Big News: Vince had a night out!!

Good news and bad news, folks. Bad news: Things are getting busier so I don’t know when my next blog posting will be. Don’t be too sad. Some sadness is probably called for, though, because my next post was going to include pictures from Rebecca’s visit (which was over a month ago, I know, but someone who is not me and who was also on that trip didn’t send me pictures until last week) so now you’ll have to wait even longer to see those (I had to wait a month so I don’t feel bad for you). The good news, you ask? My Yahtzee high score is now 436 (it may look similar to the old score but it is actually an improvement of 10 points). I left a lot of points on the table, too, so that could easily have been in the 500s with some smarter play.

Other than the bustling business of thesisizing, which remains entirely confidential, not a lot has happened since my last post, but I did go out to a bar with my housemates on Saturday for a concert (a concert in which, it is worth mentioning, the opening act included Xochi playing her violin and singing). What is there to do in bars? Well, if you are socially awkward, unable to dance, and not a fan of techno-Latin-remixes (or that song which I think is called “Sandstorm” which took me straight back to high school), you observe. Now, I don’t get out a lot (in fact I’m pretty sure that the two times we’ve been out to bars here doubles my bar attendance for the last two years) so these observations may be well-known facts to most, but they were nonetheless fascinating to me, the simpleton.

Both times that we have been to this place (either called Semaforo’s or Semaforos, depending on which of their two signs you are looking at. If you happen to be looking at Semaforo’s, you are also looking at the only apostrophe in Estelí. Well done.), the schedule has been the same. There is dance-techno-ish music playing, then an opening band goes up (last time this was a singing contest and this time it was Xochi), then more dance-techno tunes emerge, then the “feature” band plays their set, then the night carries on with dance music until the wee hours. Any one of these stages may be interrupted by a power outage, though, as was the case on Saturday, which therefore results in a new “sit in the dark” portion of the night. During the power outage we tried unsuccessfully to get a “Lion Sleeps Tonight” chorus going, but it only reached four people. If I may say so myself, I “ah-weem-boo-way”ed magnificently. I had another “ah-weem-boo-way”er, but he decided shortly into the song to interrupt our performance because he “preferred to sing the harmony”. I have apparently been going through life underestimating the importance of harmonizing in ridiculous campfire songs sang mindlessly to pass the time while sitting in the dark in a bar. I apologize. This guy is a weirdo in lots of ways (watch “Maria Full of Grace” and see if you agree with his interpretation that the uplifting message of the movie is that “life is tough but there is always a way to move forward”… like becoming a drug mule, apparently). But enough ranting.

As noted, I am a boring person who enjoys visiting bars to sit and converse. It has become evident, however, that I am in the minority. I absolutely love the bands and the live music, but as soon as the DJ music starts, the tables clear, and the dance floors fill, my comfort level drops to undetectable levels, leaving me to sit awkwardly and people watch. It’s probably a little creepy for the people I’m watching but I’ve decided that I’m O.K. with that. Here are the little tidbits I picked up on Saturday: men are disgusting, but I do feel bad for them when they get repeatedly rejected. There is a long line of men standing side-by-side along the edge of the dance floor and, every once in a while, they groove their way into the dancing crowd and approach a woman. Nine out of ten times, this woman makes a wonderfully repulsed face and sometimes swings at the man with her arms (all the while maintaining her dance movements). I cheer and applaud, though do feel a tiny, tiny bit bad for the man. The man then grooves back to the line, waiting for his next attempt. I felt particularly bad for the guy that had clearly spent two hours grooming himself for this big night, only to be rejected no less than 8 times.

In other “disgusting” tips, the, ahem, closeness of some of the dancing was borderline criminal. You crazy, hip youngsters (although to be honest there are an almost equal number of younger and older people dancing which is quite the sight) can have your hip-hop and “grinding” dance moves, but there is no need to (1) dance on one leg with your other leg straddled around your partner, (2) grab and/or maintain a grip on any body part other than the hand, (3) incorporate the main ceiling support posts into any sort of pole dancing, or (4) make babies on the dance floor. These are reasonable requests, no?

I must confess, though, that I was pulled onto the dance floor by friends of ours. I told them that the only way I would dance would be if they promised not to laugh. They solemnly promised, so I joined them. They then broke their promise. Repeatedly.

As I am wont to do, I also played the role of heartbreaker, kindly turning down innumerable (two) requests to dance. You may be asking yourself, Vince, how could you turn down requests to dance? Let me tell you. Apart from the obvious (Rebecca is my only dance partner… although we don’t actually go out clubbing or dancing so I suppose that’s still only a theoretical statement. Dance lessons are pending, though.), I have a few rules to follow. (1) If I don’t know you, I will not dance with you, (2) if I don’t know how to dance (which I do not), I will not dance with you, (3) if you are dressed head-to-toe in leopard print, I will not dance with you. Condition #3 took care of one request all on its own.

