Due to an oddball series of events that I dare not discuss here, I found myself perusing the nightlife of my fair, beautiful Panama City in search of fun, sexual healing and assaults to my senses that can only be found under the multicolored lights of the many nightclubs that pepper the town. My hard-partying days are well behind me, but I believe it’s good to delve into the glitz and glamour every once in a while to keep oneself in check. As it just so happened, it had to occur on a Friday night. This all happened during Labor Day week, after Porto Diao rocked the house with his film festival mid-week and I was feeling the sting of a long, rainy day out on business appointments. As it is many a time when I go off on these crazy adventures, I leave the apartment with the sober mentality of me convinced above any notion that all I’ll do that night is have a couple of beers and pack it in. Of course, that is never the case.

Sitting on a table with a crowd I usually don’t hang out with, the conversation immediately told me about the night I was about to have. They were ready to have fun out on the clubs, which is fine and encouraged by yours truly, but this time there was an appendage do the idea: there was a mafia-style shootout on Calle Uruguay the night prior. Time for the 411, kids: for those of you not in the know, Calle Uruguay is the unofficial party district of Panama City, where most of the nightlife congregates and even though there are several areas of the capital that are brimming with clubs, restaurants, and bars, Calle Uruguay or “Hell Street” as it’s often referred to as seems to be the most popular. It’s not a street per sé, but rather a couple of blocks worth of bars, restaurants, night clubs and all sorts of nighttime entertainment. The cornucopia of the party animal.

This party animal needs to have a lot of cash flow in order to party hearty in Calle Uruguay, though: cover charges increase every other year, and as bigger, flashier clubs open things will degrade to be like in the swankiest clubs of Los Angeles where I pay too much to have fun, too much for it to be even remotely enjoyable. And now not only do I have to pay a ridiculous amount of money to go into these clubs, but I also have to fear for my life while I’m kicking back vodka shots? Unless I’m John Rambo, I’ll have to pass on this one.

The unofficial story is that some gangs were starring in a car chase down the adjacent Balboa Avenue (Avenida Balboa) and, because they’re idiots, the driver of the car being chased thought it’d be a brilliant idea to slip into Calle Uruguay at 11:00pm on a Friday night, probably the worst possible moment in the history of car chases to go into said street since every single party-goer rides their car into the three entrances to the district, creating some sort of freak octopus funnel effect that makes driving through and around the area an absolute pain in the ass. And the gang bangers decide to add themselves into the traffic jam. Great. Not so funny though, is the fact that the car chasing these numb nuts saw “The Godfather” or played “Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas” one too many times (pick the mobster stereotype you prefer the most) and decided it’d be a fantastic idea to pull out their submachine guns and open fire on their prey admist the myriad of fashionistas trying to get to their party centrals of choice. Of course, not to be outperformed in the idiocracy department, those chased fired back. Luckily, by grace of Cthulhu, no one got killed but there were two injured… guess who got shot in the end. Seriously. Guess.

So, people are shooting each other on Calle Uruguay now. This is nothing new, considering that famous Panama City stamp Rock Café (a club, so don’t be fooled by the misleading name) has been excelling in the late night shootout category for decades. Of course, Rock Café often gets filled with ghetto-tastic folk and, I’m sad to generalize, but it’s now sort of a given that you’re most likely to get shot there than in any other club in the area. So I’ll be a monkey’s uncle when the club that’s currently and hands-down the most expensive anywhere in the country outside of strip clubs turns into the site for a CSI agent or two. To the establishment’s credit, this all happened outside but by Jeebus, you’d think they’d hire the biggest, tallest and strongest wrestlers they can find as bouncers and overall crowd control. Geez.

So, with this in mind, I start my trek around the local hot spots in the city, with not one bullet proof vest within arm’s reach. Livin’ la vida loca.

I first waltz into La Casona de las Brujas with my party of ladies, 2 out of 3 eager to party hearty. La Casona has always been a favorite of mine, since it’s an abandoned building turned into an open air bar/art gallery that’s really charming in its own unique way. I’ve done a gig or two there, and despite its shortcomings it’s a great place to hang out. Beer’s cold and affordable, and the place gives great leg room to conversation. At first the place didn’t charge any cover but ever since that Almanaque Azul party I volunteered at many months ago they’ve opened up to the idea of charging $2, $3 dollars per head, which is alright in my opinion. Anyway, they play all sorts of music depending on the mood the DJ’s are in, and it’s commendable how unpredictable the place is no matter what; their website has a mailing list where they give you a head’s up on the place’s activities but more than half the time you can just show up and they’ll have something totally different going on. Very recommended if you’re bored with nothing to do, but be prepared for the possibility of showing up and finding out the place is closed that night for who-knows what reason. Still, people dance, mingle and have a great time. Even the hobos are friendly, as I found out that night hanging out by the door where an old friend of mine was stepping in as bouncer. This guy, who looked like he stepped out of the cast of “STOMP!” walked up to us and asked if it was free entry. My friend, diligent as always, politely told him that it wasn’t. He was sniffing and grabbing his hair extra tight, so when he asked my friend how much was the cover charge he said it was $10 in order to psych his cokehead ass out. Shortly thereafter, the resident car watchman (or “bien cuidao’,” if you will) proceeded to take the middle of street that passes in front of the entrance and told the story of said hobo like I had tuned in to a live rendition of the E! True Hollywood Story but with an infinitely less famous subject. “The Rise and Fall of the Argentinian Hobo.”

