Culture clash in Chilean clubs

Coming from Bloomington, I thought I was prepared for the nightlife of Chile. Oh, how I was wrong.

I don’t know why, but Chilean men are more aggressive than even the drunkest frat guy at Sports. A few friends and I decided to hit up Bellavista, a bohemian neighborhood in Santiago. Not having any specific club in mind, we walked into the first brightly lit sign and sat down.

Thirty seconds passed before we accidentally made eye contact with some men sitting at the next table.

One man — we didn’t get his name — came over and offered to buy us drinks. In broken English he asked us where we were from. Then the compliments began. “You are very beautiful,” he said.

“Thank you,” we answered.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

“No, thank you.”

One of my friends asked why in God’s name I would turn down a free drink.
Quoting my father, a wise man who has never been to Chile, “Nothing is free.”
I had a feeling that if I let this slightly overweight thirty-something man buy me a drink, he would expect something in return.

One of the worst parts of being a tourist is not knowing if you’re being ripped off, if you’re in an unsafe neighborhood or simply, not knowing what anything means.
Another downside? Not knowing where to go. We left the sketchy club, mostly to get rid of the overeager man, but also the Bob Marley reggae music and drinks that tasted like rubbing alcohol mixed with fruit juice.

Eventually we found a salsa club that had been recommended to us. We walked in and discovered what I’ve only seen in “Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights.” Women swaying their hips to the Latin music and men twirling their partners so gracefully I wondered if dancing is in Chilean DNA.

A waitress brought us peanuts that we ate while admiring the graceful dancers. After 15 minutes of watching, I decided I wanted to get my chance to dance like a professional. Luckily one of the single men in the club — perhaps sensing my interest — walked over and asked me to dance.

Diego from Ecuador spoke good English and had even better moves. He tried to explain how to dance like a Chilean, instead of an awkward white girl from Memphis, Tenn., whose only dancing credentials come from the stage at Brother’s.

“Loosen up,” Diego said. “Don’t be so stiff.”

He offered suggestions throughout our 30-minute session, most of which I was unable to follow. Sometimes you have to stick with what you know, and unfortunately, salsa dancing is not something I’ll ever master.

I’m not sure how to describe my adventures in Chilean nightlife. I miss the novelty of salsa dancing, but going out should be a fun experience, and at least I feel comfortable in Bloomington on that stage at Brother’s.