It was a big weekend for those of us here at 21/8 10th Cross Street. We spent some serious bucks (a term that can apply to rupees as well as dollars), and managed to see quite the cross-section of Chennai’s nightlife. A not-so-brief breakdown:Friday
After a routine kalaripet (martial arts) class – during which Ari left after the warm up and I laughed too loudly with new friends – it was time for a quick shower and a white-knuckled auto ride to celebrate Stacy’s birthday. We were to meet Stacy, whom I met through Mel, a former PDX roommate, and some friends at 10 Downing Street, Chennai’s newest (and one of the city’s swankiest) bars. “Now wait just one minute,” some of you might say. “Isn’t 10 Downing Street the home address of the British Prime Minister?” And I would applaud you for your astute memory. Indeed, as if colonial identity was not already a tangible presence on every street corner, white foreigners and wealthy, upperclass/caste Indians can now drink in the symbolic namesake of British power. Perhaps the bar owners are trying to be ironic. My experiences on Friday night lead me to think otherwise.
Fridays are “Retro Nights” at 10 Downing Street. This means that the DJ will spin 70’s disco hits (“Hot Stuff”), the occasional Madonna song (“Holiday), and that bad early 90’s techno song from Night at the Roxbury. All of the patrons know the words to every song, and the middle aged Indian women sing and dance with particular abandon. But the highlight of the evening was most certainly the waitstaff. For those of you who follow my blog (I think there are three of you), you might remember that we found a bar with waiters dressed as pirates. Themed uniformed staff are evidently a sign of a quality establishment, as the waiters at 10 Downing so flamboyantly demonstrated. Picture, if you will, a man in tight khaki pants, matching khaki beanie cap with brim, cowboy-like collared shirt with orange 1960’s floral print (imagine an Austin Powers’ montage), and large faux-silver dollar sign necklace. Add a Rod Stewart disco hit, a real gin & tonic or whiskey on the rocks, and an incredibly comfortable bar chair, and you’ve got 10 Downing Street all figured out. We closed the place down – which means that we stayed until midnight when they turned on all the lights and made everyone leave. In Chennai, if a bar stays open past 11pm, you know it’s been a good night.
Post-script to Friday: smoking a peach menthol cigarette from Japan in an autorickshaw is one of life’s secret pleasures.
Saturday
New sandals for $2.50! Cheap jewelery! Monsoon rains! A friend with a car! Ari, Natalia and I thanked our good fortune for having befriended Tanya, a fantastic Italian-Brit who owns a rather old and mostly functional compact standard. The four of us met up with a crew of European engineering students at Mocha, a reasonably priced outdoor café and sheeshah bar with only a slight mosquito infestation. We spent hours smoking strawberry-mint hookah, indulging in strong coffee, and asking one another the same two questions: “Where are you from?” “What are you doing in Chennai?” With a group of 10, this can take up quite a lot of time. Also, I had bites of real fudge, delicious salsa and a hot apple cinnamon muffin. Simple indulgences!
Although the rains had really started to fall and the roads were well on their way to flooding, we all decided to go on to Speed, a hole-in-the-wall club that was supposed to be having a trance and house night. One of many reasons why I love encountering Europeans abroad: they always are ready to dance to my favourite kind of music. So we piled into a caravan of cars and autos, trying desperately to keep our expectations low. When we arrived, I was convinced that Speed was the kind of club that I would never, ever visit back home. Bad blueish black lighting, even worse hip hop music, and a mini racecar mounted behind the bar dictated my first impression. Strangely enough, this bar also confirmed my suspicions that Chennai bartenders believe that gin and tonics must glow blue to be authentic. Strange, strange indeed. But twenty minutes after our arrival, as promised, the DJ began to spin some surprisingly good deep trance and bass, and the evening really took off. Another reason why I love Europeans: they dance like maniacs, and infectiously so! Even my fellow intern got his ass on the dance floor after a drink or two. Ari self-describes his dancing skills as the following: Good. Fast. Fresh. I can only hope that my silence on the subject will be interpreted as consent.
Again, we closed the place, this time dancing until the music stopped and the lights went up at 1am. Night owls, watch out!
Post-script to Saturday: Clubs in Chennai only admit couples (aka men and women in pairs) and single women. While this can make the solo male a bit frustrated, I do have to admit that it makes my time on the dance floor much more enjoyable. Not once was I groped, grabbed or otherwise harassed in two hours of dancing.
Sunday
This was supposed to be a day of rest. A day without surprises. It was raining quiteheavily, so Ari and I just wanted to venture out quickly for some lunch and hole up in the apartment for the rest of the day. The previous interns and some martial arts friends had recommended Sanjeevanam, a healthy neighbourhood vegetarian restaurant, and so we thought we’d check it out. Having seen the menu the previous day, I had plans for tofu tikka kebabs and some veggie stir-fry. Instead, we discovered that at lunch, Sanjeevanam only serves the RAJA LUNCH. As scary as it sounds, the Raja Lunch consists of five juices (to be drunk in a particular order), a similarly ordered series of uncooked vegetables, followed by an ordered series of partially cooked vegetables, capped off with a free-for-all of cooked rice, cooked veggies, spicy pepper water, and a literal handful of honey (which Ari managed to get on his nose). Most of these items were not good, and some of them were downright awful. We didn’t even have time to protest or run away, as they start to serve you as soon as you sit down at a table. I think the pictures speak for themselves, and I can only add that this was not what we wanted for lunch and that my stomach is still gurgling hours later. Ari observed that it was like the Passover Seder, in that you have to endure all of the prayers and bitter herbs before you can have the tasty dishes. I think he was being generous.
Post-script to Sunday: The monsoons are here in full force. Today reminded me of the first storm-bands of a hurricane in Florida, with the consistent downpour of rain and the palm trees tossed about in gusts of wind. So far our house has not flooded. Fingers crossed, dear reader. Fingers crossed.
Post-Script to the Post-Script: I wrote this entry on Sunday afternoon. By Sunday evening, Nina’s room had a third of an inch of water, our kitchen tiles were leaking, and a sizeable puddle had formed under our fridge. Ari and I began “bailing” by using towels to soak up water and then squeezing said rags into a bucket, but these efforts soon proved useless. So we washed our feet to prevent cholera (supposedly something you can catch from walking in stagnant water), turned off all electrical devices, and hid in my room watching a movie and drinking wine.
Just when I thought I was used to life here, the monsoons arrive and destabilize everything.
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