The all night botillin

July 2, 2007

Let’s begin with an image of my immediate scenery. A half-eaten packet of fiber rich soy yogurt and homogenized milk lie upon my desk amidst piles of books and old receipts. The Saltio tile floors are littered with coins and socks and a residue of stickiness from the excessive heat of the day. And, I? I am lounging in my chair, cross legged in new pair of linen pants and a familiar sky blue shirt labeled “BALLROOM, Marfa”, struggling to piece together all the things I have failed to write of.
The party on Friday and its exhilarating aftermath is probably where I should begin… Memory is a strange beast though, and even if it has only been three days, it seems ages ago. Nonetheless, I suppose I shall dig into the recesses of my recollections and retrieve some semblance of past events. The party at the Palacio was not as grand as the first, however, it was still open-bar bliss. I dressed in a brilliantly red striped shirt, I had worn ages ago at a cultural festival at Grapevine High School. I drank only red wine… that is, until it ran out and was forced to move to white. My intercambio failed to show citing an old friend who had been traveling abroad as an excuse. I was disappointed however, perhaps it for the best, considering the later surprises in the night.
We went to “botillin”, a colloquial term in Sevilla for drinking in the street. We had bottles of rum and vodkha and met with a gigantic group of Spaniards. There was Sergio, a former orientation guide who transformed to be our closest Spanish friend. There was Victoria, with her long curly hair and good music tastes. We sipped vodka and tonics with pierced lipped strangers and blue eyed emo boys. We toasted a birthday and our last three weeks in Spain.
By three o’clock, all secrets were revealed. We were amist artists and film students, gays and straights, beautiful crazies who thirsted for life and love. I felt right at home. The party shifted at 4 am from the deserted streets of Alemeda to the riverfront club of Priscilla’s. In Sevilla, where rain is a myth and the heat is legendary, for every party on the streets there is a mirror image along the banks of the river. The club was made for boys who like boys who like girls who like boys. A splendorous androgony of sexuality, that at it’s worst led to lonely views of the twinkling neighborhoods across the river. At it’s best, there was red bull induced dancing that lasted till dawn and beyond. We left around 7:30 am, utterly exausted but still leaving others behind who would surely dance until the club closed at 9:30 am… My head kissed the pillows that night and I was to some degree intoxicated till 4 pm the next day… Despite the excess, there was no hangover the next day. All I was left with was a thankfulness for life and the spontaneity it can bring.