Tuesday, September 04, 2007
Neither sexy nor violent, but mildly amusing....
And probably along the lines of what Moe's looking for....
So I am at Mama Mia's, a local club/restaurant/collection of bars, with two girlfriends who are, it's true, total hotties. We occasionally come here on a Sunday night to hear the jazz band in the restaurant. Our meal is long-finished, our drinks empty, and we are about to head out when a waitress comes bearing three glasses of wine. "From the gentlemen at that table," she says, pointing across the room.
Now none of us, whose eyes are all over 40, can exactly see who these gentlemen are. But we are mildly flattered, enough that we're giggling in a goofy sort of way, and they try to signal us over to their table. Nuh uh, says one friend, waiving her finger, then pointing and ordering them to us.
The guys come by and swear to god, they can't be more than 21. Juniors in action. Extremely well mannered for the most part. All three attended a prep school in the Boston area, where they learned perfect, unaccented English.
A bit of background: Fresa, or strawberry, is the slang word applied here to rich kids living off their folks, and there are a lot of them running around in San Miguel, and in DF. A fresa can be a man, but more often, refers to a woman. "Junior" is the term thrown around about guys.
One looks like a preppy Texan, tall, beefy, curly blond-red hair, sweater wrapped around his waist...he even makes the "hook em horns" sign at one point. Turns out several folks in his family attended UT. Another, is all speedy and hyper, with thread bracelets and a cell phone attached to his ear. The fixer of the group; loves Mexico City, doesn't miss the US. The third, who we'll call Byron, is the funniest, just because he's the most extreme. His hair flops in his face, and his cuffs are undone in a deliberate way. He says his family owns a ranch in the US, hotels and clubs in Miami and other parts of Mexico. He makes movies and writes books. "We love to party," he says frequently. Prompted by one friend, I tell him I was just in DF (they all say they have homes there too) for a conference on freedom of expression. "Did you party hard there?" he asks. I sigh.
He is currently writing a story about a guy whose job is to paint the clouds every day, but who gets bored and starts taking things into his own hands. He is, he tells us, from SMA, where he is a celebrity. Later, he also tells us he's a porn star. I would guess between one and three of his claims are true.
The bill comes and the boys start pulling out credit cards. Really. Like three or four each.
My buddy, who is, I must say again, a total babe, tells them she has a daughter their age, and shows them a picture. Chastened, Fixer and Tex become even more polite ... and more fidgety. They leave. But Byron, well, he's just getting started. He tells us he's sent his friends to back to the house, where they are having a party, to check for guests. He detaches from me, and moves to my buddy, the mom, coming on like a train. His friends are young, he confirms. But he, well he is 27.
Not that there's anything wrong with that. Believe me, I've met younger men on this trip, and I am definitely starting to understand the appeal. But Byron is 27...and preposterous.
They all claim to have family homes in SMA, and what is certain is that at least one of them does - a huge place that I've walked past before - which is where the party is.
The restaurant is closing, but Byron's friends suddenly return. "Chocolate (a local club) is closed," they accuse. It is clear that Byron is the wrangler and he has fallen down on the job. First finding only older women, and then failing to find another hunting ground.
We part at the door. They urge us to come back to their "party." We decline. (Sorry Moe.) They walk into the darkness, down Calle Umaron, looking for action at 1 a.m. on a Monday morning in a town heavily populated by retirees.
God bless em.
So I am at Mama Mia's, a local club/restaurant/collection of bars, with two girlfriends who are, it's true, total hotties. We occasionally come here on a Sunday night to hear the jazz band in the restaurant. Our meal is long-finished, our drinks empty, and we are about to head out when a waitress comes bearing three glasses of wine. "From the gentlemen at that table," she says, pointing across the room.
Now none of us, whose eyes are all over 40, can exactly see who these gentlemen are. But we are mildly flattered, enough that we're giggling in a goofy sort of way, and they try to signal us over to their table. Nuh uh, says one friend, waiving her finger, then pointing and ordering them to us.
The guys come by and swear to god, they can't be more than 21. Juniors in action. Extremely well mannered for the most part. All three attended a prep school in the Boston area, where they learned perfect, unaccented English.
A bit of background: Fresa, or strawberry, is the slang word applied here to rich kids living off their folks, and there are a lot of them running around in San Miguel, and in DF. A fresa can be a man, but more often, refers to a woman. "Junior" is the term thrown around about guys.
One looks like a preppy Texan, tall, beefy, curly blond-red hair, sweater wrapped around his waist...he even makes the "hook em horns" sign at one point. Turns out several folks in his family attended UT. Another, is all speedy and hyper, with thread bracelets and a cell phone attached to his ear. The fixer of the group; loves Mexico City, doesn't miss the US. The third, who we'll call Byron, is the funniest, just because he's the most extreme. His hair flops in his face, and his cuffs are undone in a deliberate way. He says his family owns a ranch in the US, hotels and clubs in Miami and other parts of Mexico. He makes movies and writes books. "We love to party," he says frequently. Prompted by one friend, I tell him I was just in DF (they all say they have homes there too) for a conference on freedom of expression. "Did you party hard there?" he asks. I sigh.
He is currently writing a story about a guy whose job is to paint the clouds every day, but who gets bored and starts taking things into his own hands. He is, he tells us, from SMA, where he is a celebrity. Later, he also tells us he's a porn star. I would guess between one and three of his claims are true.
The bill comes and the boys start pulling out credit cards. Really. Like three or four each.
My buddy, who is, I must say again, a total babe, tells them she has a daughter their age, and shows them a picture. Chastened, Fixer and Tex become even more polite ... and more fidgety. They leave. But Byron, well, he's just getting started. He tells us he's sent his friends to back to the house, where they are having a party, to check for guests. He detaches from me, and moves to my buddy, the mom, coming on like a train. His friends are young, he confirms. But he, well he is 27.
Not that there's anything wrong with that. Believe me, I've met younger men on this trip, and I am definitely starting to understand the appeal. But Byron is 27...and preposterous.
They all claim to have family homes in SMA, and what is certain is that at least one of them does - a huge place that I've walked past before - which is where the party is.
The restaurant is closing, but Byron's friends suddenly return. "Chocolate (a local club) is closed," they accuse. It is clear that Byron is the wrangler and he has fallen down on the job. First finding only older women, and then failing to find another hunting ground.
We part at the door. They urge us to come back to their "party." We decline. (Sorry Moe.) They walk into the darkness, down Calle Umaron, looking for action at 1 a.m. on a Monday morning in a town heavily populated by retirees.
God bless em.
# posted by Anne @ 6:28 PM 