There wasn’t much else to report from the bar, except that the main act had the world’s saddest base player (emotionally, not in terms of skill) and the happiest accordion-playing keyboardist ever. Base players often seem unappreciated, but this one clearly felt it. I wanted to hug him but I’m way too macho to do that.

Hey, fun TED fact? Though we don’t completely agree on all things, Philip Zimbardo is pretty cool despite looking like Satan and talking nothing like Satan would talk. You might argue that that is not a fact, but I guarantee you that it is. He also has no regard for the strict time limit of the TED Talks, repeating “I will finish with…” about six times in the five minutes that followed the “end of talk” beeping. Also, another speaker convinced me that rules are destroying our wisdom. ANARCHY! That´s mostly a joke.

Something I have not yet talked about, rather surprisingly given their ubiquity (big word!), is plastic bags. They are everywhere and used for everything. I really mean that. If you can find a place that doesn’t immediately reach for a plastic bag regardless of the item that you purchase, I will give you a firm pat on the back. What’s more, I get confused, almost insulted, looks if I say that I don’t need a bag. When might I not need a bag, despite the shopkeeper’s insistence? I would argue that when all I’m buying is a pack of gum, then I don’t need a plastic bag (but thanks for the offer). I would further contend that if I’m already carrying two plastic bags, I can probably fit the small item that I am buying into one of them (but thanks again for the offer). Thirdly, if I’m wearing my backpack, I certainly don’t need you to run to the back of the store to get a plastic bag for each of my three postcards. Finally, if this is something I am planning on immediately eating or drinking, you needn’t waste a bag on me. A particularly bizarre incident of the latter occurred at a café over the weekend. I ordered a cappuccino to go and was not surprised to receive a (delicious, I should note) cappuccino in a paper cup with a lid but was rather surprised and caught off guard when that to-go cup was put into a plastic bag that was tied so tight that it became a big air pocket. The bag ballooned so much that I couldn’t even grab the cup through the bag and, not wanting to spill my coffee as it swung around in the bag, I gave the “barista” what I’m sure was a very confused look, untied the bag, grabbed my cup, and left. The looks we get when we take our own bags to the market are priceless as well. I wonder what they would say about my no-bag-required old lady grocery cart?

I now have two car stories to finish. Anyone who has talked to me over the phone has probably experienced the horrendousness that is an “announcement car”. These are cars that drive the streets of Estelí at speeds upwards of 5 km/hr, announcing everything from deaths to weddings and beauty pageants to Christian music festivals. They announce these events from anywhere between 4 and 8 enormous speakers mounted to the roof of the car. These speakers look like they could fall of at any moment and are normally held onto the car by rope or the weight of a human being sitting on them (or both). The cars are so incredibly loud that it is really impossible to hear anyone as soon as the car is within two blocks of your location (in whatever direction because the speakers are generally mounted so as to project in the four cardinal directions. I only know the term cardinal directions because the guy that insulted my Spanish in Granada used that word). It is even difficult to understand what the cars are announcing because they just boom out outrageous decibels. I have strongly considered renting out all of the announcement cars in Estelí for one day just to broadcast a message of silence. I´ve also considered renting out one such car to park in front of the evangelical church and blare noise endlessly for three hours in a delightful bit of payback. The day that my homestay mom told me that her brother drove an announcement car, she got quite a disappointed, flabbergasted, angry face from me. She probably thought that I was on drugs (oooo, continuity!).

The other car story, the denouement of this blog, has to do with people’s insistence to drop you off as close as humanly possible to your destination. Maybe this is a pride thing (like those of you eager to show off your parallel parking skills even when there are several drive-in places just up the block), but it is also a weird thing. Apparently if you as a driver make your passenger take more than three steps to reach their front door, you are a complete and utter failure. The driver’s primary concern when parking is not safety, distance from other cars, distance from curbs, or anything other than proximity to the door of the house. This has resulted in trucks backing up to garage doors and deciding it would be better for their reputation to smash into the wall than to stop 20 centimeters from it, drivers being so determined to align their car’s doors with the door of the house that they back over someone’s scooter to accomplish this feat, and people actually parking their cars inside of their house (as in, right behind the television is a Toyota Hilux truck. Which is, by the way, what every single person here, other than taxi drivers, drive. I’ve never even heard of the Hilux. Why doesn’t it have seatbelts in the back?).

That´s all. Sorry for the abrupt conclusion.