Oh Dear, Diary

I appear to have been a little lax with my ‘blogging’ of late. That’s what happens, I suppose, when you’re actually doing interesting things – you don’t have so many opportunities to take the time to sit, think and write. A week in the life of ‘Clara’ as I too often seem to be known as here is now going to follow.

Having seen the horror-stricken lowlands of the Veracruz countryside I was treated to a Mexican nightclub experience. I was expecting a pokey little smalltown watering hole, and was somewhat embarrassed by this expectation when I walked into a huge hangar-style nightclub with pumping club beats and waiter-to-table service. The music obviously meant that I couldn’t understand a frigging Spanish word, but the copious amounts of whisky meant I didn’t so much care. The dominance of couples in our party made it quite a familial atmosphere, but everybody was friendly and open to the two ‘whities’. The girls attempted to teach me to dance like them, a lot of photos were taken, and a rather strange fire show failed to impress us – a rubber-suited mediocre dancer with gas-flame horns prancing about on stage. Oh dear, diary, oh dear. By far the highlight was the before bed alcohol absorption trip to an early morning taco place, where little old ladies served us up empanadas, tacos, guarachas, and other fried, meaty starchy snacks at 6 in the morning. As we were swaying on the spot mindlessly munching on our bedtime snacks, locals queued for a coffee and tostada before heading off to work. Smalltown disco I think not.