French Night (Buenos Aires, Argentina, 2013)

As our stay in the magical land of Bariloche drew to a close (AKA the night before the trio was supposed to head back to Buenos Aires), Doug let on that he was done with city sights; he wanted to bus into Chile and explore more natural wonders while Girish and I spent another week in the Argentine capital. Lucky for us, while Girish and I took the 22-hour ride back to  Buenos Aires, another partner in crime was en route from New York City… my college roommate, John.

As soon as the dude arrived, Girish and I realized that we needed to pick up our drinking game. Up until now, we had been content to share a bottle of wine or three at dinner. John’s arrival meant finding amazing liquor deals at the grocery one block from our Centro apartment. Seriously, I mean like a handle of vodka for tree fiddy. A 40 of beer for a dollar. I had a strange time talking to the owner (having grown up in the US, I blame part of my struggles on cognitive dissonance from conversing with a Chinese man in fast Argentine Spanish – of course, Chinese people are far more common than South Asians in the country, so I don’t know what he thought of our group… probably assumed we were Israeli), but I finally understood that the recycling discount for returning used beer bottles was 50% of the retail price! Our minds melted when we realized that four dollars would eventually buy us seven 40s of beer.

John and Girish set to work sifting through nightlife options (after all, this was Buenos Aires). When John discovered French Night at La Cigale, the premier hotspot on Tuesday Nights, we were down. After dinner, we started taking shots and whatnot at our apartment. The volume of John’s shots actually doubled with each round. I had learned not to imitate this behavior after a few disastrous nights in college, but Girish was game and didn’t suffer too much, come to think of it. Soon we were rip-roaring drunk and having trouble locating La Cigale.

We finally found French Night, and it was… practically empty. Three floors of thinly populated, extremely loud club. John and I ordered beers. John asked the waitress where the hotspots were, and she desperately replied, “Here! Usually here!” Girish then got up and had a blackout conversation with some guy in a dark corner… we have no idea what they talked about since Girish, after returning to our table, couldn’t remember a thing, except for the phrase, “Somos la gente.” Girish then bought a bottle of water, downed it, and repeated and repeated… in total, five bottles of water, back to back at the bar. Meanwhile, I had begun to talk to some chicas. I suppose I was sporting some hardcore goggles,for when Girish finished his camel-at-the-oasis impression, he arrived at my side and told me these girls looked like birds of prey. I did a double-take and determined that they were indeed some of the least attractive women we’d seen in the capital.

Too slizzered to be dejected by French Night’s letdown, we caught a cab back to the apartment. The cabbie left us a block away due to the configuration of one-way streets, and as soon as the vehicle departed, Girish pulled out his wang and started peeing RIGHT in the middle of the street. At this moment, both John and I got a call from our own bladders. John started peeing on a dumpster, and I found a wall. Except for us, the streets were deserted, and glancing around with our pants down, we shared a moment.

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