal door. I’m pretty wasted at this point, but I reject the thought of any frisky business going down. Despite my impulsive and often reckless behavior, I know how to take care of myself, and having a threesome, maybe even an orgy, in public with complete strangers does not sound that appetizing for this romantic. But would I say no to having a peek inside the underworld?

Look but don’t touch, Rebelde.

My vision is blurry, and it doesn’t help that the place is pitch black. Even after my eyes adjust, all I can make out are silhouettes walking slowly from one back room to the next—a Laberinto de Pasiones, Almodóvar would say. In the first room, an erotic film is being projected onto a blank wall. It flickers on and off. In the next room, the soft red lighting helps me notice that along opposite walls, there are booths with thick, red velvet curtains to conceal what’s going on inside. But I can still figure it out. Noises can often tell a fully story, especially this dark.

Finally we get to the very back room. A chandelier shines some light on maybe 12 or 15 bodies, touching and moaning, laying on a giant circular table, and a crowd of spectators gathered to watch the intimate exploits and ecstasy.

We decide that, for us, showtime is over; time to wake up. It’s pouring when we leave the club, and the street lights are so bright compared to the dungeon we just walked out of that it takes a few minutes for our eyes to adjust back to reality.

Chico Rock guides me to the nearest Metro stop and tells me how to get home. And right before I run down the stairs to the station, he grabs my face and kisses me as we’re getting drenched—the beginning of a beautiful friendship (or more).

But as I wait for my train, I remember that Chico Rock lives right next door. Why aren’t we taking the same train home? Why isn’t he coming with me? Where is he spending the rest of the night?

[Noise Complaints (Part I)]

Noise Complaints (Part I)

One of the things I remember most about my home stay in Madrid is how thin the walls were. At any given moment of the day, I could hear my next-door neighbor blasting The Strokes, The Libertines or some Spanish post-punk band I didn’t quite recognize. Sometimes he would join and sing along, terribly off-key. Not long after I first got settled with my host family, this noise complaint turned into a sort of guessing game to see if I could recognize the melody or the lead singer’s voice. Oh yeah, it’s Interpol. I didn’t know anything about my mysterious neighbor whom I shared a wall with, except that he had impeccable taste in music.

Halfway through my study abroad semester, I wanted to start hanging out with locals, Madrileños, so I began making an effort and dragging the Americanos from school to hang out in Chueca (gay and trendy) and Malasaña (hip and grungy). Madrid is a great city to just go out and get lost exploring. There’s always something to discover around the corner. Every night can be an adventure.

Even the nights when you decide to stay home.

One breezy Thursday night, I’m in my room catching up on Don Quixote for class when the music starts. Catchy rock tunes with heavier guitar riffs make the glass door leading to my balcony start to vibrate. A few minutes later, I begin hearing voices coming in and soft chuckles and laughter. My curiosity, acting up yet again, gets the best of me, so I place my ear up to my wall to try to listen in on the silly Spanish conversations occurring on the other side. I hear the boys and girls, maybe five or six of them, and the faint sound of ice circling and hitting the bottom of empty glasses followed by the sound of liquid pouring and fizzling.

I’m not quite satisfied with my findings, so I put my bookmark in the middle of Cervantes and put on my flip-flops. I walk out to my balcony, and I see a guy on the balcony next door. He’s got messy black hair, thick eyebrows, some stubble and is leaning up against the railing in faded blue jeans and wearing a loose-fitting white tee on his Olive-colored torso. He catches me come out just five feet away and quickly takes a drag off his cigarette.

“Hola, eres my nuevo vecino?” (Hello, you are my new neighbor?) he asks me.

“Si, si. Me estoy quedando aqui,” (Yeah. I’m staying here) I respond pointing to the light coming from my room where Don Quixote was left behind.

“Pues brinca y ven a tomar un trago. Tenemos Bacardi,” (Well, jump over and come have a drink. We have Bacardi) he says smiling and extending his right arm towards me. Right then, a thin girl with long, straight auburn hair and fine features, wearing a black short dress and a gold bracelet, comes out and starts lighting her cigarette.

“Hoy, tio. Ven, ven que aqui hay fiesta,” (Hey, man. Come, come we’re throwing a party) she says and before I can say another word, they’re both helping me jump over from my balcony to his in my flip-flops.

The room is bigger than I expected, bigger than mine at least. There are actually just four people in inside, the two I had met out on the balcony and another guy and girl making drinks by the speakers, behind them is a poster of Paul Simonon from The Clash smashing his bass guitar on the ground. Chico Rock hands me a glass of Bacardi and coke. One of the girls takes out a bag of cocaine from her clutch.

Adventure begins.

[Noise Complaints (Part II)]