The Club with the Professor

The night after we went to Tlaquepaque, we went out to the club with one of our professors, his wife, and their friends. The club we usually go to for salsa dancing is called Wallstreet, a pretty ritzy, very Mexican (despite the name), decently priced club full of people who can all dance very well. We pride ourselves that we are usually not the worst dancers on the floor anymore, though certainly still in the bottom 20%. With el profe, we went to a club called the Mutualista, after enjoying a few drinks and snacks at his very metropolitan apartment in downtown Guadalajra: pictured here are the host and the lovely hostess, chivalrilously taking seats on the floor to provide comfort for their guests. La Mutualista-- very different. Partly due to the fact that there was a massive concert at La Minerva that night (la Minerva is a statue of a Greek Goddess around which are centered many festivals and such) and partly due to the very nature of La Mutualista, this club was packed with middle-aged folks attempting to stage one-night stands. That I didn't mind at all; old people need lovin too. What struck me as unappealing was that almost nobody could dance a good salsa. The ensuing scene was that of a highschool dance, with everybody grinding up and gettin low on each other with beers in their hands, but to salsa music. I, myself, was struck by a recklessly snapped boody or hip on more than one occasion. I think it was recklessness, though those collision may very well have been calculated, too.
Oh how I wish I had a camera for one thing! There was one man, who in the spirit of Bob Dylan I will call "Senor Bojangles." He was around 6'5'', dressed in all black (formal, but no tie), which his hair burshed to the side and a bigote (mustache) like a damn pringles can. And, yes, he danced for you. Even to the extent that on one occasion he felt that I should spin, and so he spun me thus by grabbing my shoulders with his hands and twirling me himself. It didn't appear to bother the girl I was dancing with at the time, who was far to drunk to do anything but swing dance like a 5-year-old would swing dance: just sort of pushing herself out and leaning back, and then returning towards me to be immediately pushed out to arm-extension again. I tried leading her into some salsa steps and spins, which ended badly each time por ella ser borracha (cuz she was crunk). Afterwards, I imagine her confidence was wounded and self-esteem low, but I doubt she will remember, so she should be alright. Mr. Bojangles, though, never once wore an expression on his face more lackluster than the enthusiasm of a man dancing around the sidewalks of New York, swinging from lamposts and professing his love for women, nature, and life. I envy his bliss, which survives his lack of dancing ability gloriously.

The only other event of the night was the 40 minute car ride searching for our place of festivities. Originally, the group had been convinced to go to a very popular gay bar. These places are apparently only half-gay, as many people go there for the excellent dancing or just to say that they went to a gay bar. At any rate, Richard and I suspected that our dancing skills would cause people to assume we were gay, but we were equipped with the phrases to explain that we weren't, so we were ready to roll. As always in Mexico, during a discussion that touches on homosexuality, there are crude statements made that I usually just listen to unresponsively, realizing that I have little chance of making Mexico or Mexicans less violently Catholic. Asi es la vida.
Well, after driving around for a while not finding the said gay bar--entirely because we allowed for the drunken damsels to lead the way--we arrived to find that it was overcrowded and very expensive. So, we went to La Mutualista, which was as I described before. Above are pictured Los Tres Gringos, in usual fashion, Richard and Korey keeping a good attitude while I bitterly make jokes about the shortcomings of the moment. Korey usually smiles alot but says sarcastic things like, "who would have thought that letting the drunk girls navigate would turn out so well?" Richard laughs alot supportive of both of us, sometimes choosing to join in with the complaining and other times choosing to enjoy the moment for what it's worth. We have good team chemistry, which each person acknowledging their role.

Another interesting fact learned on this voyage: I have no pictures, but in Guadalajara there are lots of parking spaces off the side of the rode, not to be parallel parked in, but rather perpendicular to the rode just across the sidewalk. There are men, infallibly with dirty towels in their hands, who assist drivers in pulling in and out of these spaces around heavy traffic....whether the drivers want the assitance or not. This is apparently an illegal industry. However, if you don't pay these men, they slash your tires your break your windows. They are a mafia that rules the street. I imagine there is a closed facebook group for them, on which they post the lisence plate numbers of those people who attempted not to pay, who are then forced to change their plate numbers or cease parking in Guadalajara. I might try to take a picture, but I fear that the towel-parking mafia won't approve, and since I have no tires or windows, they will be forced to damage my body instead.