Now, Marcello looked to be in his mid-thirties, and Ze Presidente is probably the most obscure club in the city. It’s in a bombed-out building with graffiti covering every surface. The only clientele I’ve seen there are the hyper-hip that each subscribes to his or her aggressively narrow subgenre of cool, and the bands always play some impossible fusion of styles. I went once because a friend tended bar there occasionally. I felt exponentially lamer than even the lowest of junior high lows. In any case, I was impressed that Marcello – and apparently a bunch of Germans – hung out there, so I started swapping boozing stories and talking shit about soccer with him. His buddy, a big Japanese guy who Marcello only referred to as ‘Japa’, just like every other Japanese guy I know, sat down wearing a UC Santa Barbara sports shirt.

The terrible caipirinha had been sent my way, and I used my surprise as an excuse to spray it out of my mouth. “Santa Barbara? Holy shit, that’s where I went to school. Have you been there?”

Japa looked down with a bit of confusion. “Oh, ha. Nope. Never been there.”

“Really? Where’d you get the shirt?”

“In Ireland.” He didn’t think it was a weird situation in the least, I explained how Irish exchange students would pack themselves 10 to a room and spend three months drunk every summer in Isla Vista. Japa just nodded politely. He didn’t give a shit about hearing the story of how his shirt had traveled thousands of miles. He just wanted to drink.

Marcello took over the drink making duties and succeeded making everyone look decidedly less nauseous. A couple Welsh girls showed up directly from their flight, dropped their bags and started working on some vodka. One was blonde with leopard pants and a funny hat but had a bit of a double chin; the other was a brunette with a cute face and cuter accent. They started doing their best to catch up to the rest of us, which Ingo resoundingly approved.

Victor said an Argentine girl who lived in the city was going to swing by to take the group out to some street party. She showed up a while later wearing a blazer and pencil skirt. She was quite striking.

“How did you find this bird?” I asked Vic as Ingo introduced her around.

“Shit, would you believe that she was just standing in front of us while Ingo and I were watching one of the World Cup games at the beach? She ended up coming out with us to an island up the coast for a couple days. She’s pretty awesome, always down to party, I have no idea what she was doing by herself when we met her.” I gave a suggestive eyebrow raise. “No way man, she’s not interested in any of that. Ingo and I can’t figure it out. She’s pretty, likes to have fun, super smart and friendly, yet she lives by herself, hasn’t called or mentioned any other friends since we’ve known her, doesn’t seem to have really any relationships at all.” He paused. “Ingo and I talked a lot about it. She’s either gotta be a call girl or have daddy issues.” We left it at that.

After meeting everyone, Adriana hustled us all out to catch a bus to wherever it was she was going to take us. The bus was about half full with a mix of late commuters and partygoers. All of them looked apprehensive to see a large group of foreigners stumble on with grocery bags full of beer and liquor. The bus driver and turnstile attendant (who was sleeping as usual) couldn’t have given less of a shit, so we started passing a bottle and tumbled about. Ingo ended up yelling Spanish at some guys who didn’t seem amused, but the Brits managed to chat up a couple girls while Victor and Adriana made friends with another group drinking in the back of the bus. It was a long ride until Adriana herded us all off into some random part of the city. A few of the people we’d met came with us, while Ingo’s friends told us to fuck off in Portuguese.

The street party was pretty standard: vendors filled up the sidewalks and streets with tents containing full bars and others with food of all varieties from kebabs of questionable origins to handmade deep fried goods. Cars blast music were parked haphazardly, drunk crackheads were dancing about, high school kids passed wine and cheap vodka back and forth, and a steady stream of yuppies and the ghetto fabulous cruised back and forth haggling for drinks.