The Speak Easy

In a valiant attempt to break away from the club scene, my buddy Geoff, three girls and I decided to take the night in a different direction. We began with a fantastic dinner in the Gothic Quarter around 11pm. We then stumbled around the harbor area in search of an elusive blues bar. Finally we saw the shady moniker in the distance and weaved through an array of strange, cigarette-equipped characters just to reach the door. We stumbled down the spiral staircase into the basement of this ancient building. Called “La Monasterio,” the place was literally an old brick monastery with a stage and a bar thrown in for good measure. They played all the blues classics. However, where they lacked in their inability to pronounce the English lyrics, they made up for with their high energy and perfect rhythm. A homeless man relentlessly attempted to play his harmonica on the stage and, instead of kicking him out, they silenced him with a beer at the bar. That is a perfect testament to the attitude of this city.

Near the end of the show we met a man from Boston who is teaching English to young children here. After some surface-level chit chat he told us it was his birthday. We quickly realized that this poor guy was alone in a foreign city on his big day, so we initiated a new motive for the night. We asked if there was any late night bars to go that weren’t clubs and after a second of pondering, he explained that he knew of a secret place. The blues bar closed at 2:30am and we staggered down the bustling streets to a large square. Our new friend walked to the middle and contemplated where this secret saloon was located. Finally, we saw people with a similar plan and followed them from a distance. In the corner of the square there was an inconspicuous apartment door. These girls rang the bell of the second floor and were immediately buzzed in. We followed them up the stairs and we were met by a mountain of a man and a heavy wooden door. He gave us a nod and swung open the door to reveal a speak-easy straight out of the pages of an Ernest Hemingway novel. The lights were impossibly dim and the walls were clad with pipe collections, old ships, and dusty portraits. The music was low and was almost drowned out by the high level of conversation going on in every direction. We worked our way into the back rooms that contained an ancient, yet resilient, wooden bar, manned by a small woman who seemed incapable of expressing any sort of emotion. The next room contained a slightly undersized pool table and we were met with glares as we entered. Knowing our place we avoided the pool room for the rest of the night and posted up a table. Since conversation was encouraged, I found myself in my element. Shortly after arrival, I was standing in a circle containing an Australian, a German, an Englishman, an Italian, and a 50 year old man from the Congo. Our banter was at a high level; however, I cannot remember a single thing we talked about. I do, however, remember a heated drinking contest between the Englishman, the German, and myself.  I lost by about a quarter of a second. I have never been more ashamed. I then assumed a spot next to the man from the Congo at the bar and we exchanged general life stories accompanied by shots of Jack. The rest of the evening went by in a blur until I found myself with my new Bostonian friend and the others walking down La Rambla at 6am, beers in hand. The city was incredibly alive at such an ungodly hour as I made my way back to my rock hard bed. I will attempt to return to that unnamed hole-in-the-wall, however, I feel as though I have forgotten its location or it simply won’t exist any longer.