A Night in Ñuñoa.

Saturday night. Me and the boys want to go out and party hard, like in the good old days. We are all twenty five but we feel as if we were the last gang in town so we decide to go and have a riot on our own. We walk along Irarrázabal until we reach Balleduc, a discotheque where ‘alternative’ people gather together every week so as to lure each other with their ambiguous looks, show off their fierce clothes and search for impressive dazzling sights. We stand at the queue and have a look at the rank. Girls and boys who do not seem to be part of the daily crowd that walk with the zombies in our living parade in Santiago. Leather jackets, leather trousers, leather everywhere. Shinny boots and velvet gloves. Lass and lads wear make up so as to preen their faces and attract the others. We are dressed in dull, gloomy black clothes. Dark denim trousers and long, black coats. No showy hair cuts, no piercing or tattoos. We have the normal repellent, coy, Santiago looks. No one seems to care about us. Everyone is looking for their quarry, so do we. Once on the dance floor we face dim lights, alcohol and cigarette smoke. We want to dance and find girls so as to make our move, but it seems that we will not get away with it tonight. Girls, boys, drags and ‘weirdoes’ dance in a sort of ritual which may lead to satisfaction at dawn, it feels as if Carl Barat and Pete Doherty might be kissing somewhere among the dancing sweaty drunken bodies while Lou Reed is waiting for his chance. We move our bones in a corner while Morrissey whispers through the loud speakers and the stairs are crammed with kissing couples that met five minutes ago in the queue. We are astonished, anxious and a bit bored. We try to ridiculously imitate the rest but we feel like idiots, like cheap clones of the kings of the night. Every one is looking at us but no one notices our presence. We do not belong here but we are part of the herd.


Same night, an hour later. After trying to fit in this odd den we realize that we are too old, too narrow minded and too ugly to score in such a place. We can still hear the music while we walk away: ‘in many ways/they’ll miss the good old days’ sing The Strokes as we leave the place behind. We walk towards Vicuña Mackena and we come across this tiny, old fashioned tavern called ‘El Trébol’. We get in. It is full of wooden tables and chairs that resemble the ones my grand mother keeps in her room. The place is almost empty. Only a couple of scruffy, wrinkled, drunk-hearted men stand at the bar. No girl or woman is in sight, only the waitress, but she is not what you may call attractive. There is no radio here. An old man is sitting near the toilets with his guitar singing ‘boleros’ and songs by Los Ángeles Negros and Buddy Richards. We ask for something to drink and the bar tender goes: “beer or terremoto?” We look at each other and nod. ‘Terremoto’. We sit at one of the tables. The furniture is about to collapse. It smells like aged spirit. The walls have this dark, reddish colour that reminds me of Dante. While we wait for our drinks silence comes through. We know that as soon as we finish our ‘terremotos’ we ought to leave this place. Every one is looking at us since everyone notices our presence. We do not belong here but we are part of the herd.


Thirty minutes later and we are already on the pavement waiting for a taxi. We realize that the only place we can feel at ease is ‘Mephisto bar’ in Macul Avenue, so we ask the taxi driver to give us a lift. When we are about to get there we notice all the habitual and common fellow guests: metal maniacs; gothic girls dressed in black; post-punk rejects; blue collar guys who left their ties at home and wear their Saturday night best; beautiful darlings in their drain-pipe trousers or their short skirts. Make up is only for ladies. Men talk about their wheels or the next football match, just like we do in the taxi, in our homes, everywhere, all the time. We get off and walk towards the bar. We are thirsty and feel we will get lucky this time. We look good. Long legs, self-confident steps, sideburns, angry eyes and worn-out denim. We look cool. Once at the entrance the waiter comes to us and refuses to let us in. He says we are not welcomed anymore due to our wild and extremely impolite behaviour. We scream and yield but he will not listen. Access is forbidden. Every one is looking at us. Every one notices our presence. We do belong here, but we are no longer part of the herd.