Of course I went. Elvis thought it was a fine idea. This may have had something to do with me telling him, mere minutes before the call, that it was time to help me put all our stuff back up where it belonged. Since it took us two hours or so to pack it in the first place, I imagine W felt that he'd had a lucky escape.

So, let's recap. One third of a litre of wine at lunch. Two "gigante" proseccos at the Caffe, and since they truly are gigantic we're looking at two-thirds of a bottle, easy. Possibly a full one, as Guido does not stint. Quite frankly, with prosecco that cheap, why should he? I had steak for lunch, which was good (although no carbs), but only bits of cheese and some nuts for dinner, which wasn't enough, really. Especially since I hadn't eaten breakfast, nor dinner the day before. But I'm still feeling fine, so off I went.

First, to a pub near us to watch England lose at football. I drank Guiness there, as per usual. Still feeling fine. Damn fine.

Sometime after 1:00 am, we headed off to Trendy Latino, where I had a mojito. I identify this as the moment where things started to go downhill. One, I don't usually drink much in the way of hard liquor. Two, I probably didn't need anything whatsoever in the way of alcohol at that point. Three, it must have hit me pretty hard because all of a sudden it's after two and I have agreed to go to a disco.

I don't do discos. I do not like them. They are simply not my style.

I love pubs. I love little dive bars and smoky jazz joints. Basically, if it has a dart board or a pool table, or if a dart board or pool table would not be in anyway out of place, I'm your gal. I also like cafes, especially ones with outdoor seating. Some of my favorites are pretty swanky. Some are in imminent danger of being closed by the Dept of Health and Safety. I like both kinds. I like enotecas and other wine bars (even, sometimes, with ferns). Brewpubs? I'm there. I even like to two-step in Texas dance halls.

But not discos. Or "nightclubs" as they prefer to call themselves these days. A disco is a disco, and it's just not me.

When I was in high school, my friend Jenny and I used to go to a disco downtown. It was called, I believe, Park Avenue or something similar, and it was The Place To Be. Discos, by this time, were Officially Dead, but New Wave was just a bit too New. So they played Madonna and Blondie and other things they pretended weren't disco, and called themselves a Nightclub. It had the mirrored balls and other groovy lights, an upper floor with couches that ran around the edge of the building so you look down and watch the dancers, and droolingly cute bartenders. Most of them, as I recall, were gay, but we were certainly happy just to look at them. It had a velvet rope outside with lines of people to get in, and a sign refusing entrance to anyone in uniform, which ought to tell you something. Somehow, I managed to get a free VIP card from one of he bartenders or a manager, and we would get all dressed up and let men buy us drinks. So sophisticated, we were. And with such empty wallets. And the men! So disappointed. If things were slow at the Park, we'd go around the corner to the Paradise (or whatever-- it had a neon parrot), where they did serve men in uniform, and flirt with the sailors.

After we turned 18, and were therefore able to drink legally, we didn't go to the discos much anymore. There were too many other places that were more fun. Pubs and dive bars and college hangouts.

There was also a punk bar that I loved, live music seven nights a week, although some of my friends weren't reall thrilled with it. I think it frightened them. I hung out there all the time, though. Met some bands, went to some wild and often surreal parties after the bars closed. Some of these bands became quite famous, a few are even still around: others sank into well deserved obscurity. I started to wear the punk/new wave fusion type of clothes that were in style at the time. (And which are coming back by the looks of it. Still not sure how I feel about that, although my initial reaction is positive.) When I went to college, of course, there were even more options, places and people and music that I loved, and still do. I've gotten way off track here, but the point is that I felt at home in the culture, for lack of a better word. That scene was where I belonged, not wearing sparkly pink and blue eyeshadow and a boob tube or whatever. Although I might have felt different about the latter if I actually had any boobs to speak of, to be perfectly honest.

In any case, it's two-thirty in the morning and I'm in a taxi heading for a disco. Not just any disco, but The Disco. The one where the models hang when they're in town for the shows or to shop. Where the beautiful, trendy, more-money-than-sense people are to be found. I am none of these things, although I suppose I used to be, if you exclude he money bit, more years ago than I care to think about at this moment, because today I'm feeling very old indeed. Usually, I feel younger, so I'm not happy about this.

We've been to another disco in Milan, the Second Trendiest Disco, for an office party of all things. We were in one of the restaurants, though, so we were cushioned from the Full Disco Experience. And this place is a complex, with two restaurants, a smaller bar or two, plus dance floor. Until, that is, we tried to leave past all the achingly trendy and a bit too anxious Italians crammed together in a "line" outside, pushing to get in. Before that, the last one was in the casino complex in Bad Homburg, at another work-related function. That one was filled with sad middle-aged men, who looked like they ought to be wearing heavy gold chains and polyester shirts open to the navel. Thank God, they weren't. They were playing actual disco music though (including Abba), which was sort of fun in a kitschy nostalgia sort of way. This disco, as I espected, was nothing like that.

