Arequipa is Peru’s second largest city, and has a sunny, touristy vibe. It is also surrounded by beautiful mountains and volcanoes, with a colonial history evident in its charming streets. Of course I’m not paying much attention to this, as after checking in to another Point hostel, I’m making a bee line for a bar called “William Wallace.” I’ve got about an hour before the FA Cup final, Chelsea verses the mighty reds. Only this time we weren’t so mighty.
If I had been at home, I would probably have cried a little more into my beer, but I know that it’s a full moon, I’m in Arequipa, meeting Paddy later, and we’re going to have one crazy, crazy night out. Losing an FA cup final isn’t that much big of a deal.
Yes it is; we were fucking robbed.
On little sleep I make it back to the hostel around 2pm, four large beers and a broken heart in. The troops are rallying to go to something called Mr Fish. I’m just imagining a bar where people gather early doors, before moving into night owl territory. What I get is a massive warehouse, rammed to the rafters with attractive girls, a stage show with the Peruvian One Direction dressed in pajamas, gorgeous Lucky Strike girls handing out jelly shots, and a fight. Nearly.
In between I’ve raced back to the hostel to collect my laundry, thrown on the kilt, met Paddy and bolted back to the venue. This is going to get very messy. Now I thought I’d had attention before with my peacock effect, but this topped them all. I had girls in the V.I.P area begging me to come and see them with wolf whistles and cat calls. I had girls dragging me onto the dance floor. I had high fives and hand shakes. I had ‘come-to-bed’ eyes everywhere. It was insane. Especially from one ridiculously good looking girl dancing with her boyfriend. And therein lay my problem.
Whether the full moon contributed to the carnage I don’t know. Paddy has scored himself a lovely girl, and his night only slightly ruined when he’s told he can’t carry her over the wall to have sex with her in the Maize field; then screamed at by her mum when she picked her up in a taxi. I’m talking to my pretty Scottish friend you may I remember I met in Lima, and genuinely offering that I prefer pale to dark skin. Why then do I walk across to this other girl and slip my contact details into her hand, she winks, and I return to my vantage point a distance away? Maybe it was because she was all but raping me with her big brown eyes every time her boyfriend spun his back to me in the Salsa. I was playing with fire.
Before long he’s cottoned on what’s happened, and he’s being ‘held back’ by his friends, wide eyed, head back, making slit throat gestures in my direction. Of course he isn’t the one wearing a kilt with a knife down his sock. Yes I know it was a plastic one, but it comes in handy for dramatic effect. I’ve stammered some kind of apology, but both Paddy and myself are ready to go should it kick off. Nay I WANTED it to. I’m smiling at his angry face, but as soon as one of his stooges takes a step towards me, from nowhere several bouncers move in to nip it in the bud. It’s over before it’s begun, and friends are pleading with me to leave the club with them. I can’t help but feel slightly disappointed. Like I said: full moon.
Back at the ranch things have calmed down and I’m getting attention from another pretty Peruvian. It’s around 1am and I’ve been on the sauce since 11, after a failed FA cup final and the club sabre rattling. I’m getting too old for this. I was told after that I was whispering into her ear how hot she made me. I take this with a dumper truck of salt. I’ve used some slimey lines before, but telling a girl how ‘hot’ she makes me just isn’t in my locker. Then again, like I said: full moon.
I’ve been kissing her in the kitchen for some time when people instigate a move to another venue. We pile out the door and round the corner, only for myself and Hannah to discover we need to go to bed. With each other. Again. Once again nothing happens. Once again I wake up with shady memories and a rotten mouth. Sometime in between someone has managed to fob off 150 fake Soles into my possession. I’ve a fair idea where that came from, but that’s one for the book, not the blog. It involves four French girls, a hippy waving flags and a dodgy street urchin. As I said: full moon. I wonder how long I can keep on blaming that?
Full moon 2: The return of the moon
Arequipa is Peru’s second largest city, and has a sunny, touristy vibe. It is also surrounded by beautiful mountains and volcanoes, with a colonial history evident in its charming streets. Of course I’m not paying much attention to this, as after checking in to another Point hostel, I’m making a bee line for a bar called “William Wallace.” I’ve got about an hour before the FA Cup final, Chelsea verses the mighty reds. Only this time we weren’t so mighty.
If I had been at home, I would probably have cried a little more into my beer, but I know that it’s a full moon, I’m in Arequipa, meeting Paddy later, and we’re going to have one crazy, crazy night out. Losing an FA cup final isn’t that much big of a deal.
Yes it is; we were fucking robbed.
On little sleep I make it back to the hostel around 2pm, four large beers and a broken heart in. The troops are rallying to go to something called Mr Fish. I’m just imagining a bar where people gather early doors, before moving into night owl territory. What I get is a massive warehouse, rammed to the rafters with attractive girls, a stage show with the Peruvian One Direction dressed in pajamas, gorgeous Lucky Strike girls handing out jelly shots, and a fight. Nearly.
In between I’ve raced back to the hostel to collect my laundry, thrown on the kilt, met Paddy and bolted back to the venue. This is going to get very messy. Now I thought I’d had attention before with my peacock effect, but this topped them all. I had girls in the V.I.P area begging me to come and see them with wolf whistles and cat calls. I had girls dragging me onto the dance floor. I had high fives and hand shakes. I had ‘come-to-bed’ eyes everywhere. It was insane. Especially from one ridiculously good looking girl dancing with her boyfriend. And therein lay my problem.
Whether the full moon contributed to the carnage I don’t know. Paddy has scored himself a lovely girl, and his night only slightly ruined when he’s told he can’t carry her over the wall to have sex with her in the Maize field; then screamed at by her mum when she picked her up in a taxi. I’m talking to my pretty Scottish friend you may I remember I met in Lima, and genuinely offering that I prefer pale to dark skin. Why then do I walk across to this other girl and slip my contact details into her hand, she winks, and I return to my vantage point a distance away? Maybe it was because she was all but raping me with her big brown eyes every time her boyfriend spun his back to me in the Salsa. I was playing with fire.
Before long he’s cottoned on what’s happened, and he’s being ‘held back’ by his friends, wide eyed, head back, making slit throat gestures in my direction. Of course he isn’t the one wearing a kilt with a knife down his sock. Yes I know it was a plastic one, but it comes in handy for dramatic effect. I’ve stammered some kind of apology, but both Paddy and myself are ready to go should it kick off. Nay I WANTED it to. I’m smiling at his angry face, but as soon as one of his stooges takes a step towards me, from nowhere several bouncers move in to nip it in the bud. It’s over before it’s begun, and friends are pleading with me to leave the club with them. I can’t help but feel slightly disappointed. Like I said: full moon.
Back at the ranch things have calmed down and I’m getting attention from another pretty Peruvian. It’s around 1am and I’ve been on the sauce since 11, after a failed FA cup final and the club sabre rattling. I’m getting too old for this. I was told after that I was whispering into her ear how hot she made me. I take this with a dumper truck of salt. I’ve used some slimey lines before, but telling a girl how ‘hot’ she makes me just isn’t in my locker. Then again, like I said: full moon.
I’ve been kissing her in the kitchen for some time when people instigate a move to another venue. We pile out the door and round the corner, only for myself and Hannah to discover we need to go to bed. With each other. Again. Once again nothing happens. Once again I wake up with shady memories and a rotten mouth. Sometime in between someone has managed to fob off 150 fake Soles into my possession. I’ve a fair idea where that came from, but that’s one for the book, not the blog. It involves four French girls, a hippy waving flags and a dodgy street urchin. As I said: full moon. I wonder how long I can keep on blaming that?