I recall going to “clubs” when I was a younger gentleman, by which I mean nightclubs with long lines and cover charges. Once finally inside, I’d spend some of the little money I had buying colorful drinks for the gals and attempting to move my body in a way that might be construed, by very generous people, as dancing. Most of the time, I went to these clubs to please women. Not random women on the street, who couldn’t have cared less that I was off clubbing, but young women in my circle of friends with whom I might have been hoping to become closer. Nothing else of consequence ever happened, except that my female friends sometimes gave other guys their phone numbers.
At some point, I must have realized how silly the whole club scene was, with its goofy costumes and deafening music. By my mid-20s I stopped going to clubs altogether. However, my wife and I were recently vacationing in Puerto Rico, and our status as guests of the El San Juan hotel gave us access to “La Bamba” or some such inanely named nightclub. Signs in front of the club indicated that getting in wasn’t as easy as just having a pulse: admission was completely at the discretion of the manager. But after producing IDs and identifying ourselves as guests of the hotel, we suddenly had VIP privileges, which meant we could go in and drink their overpriced vodka.
Entering at 10:30 sounded kind of latish in our world, but once in we found the place empty, save for a triad of young ladies sipping drinks and not talking to each other, which we joined them in doing. The club was open until 5 a.m. my wife explained to me. Things don’t really get hopping until, like, 2. We peered into our icy drinks and tried to make pithy comments above the din, waiting in vain for someone to take to the dance floor so we could join them and then tell the kids we had been clubbing. Half an hour after this charade began, we left and put our feet into one of the many hot tubs at the resort, which was, all in all, a far more enjoyable experience.