It was full of models and other bright and beautiful young things. I imagine, in fact, that they let us in because we had Fiona with us, who is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Tall, too. Definitely model material. Perhaps they thought we were her minders, although they guys (for the most part) were OK. I, however, had just exchanged my cleaning clothes for the clothes I wore to lunch when I decided to go out. This means that I was at The Disco in a suit. A black suit, of course, and fortunately one of my snazzier ones, with boot cut legs and a fitted curvy jacket. And my boots were good-- high heels, very pointy. But still. And I was carrying my standard purse, which is not so much a shoulder bag as it is luggage. I did have my black and white, optical illusive shirt on underneath, so I took of f the jacket and hoped for the best. Could have been worse, I suppose.

So, I got myself a drink. Bourbon and coke. Since I was making so many mistakes, I figured I might as well just surrender to it. Why stop now? And then I headed for the dance floor, past an entire gaggle of models in a sort of fenced-off area decorated with tiger print furniture. A couple of them were just standing there, swaying, looking gorgeous.

Final mistake.

This place is not really your familiar (to me at least) love-to-hate-em disco. It was certainly on the club/rave side, vast, pitch black with unbelievably bright strobe lights-- the kind that aliens use to blind their victims in movies and tv shows. And it was deafening. Literally. I felt my ears pop before I even hit the dance floor proper. I tried to just watch with my drink and a cigarette, but my friends wouldn't have it and dragged me out there.

Bastards.

Suprisingly, I kinda liked the music-- some sort of House stuff, if they're still calling it that. Mind you, my judgment was impaired. Problem was, between the strobes and the damage to my ears and, let's face it, the booze, I was having a hard time keeping my balance. And it was so damn crowded that people kept bumping in to me. Very dangerous, what with the level of blood in my alcohol stream being perilously low and all. And my heels seemed to have grown an inch or two. Then it happened.

I fell flat on my ass. Bruised both cheeks, and I seem to have carpet burn on my elbow from the floor, which I'm pretty sure was not carpet but some sort of rough cement.

So I left. Sinead left with me, and we walked back together, since the trams weren't going to be running again for an hour or so. She said she was ready to leave, and that she was too old for this crap, and all the other platitudes you say when your friend is drunk and you don't want to let her leave alone. I might have believed her, but it was her idea to go there in the first place. It took us forty-five minutes, and the fresh air did me a world of good. We had a really nice conversation as well, I remember, although I'm extremely hazy as to what, exactly, we talked about. I do remember her saying "so, that's what The Disco is like. I've never been there before, but I've always wanted to go." And she sounded quite proud of herself. Sinead is about my age, you know, and I would have never suggested it. But 15, 20 years ago I would have been all for it. As I was that night, come to think of it.

Maybe, just maybe, I might go back someday. But they'll have to warn me, first, so I can dress properly and have just the right level of alcohol. Sober would be excruciating. Drunk, as I've learned, is extremely bad. Mid-range is what's required.

And some earplugs.

Yesterday, I woke up at noon. Elvis brought me some sinus medication and a huge glass of water, and I went back to sleep. Woke up again at two or three, and spent the day in bed, staring at the TV or just lying there. The hangover really didn't last too long. The problem is my ears, which are better today but still not back to normal by any means. All day yesterday I felt like I was living in a bell jar, and unsteady on my feet. This went beyond the standard ringing. Way beyond. I've been to lots of loud clubs, heard lots of loud bands in small clubs, gone to many a rock concert. I have never experienced anything like this. Even today, when I went to the grocery, my ears popped in the elevator, like I was on an airplane. Maybe it has something to do with the sinus problems I've been having.

Elvis says we're just getting old.

I refuse to accept that.

Elvis, by the way, took extremely good care of me. It made me ashamed for not being so nice to him this week while he was sick. He says he knows that he's a real asshole when he's sick, and not much fun to take care of. Which is true. He does seem to enjoy looking after me, though. I'll try harder next time. He says he'll try harder to not be nasty, so we'll see what happens. I know how lucky I am to have him. He wasn't mad or anything, although I did call this time and he did know what sort of crowd I was with.

Our stuff is still not put back where it belongs. I would have done it today, but he told me to wait and he'd help me do it tomorrow. I thought about doing it anyway, but decided to wait for him, as I didn't want to hurt his feelings.

Plus, you know, I really feel like crap.