THINGS THAT GO BUMP IN THE NIGHT
By Suzie de Aguado

Years ago, when I was at the pinnacle of my party heydays, I tripped the light fantastic on a pair of high heels and a stomach full of rum. My home was whatever the nightlife offered me. I was a club chick, a party girl. I was the bona fide, quintessential disco diva. I had the look, I had the dancing slippers, and most importantly, I had the stomach for it. Although I would find an excuse to dance and partake of alcoholic beverages whenever and wherever, I was partial to the proper places for partying: nightclubs, discotheques and bars.

If I had come to live in Puerto Vallarta during the pinnacle of my party heydays, I think I would have been a very happy girl.

I had bid farewell to that lifestyle in my mid-twenties and entered adulthood a reformed party groupie. I invested in a new wardrobe, got a job that required actual thought to perform, and (gasp!) spent Saturday nights watching rented videos with my husband. I went from party aficionado to party pooper.
My husband and I immersed ourselves in cultural things and whatnot. It was pretty cool. I mean, one can never get enough of foreign films and artsy dinner parties. We would laugh about our past and shake our heads in disbelief as we tsk tsked all the while. Oh well, that life is a thing of the past and we’re all grown up now, we’d say.

Then, we moved here.

I mean, look around. This is the Shangri-La, the Utopia and the Nirvana for the serious club enthusiast. And what’s more, something about the weather and the half-naked people grazing about makes one (especially a reformed groupie) remember what it was to be twenty: red-hot, white-hot, hot to trot and, basically, hot all over (eh hem).

My husband and I had a flashback of our glory days, spent with a drink in one hand, a cigarette in the other and our feet stamping all the while. Oh, yeah, we were hot alright. But then again, weren’t we all? So we decided that we’d like another taste of those days of old. We wanted to be cool, young hipsters once again. So we got prettied up and jazzed all over and went out onto the town.

The first place we went, which is probably the first place everyone pioneers to, is Christine’s. The initial thing we noticed was that strobe lights hadn’t gone out of style but our fashion sense had. We went from fashionable to fuddy-duddy and were replaced by infant lassies embellished with glitter and sparkly stuff in their hair. And here I was all dressed up and nowhere to go. I had never thought that the day would come when I would stand amidst the blinking lights and beautiful people and scream: beam me up, Scotty!
Although the boom, BOOM, boom, boom, BOOM of the music was pretty good, and we had a place to sit and drink honest-to-Betsy, unwatered-down cocktails, we decided to leave. We said that we were too old for it, but the fact of the matter is, it made us feel old.

We went to J & B the weekend afterwards. The live music was terrific and as I danced about as someone who fakes what they know they’re doing, I asked myself when salsa music became something I actually enjoyed. The night was pretty inexpensive, as well, so my husband and I began to frequent the spot until we realized that we had to keep finding new places to go.

Roxy’s was next. Cool place and music even better than that salsa joint we used to frequent. Okay, okay, so the dance floor was about the size of my bathroom, but who cares, right? We had a nice place to sit and, again, the live music sizzled. We still go there once in a while when we dare to venture out of our quiet abode.

We went up and down and all along the strip and into every establishment that promised lots of drink and dancing. We liked some places more than most, which is normal. But, mostly, we were unhappy with the overall essence of the experience. We didn’t quite know what it was at first, but slowly, the cause became apparent.

With each new escapade, we were tackled by visions which not only made us squirm, but, basically ruined our festivities. Drunk tourists grinding and heaving and bumping this part to THAT one right there on the dance floor. Naughty traveler girls baring their breasts to yowling strangers. Red-faced youngsters sticking their tongues down each other’s throats. Whatever happened to good old-fashioned partying? You remember, the kind where you’d end up puking in the bathroom and passing telephone numbers, not bare breasts, to handsome strangers.

This is all new to me and I must admit I don’t like it. I don’t know, maybe the Catholic girl in me carries more weight than I thought, but watching half-naked, horny tourists having pretend sex on the dance floor just ain’t my thing. And, unfortunately, wherever one goes to party here, these are sights one is bound to run into.

I gotta be honest. I, too, was once a tourist and felt as empowered by unknown destinations and acted just as horny...er...I mean, passionate...as those tourists that I bump into our nightclubs do. So it shouldn’t bother me...right?

Well, maybe I’m old. Maybe I really am nothing but a reformed party groupie. I mean, drunken, drooling lewd scenes on the dance floor shouldn’t bother me one bit. Maybe I should do as in Rome, you know. Maybe I should throw caution to the winds and begin grunting with my husband and flashing my bosoms and think of the days of old. Maybe I should say to heck with the geek in me and embrace these bumpers and grinders and make merry beside them on the dance floor.
Aw shucks, who am I kidding. Beam me up, dear Scotty. Beam me up.