Soon thereafter it was off to Hell Street, the boulevard of debauchery, gunshots and broken dreams. I might be stressing the gun-totting too much, given that these gunfights have only come about recently, but by Jeebus if it ain’t funny. With that and the notion that I wasn’t wearing any kevlar that night in mind, I hopped on my car and met the ladies off in 80’s-90’s-themed bar Sahara. I’ll give you a secret, one that could work for you if you don’t mind the legwork: what I usually do when I go to that area is that I park far away (where I park exactly is an Ancient Chinese Secret) and that way I avoid having to pay $1 or $2 dollars to a bien cuidao’ to “take care” of my car. Now, before you accuse me of being a cheapskate idiot, consider this: most bien cuidao’s are, in my opinion, extorsionists. Think about it: here is a stranger, someone you’ve never seen before and definitely an independent contractor, which is a nice way of saying “some dude that claimed X chunk of the street sidewalk as his” telling you that he’ll take care of your car. Now, if this was a true, legit business you could be able to turn it down, but they don’t give you a choice. This, of course, is because they’re under the delusional notion that they own that piece of street and as such they can charge you for parking there. If you don’t want their services, they’ll abruptly ask you to remove the vehicle from the area and, in the eventual case that you hold your ground, they’ll threaten by telling you that “something bad’s gonna happen to your car if you don’t pay the fee.” You know what that reminds me of? Wait for it:

Extorsion. Instead of sounding like Marlon Brando though, they sound like Sean Paul with a cold.

Sahara has been there for many moons, and I familiarize with as being the Unplugged Bar for yuppies, in the sense that men pay $5 a pop to go in (there’s a drink on the house for the trouble, though) and it’s full of hookers. On the plus side, there are always cover bands pulling from various sources such as reggae, the 60’s, Rush, AC/DC, and more. It’s cool after you get over the fact you paid a cover charge when in Unplugged you can waltz in without a hitch. Anyway, good times are always had in Sahara; I’ve met a lot of delightful people there and for some reason the beer always seems to hit me harder there; I think it’s the air conditioner, but I’ve never been able to put my finger on it.

After catching some good tunes at Sahara I found myself hopping in a car with these girls to a club called The Gallery, formerly known as Liquid, formerly known as Patatus. I don’t know how it is in your hometown, dear reader, but over in my dog-gone gorgeous isthmus club owners change concepts more than they do their diapers. It’s nuts. Anyway, It had been a while since I had gone inside this particular establishment, as I made it a point to avoid what is currently The Gallery at all costs because I would have a ridiculous case of Deja Vú, and not the good kind. Still, the quest for adventure (and leaving all the body driving to my enthusiastic ballsack) led me to finally get acquainted with the place. As it is with these joints, it’s all a matter of who you know; in this particular instance, it was one of my friends’ cousin who was in with the promoter that had his thing that night. In Panama, looking good goes a long way, since we live in a male-centric society that promotes events at clubs and they know that the only way they’ll have men go is if they have plenty of hot girls, so usually the girls go in for free. It’s ridiculous, but it’s the honest truth: if it had been me and three other dudes with that one hot girl, I would’ve had to pay my entry fee which by proxy would mean me cutting my night short. But since the situation was that it was me and four hot girls, they let me pass because if I don’t go in, none of the girls go in either. Sheer brilliance.

The Gallery sucked. Apparently they left the divisions of the former club in place, instead opting to put walls in order to define the sections more clearly. I felt pretty stupid, actually. I bet the other 4 dudes in the whole club that night felt just as stupid, too. It’s definitely a sense of feeling in the mood for it, but I believe that a good club should be the one that inspires you to make the best of it and The Gallery wasn’t it. I assume I went on an off night… and after an overly-expensive, shotgunned beer, the girls rushed me out of the club after being there a mere 10 minutes. Maybe next time, I suppose.

Suddenly, it’s nearing 3AM and my slightly-hammered driver felt like having a Quarter Pounder with Cheese. Or as they call it in France, a Royale with Cheese. It is at this point where I could go into a rant on how Panamanian women take the cake as the biggest cockteases in the history of our species, but I’ll talk about that on another hilarious post when I find the funny angle. As of this moment, as I was at that moment while our driver stuffed herself full of french fries, I felt enticed yet slightly cheated off a good time.

At the end of the night I have a shitty drunken haze and am out of $25 bucks for a night of club hopping, groping and one too many Heinekens. Frankly, I felt like used clothes, which is why I don’t club hop like I used to. Things are a little more tolerable, though; the new law that prohibits smoking in public venues of any kind (including clubs, bars and restaurants) makes it much more tolerable for us non-smoking folk, but there are some people out there who are genuinely pissed about the admitedly drastic measure. I’ll never understand how someone can object to the ban of something that can kill you. Still, between gunshots and cigarettes, I’d rather pick up the bad habit.

Tags: appendage, beers, business appointments, calle uruguay, cornucopia, cover charges, crazy adventures, diao, gangbangers, glitz and glamour, hell street, La Casona, labor day, mafia style, many a time, mentality, nightclubs, nighttime entertainment, night clubs, panama news, panama city, party animal, Porto Diao, rainy day, Sahara, sexual healing, The Gallery, The Godfather, video, Yamile Moral, youtube

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