Claire meets my blotto self

Just when I thought it was going to be another of those drunken Saturday nights, ahem… let’s just say I got a jolt from the blue (perhaps green and blue is the better choice). Don’t get your panties in a bunch, just read it through. My amigos asked me whether I could make it to ‘Tequila Bar’ by midnight. Never wasting an opportunity to show off my German skills I replied: Auf Jeden Fall, which is a simplified German translation of the Yankee version — Does the Pope shit in the woods?

On the S-Bahn, I bumped into a crazy group of Erasmus students who wanted to steal me for a crazy dancing session. I sold myself for a shot or three of Jack Daniels. Well, as it turns out I am an easy person to convince, I hope the girls were taking notes.

We turn up at Barcode, a Hip hop music nightclub, which the Germans refer to as Black music — no that’s not racist. The club is a farce, a teenager could probably play better music as long as he/she is not a Bieber fan. The usual gig — dance, drink, mouth swears at the DJ, drink and repeat. The crowd thins out and at about 2 am we figure it’s just us in there.

Sudden realization: Tequila Bar and my hermanos! I excuse myself and reach Tequila Bar. The bouncer at the entrance doesn’t ask me for an ID, probably I should stop coming here so often. Scratch that thought. For some reason, I am forgiven for coming too late. I thank the alcohol gods for making people so reasonable when alcohol pours into their blood. Here I am, talking to my favorite bartender and eyeing (ever so slightly) that sexy chica guapa on the other side of Tequila bar. Notice the use of Spanish vocabulary, we are in Tequila bar — lets act Mexican ese!

In the middle of the conversation, the girl I mentioned walks up to me and asks-Bist du XX? My mouth opens but the words don’t come out right. I am no longer the smooth talking pendejo. My mind palace stops working. Let’s get it straight that I am not that famous. The girls who strike a conversation with me start with are usually like — Du hast richtig schöne Haare! (English: vague comment about my hair) This one knew my name.

Alas!I mumbled something stupid. Joey Tribbiani would have slit his wrists. There was something in those eyes (Green –Blue …jolt worthy), I was mesmerized. I gathered my defenses and blamed it on the alcohol. Then there were freckles. Damn! The music stopped playing and everything save her face went hazy. No one has that effect on me. I mean no one. I could have lasted longer against Mike Tyson in the ring, the trick is so prevent him from biting your ear. This was KO. She was Claire!

Minutes later she was back, heading to Hacienda at this ungodly hour. She asked me to come along, however much I wanted to go, I could not split. It is said too much time spent in the radioactive radiation is highly injurious. This was probably deadly. She radiated fun, happiness, joy. It was like Kurt Cobain had risen from the dead and had taken to the streets full of giddy teenagers. I felt like one of those miserable Jungs. So, I took a rain check. My bartender friend asked me — Was willst du trinken? (What do you want to drink?) To which I could only reply that no alcohol is as intoxicating as the experience I just had. So thank you lady. I am gonna bounce now.

I am dragged to Oblomow for our early Sunday morning ritual. Cappuccino. Always start the day like a boss! The giggling girls next to us are enchanted by us drinking coffee amidst all those wasted souls. One of them starts showing a little too much interest in my hair. Normal service is resumed. Same song and dance. Its morning and we are kicked out politely by our beloved half German — half Pakistani bouncer friend. Awkward. We stroll back to our homes cracking customary jokes about the zombies gorging on Kebabs. This was some night! Thunder! BOOM! Now get lost.

Originally published at on March 6, 2017.

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