Party on a Prayer (Week4) appologies Betts

Party on a Prayer
My epileptic horse dance moves aren’t really impressing here (not sure they really did in England - but then everyone was so smashed, gazeaboed, mullered, bogrolled - you know Michael McKintyre? - to notice).

O yeah, we just hit a month with absolutely no alcohol. Final taster of the devils urine was a pint in Atlanta airport´s TGI Fridays. Was so weird, kept on asking people if my luggage was defiantly going to be transferred to Santiago flight. Walked past this amazing lounge, really luxurious with swish, pearl grey seating and glass laptop tables. WOW, I was impressed, living it up amongst the business class of Atlanta airport. I then walked past about 60 similarly furnished areas and realized it was the standard departure lounge and mine could be found at the other end: gate 86.

So many Americans, how are they so annoying?? Spend our lives listening to them gnarling on our televisions but when in direct contact their tones are so much more abrasive. Their accents spliceed through the galumptuous mcflurry consistency of my exhausted emotions. One lounge was like teaming with all these American soldiers about to go to Iraq (or some other important war). They were all in dessert camaflage and somehow didn´t notice all 30 of them till nearly collided with one on the floor - charging his laptop. It was so sad. There were all these teary girlfriends and didn´t really know where to look. Proper made me think of all those war poems by Rupert brooke and Wilfred Owen you read for alevel English. One woman shouted ´Thank you, thank you so much my son is coming back from . . .. today. . . thank you´.

Was trying to write about the alcohol. So basically the family I live with everyone is mormon (See blog - won´t repeat self) and this means absolutely no alcohol. Went to this fiesta (fiesta implies party in general so don´t wear your sparkly top and nice scarf. House party attire here is skinny jeans with big tongued nike trainers or converse and a t shirt.) So anyway, this ´fiesta´had been hyped all week, been asked by some people if was going and eventually set off with Manuel Chinga (small gay guy who can sing falsetto) and Edwardo PAto (who speaks fluent engish having done his mormon mission in Arizona, he has a slightly camp accent and says things like ´what´s up girl´) . Also in our company was Maria, mamma uno, the lady I live with whos about 50. . . I was now unsure as to what this party was to entail.

We stopped off at the corner shop (these appear about every 100metres and are run by the very old who look like peach stones and are the brownest skinned I´ve seen here. not sure how this happens as the shops are always open and seldom well lit, just filled with boxes. Brought eggs the other day and they came in a cone of newspaper)

Maria and Chinga exited the corner shop carrying bebida, this is a party on bubbles, fanta and cocola and walked on. I was still confused as to whether Mamma uno was just coming for a stroll or was actually attending the big bash. When we arrived at Ex-Casa Mechita (party house) there was a small room with mismatched chairs and occupied by a similar assortment of person. An old aunty type figure, some wandering Peruvian, bolding Hispanic pervert and albino cat. We joined on various stools. Linked by the religion of the Latter Day Saints.

Everyone was sipping tea and coffee, but on the raised area Mali y manuel (mamma uno´s daughter and husband, about 25yrs old) were setting up their massive speakers and disco lights. Just taking an awakward sip of coffee (which I now drink) and was suddenly blinded by a strobe light that had been set up on the balcony. Music blasted out, reggeton Classics.


Reggeton is the standard music here for the discotechqes -. Has it been coming up on your radio program? You may recall last years classic smash hit Daddy Yankee, Gasolina . . . liquid drums and base everywhere.. The aged slowly retreat, apart from the bolding perv who I am informed is called alfonso and to be careful because he falls in love with every woman he meets. No problem by me. He has taken duty of the biscuit run and keeps on scurrying to the kitchen to replemish supplies.

Things are a bit slow,. Music banging no one dancing, strobe light inexhaustable. A group of blokes are sent to go get more women. When raised dance area starts to fill my heart sinks into the bubbles and biscuits lining my stomach. BOY GIRL. NO HANDBAGS. NO LONELY FEMALES BUMP AND GRINDING WITH ONE ANOTHER. A man asks you to to dance, then you tango, salsa, shake your booty in whatever way you see fit. And remember this is a Christian house party. Some guys are doing some pretty nifty footwork, one is on a microfone, people are pumped, this fizzy pop party has got it going on, only 10 and people are dancing! When woah. The music is stopped. The guy with the microfone calls for silence, and there is hush. . .

We say a quick prayer to give thanks for all our friends and that we are able to have this fiesta. The strobe light claketing fanatically in the background accompanies the AMEN.

And then the party continues, light off music on and dancing , dancing DANCING ALL NIGHT until 530. no alcohol. Feel a bit of a pleb, baille a bit here and there with various people but can´t do none of this chileano fancy twirls. Bless there souls they decide to get the gringa more involved. At 3 theres a game of musical chairs. Only 6 of the guests required to participate. Me and 5 hand picked others. Jiving around furniture on the stage to Britney´s TOXIC. That’s the life experience Dean. Shortly to be followed by another game where I was required to run up to a chair, bounce on a balloon until it burst and then rock the mike, Psyche!, by singing along to ´´You´ve got to move it move it´´. Chewit monster resemblance I do not doubt

That said, all very muy bien and could only stand in awe. Everyone here can dance. Its possibly because one of the television channels dedicates itself to purely the hot young things dancing. At all hours, blatantly sexual. The five year olds love it. CALLE 7 is the worst. One evening spent 40 minutes with mamma uno y mamma dos watching girls put balloons up there tops and then pump them up until they burst, on the count of uno, dos , tres . .. .

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