One day I walked around and noted all the names of the bars, tabernas and cantinas because I couldn't believe there were so many drinking establishments for such a small town outside of Ireland. I guess high altitude creates a big thirst. So here they are: La Jacar Bar, Orobar, Taberna LaFarra, La Cinatura, Bar Pilsen, La Barrita, Manga’s, La Farrolita, El Modernita, Taberna La Roca, La Sala del Zar, Discoteca Luna Llena, Granero Bolivar, La Tertulia, Café Churchill, Café Risarolda, Taberna D.J., La Amistad, La Acacias, Bar Armorica, Bar El Reten, Bar Avenida, Bar La Pompa, Salon Anoranzza, Bar Ideal, Tauree’s, Bar El Pinal, Bar Mixta Ader, El Lipsip Discoteca, y La Bombasta. One particular Sunday was a holiday, but the following Monday was a holiday too because, according to my friend, they'd be too hungover and tired to go to work. That's my kind of holiday!
Of course, every night in town the tiendas are selling beer and playing music at ear shattering decibels, but Saturday night is the night that everyone lets loose and gets drunk. Around two in the morning, I heard some shrieking and yelling outside my window and got up to investigate the source. The town had really up and gotten itself drunk. I`d already had my fill and had stumbled home earlier but I dragged myself up anyway, my head fuzzy and my mouth parched and gummy from the beer. I leaned over the balcony. Standing alone amongst the drunks stumbling by her, a woman with a long, black pony tail and wearing tight black jeans and a pink jacket stood pummeling her umbrella against a dumpster and shrieking at her husband, or boyfriend, in Spanish at an astonishing speed. His friends were restraining him as his arms flailed and once he lost his footing and fell backwards. She continued to shriek. At the end of every sentence was manana, manana. Okay, I got the manana part. Would she be leaving tomorrow? Was she taking the baby too?
She stalked off, ranting as she went, only to come back again and again to yell and thrash her umbrella against the dumpster. Her husband, released by his friends, waved them away and staggered towards her, supporting himself against the buildings as he neared her. One hand on her hip, and waggling her index finger back and forth in front of his face, she continued her harangue, but in a softer voice. He swatted her hand away angrily and stumbled off, with her teetering off after him in her high heels. Suddenly, she grabbed his arms and swung him around to face her and she fell to her knees, her hands clasped in front of her chest, begging him. But just as quickly as she fell to her knees, she was on her feet again, following him as he drunkenly stumbled down the street. She shouted and cursed at his lurching figure all the way down the street until they were lost in sight. Drinking, fighting, fucking. Just a regular Saturday night in Santa Barbara.
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Men rode in from the countryside with their coffee and other goods to sell at the market in the town square. I felt sorry for some of the horses because they were sometimes left all day while the owner went off drinking. And there were loads of places to drink.
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