The Return of El Tuna Grande

In the overly quoted words of the early 2000’s band Staind- it’s been a while.  My literary hiatus is not as much accredited to laziness as it is to the fact that I simply don’t feel comfortable telling glory stories of whacky adventures. I didn’t want this to be that kind of blog. I didn’t want to be that kind of guy. However, a man has to write, and I have bottled up that urge for long enough. Allow me to update you from the last post. I was semi-successful at avoiding the clubs for a period of time, during which I found a bar attached to the wax museum that had a “Midsummers Night Dream” theme to it (I called it a grown up Rainforest Café) as well as an 80’s bar called Polaroid, in which classic movies are projected onto the wall, E.T. and his bicycle hang from the ceiling, and a playlist that would make Patrick Bateman proud fills the air. However, my bar exploration did not last long. I am now back into the weekly club rotation, however, I am slightly more optimistic about it. I am sticking mainly to the two clubs on the beach, Shoko and Opium, where you are able to meander in the sand and return back into the club through the back door. I spend most of my time on the beach, gazing at the city, carelessly drinking 1 euro beers sold to me by the relentless hoards of Pakistani beach merchants. It is walking distance from my apartment and it is definitely a scene I can dig. Friday, however, we ventured to a scummy little venue called Otto Zutz. Usually a Monday night spot, it was at full force Friday night and it was as sloppy as ever. I am confident that I attributed to the debauchery more than others. The highlight of my evening was when I positioned myself on a structural beam in the middle of the dance floor and gave a relentless performance of Eminem’s “Lose Yourself.” After the act, I channeled my inner Mulan and attempted to shimmy up said beam only to fall 15 feet onto the already parted dancefloor. Needless to say, the past two days have not been very comfortable. After the club, I found myself wandering through an unknown neighborhood, searching for a metro stop. I finally stumbled across one and was greeted on the train by two European men who asked if I wanted to “go to a party with a lot of hot girls.” In the hypothetical “Going Abroad 101” manual, you are told to always say no to this. But I wanted to see where this was going. Burger King, that’s where. They bought me three burgers and a beer on La Rambla. They stepped away for some reason and I decided it was time to flake out and go home. I did just that and made it back just before the judging glare of the morning sun.