The walk of shame...

...is pretty much just as shameful in another country.

Although, it might have been made a little worse by how blatant it was that I was rocking the walk of shame. It was noon, on a Sunday (in this Roman Catholic country), and I was walking to the Metro in my little black dress and 5" stilettos. Hair - which had been down in sexy-messy waves - was tied back loosely, hopefully not exposing any hickeys.

I didn't get too many glares, at least not painfully obvious. But I knew. Oh, I knew. I was actually feeling not too bad about it, until I got back to my apartment. I was hoping to avoid my Mama, who had seen me go out at midnight the night before, but as I walked in the door to the building, she was walking out with a load of laundry to hang. Busted. She looked at me knowingly, and simply said "Buenas noches?" I hung my head, blushing, and mumbled "si..."

The funny thing is, it WAS a fabulous night. I went out by myself to go meet classmates at a bar downtown. I ended up running into other people on my way to the bar, and they were lost, but they didn't speak a lick of Spanish, so I ended up asking directions for us when they realized we were lost. Eventually, we found our way to the Irish bar where the other students were. It was JAM-packed. It took me 20 minutes just to get the bartender's attention to get a drink. As I was walking back from the bar toward the people I knew, I stopped and chatted to some Englishmen, who were here for a stag night. Well, stag weekend, really. A friend of mine stopped by and chatted, but relatively quickly got distracted and wandered off. Once againm within an hour, the group I had come out to meet up with had left the bar. And once again, they hadn't told me. I'd been talking to the Brits (who were from Manchester), and they asked me where my friends were. I pointed out that I was pretty sure they had left. The boys seemed appalled. "That shit wouldn't happen in England!" They assured me. I said it was fine, and asked if I could just keep hanging out with them. They smiled and promised to take care of me.

I was definitely the youngest of the group, and by the time we were hussled out of the bar at 3, I was also the only girl in the group. I actually really enjoyed their company - they reminded me of some of my boys back home, what with the witty banter. Well, if you add in the hot English accent. Also, my fondness for them wasn't hurt by thier propensity to take turns essentially constantly complimenting me and telling me how "fucking gorgeous" I was. Never a bad thing for a girl's self-esteem. The groom-to-be was pretty blasted, but as we left the bar, decided it wouldn't be a stag night without a strip club. The Brit I'd been talking to most, David, looked at me hesitantly, like he wasn't sure I'd be down. I smiled and led the way. The compliments changed to a chorus of what a badass I was for being cool enough to want to go to a titty bar with them.

We didn't stay at the titty bar long - David asked if I wanted to go to a club that was next door to dance. Never one to turn down a dance, I said sure. He grabbed my hand and intertwined his fingers with mine as we walked out into the night air. As we stepped into the club (discoteca, here), we headed back towards the bar, and he bought me a drink. Sidenote: I've been being really good about keeping my head about me when I'm out with these new people. I get a nice, happy buzz, but there's no serious incapacitation. I think it's probably a good habit to be in. We grabbed a couch as we sipped our drinks, continuing to talk abut politics and culture, and, yes, he continued to compliment me. Also, there's something kind of sexy about being told how "fucking gorgeous" you are, said in that accent that's not quite gutteral when they say Fuck, but still has a little bit of a dirty tone behind it. Want.

We finished our drinks and he asked if I wanted to go dance. He'd been teasing me throughout the night (well, it was back and forth) because in my giant shoes, I was taller than him. Nevertheless, the dancing worked well. I'm not entirely sure how long we stayed on the floor, but I do know I enjoyed my "D-floor makeout," to quote my esteemed colleagues. And jesus, he was a really good kisser. And had these really big, strong hands he'd wrap around my waist and pull me to him.... sigh. Lots of goodness.

And, as it turns out, the shortness in height was absolutely made up for in other areas. HOLY. SHIT. More details to come. :)