Sugar Coma

No clue what is going on outside, but they are protesting like crazy: honking cars, pots & pats, the works. Last night at the bar a table of men asked me if I was from Russia, Australia, or the United States. Usually when people play the "Where Are You From?" Game, I get stuck with California or Germany. An odd combination, but I'm pretty sure it's the hair. When I told them I was from the U.S., the correct guesser said all the prettiest girls are from The States. I corrected him and said really they are from Texas. Kristin enjoyed that. Con is freaking out that Kristin's and my last weekend to work is next week. "What are we going to do without our Southern girls?" Replace one with a hot Brazilian, apparently. And he just hired a portena named Carolina who speaks five languages (which makes me wonder why she is working in a bar?) And we also had a new Welsh waitress named Carrie. Whenever I meet people from Wales here, they act as if it's a country that may not exist. They say it in question form, sloping downward: "I'm from Wales?" I'll admit I'm poor at geography (Little Miss "Let's Bus to Peru,") but I know what Wales is.
Two people beat Matt to the punch and passed out before 4 am: an Argentine dude with his buddies and a drunk American girl who needed to go home. I offered to call her a cab, even though I don't know the number. I figured Santiago could take care of it. And around 5:30 am, a French man went comatose because he apparently OD'd on heroin. Scary stuff. He only had one drink at the bar, according to first-night-on-the-job Welsh Carrie. He had been in the back, and I noticed the flashing ambulance lights from the front area where I was working, but I didn't realize he was still inside. As I walked around to do my chores, cleaning up ash trays and empty bottles, I saw him laid out flat on the table, bare chest concaved into his stomach and his mouth gaping open. His skin was so pale it looked blue. It didn't even seem real, for a moment I thought it would be an interesting photograph, but then I realized it was all real. Now the image is burned into me.

Last night Jamie (who just got back from a week in Canada for her dad's wedding) said when she was telling all her friends from back home about the bar, they said it seemed exactly like Coyote Ugly.

The Coyote Ugly Girls

The Bar Sugar Girls (plus a British guy who calls himself Che)
Che, Meg, Jamie, Kristin

I never thought about it, but all the employees with "face time" are girls. We do have a few men: Matt & Con (the owners,) Martin the Expat Guy (the silent partner,) Santi & Nacho (the doormen,) Tomas & Malcom (the busboys) and Andres (the bar manager/owners' roommate.) Martin the Expat Guy always manages to sound like such a tool. He did, however, say he had me marked down for a discount on the Expat Wine Tasting Event we had RSVP'd for, but we opted to go to Hard Rock with Juan Jo and Sil instead. I told him I was sick. A half truth. I wonder how much of a discount he would've given me; surely not at cost. But now I'm curious as to how it went down. I would love to take wine-tasting classes, but they always seem so expensive. Martin says they're having another one at 0800 Vino again in two weeks, but I doubt I'll be here for it, or spending my last few nights with strangers. I mentioned I might just stop by the storefront, but he claims it's not open to the public. Well then, how did Mark get me my birthday champagne from there?

By this time tomorrow I'll be on a semi-cama bus to Iguazu. I wonder if it makes any stop in that 17 hour time span? I asked Matt and Andres which hostel they recommended in Iguazu. They both said there's only one: The Hostel Inn. Then what about all those others I found online? "Should I make a reservation?" "No, you're probably not in peak season. When I was there it was full." "So where did you sleep?" "There, I just had to wait an hour or so for someone to check out." Oh, well that doesn't sound so bad...

Jenny says I could always stay at The Iguazu Grand Hotel & Casino. ("Oh wait, but you're paying right?") I'd rather save myself the $325 per night for a Junior room. It's not like I'll be there long enough to enjoy the amenities. And I'm rather looking forward to making hostel friends.

I finally bought some medicine for my stomach. I think my body is rebelling against three months of unhealthy eating. I made a list the other day of all the groceries I would buy at home. Everything on it was vegetarian and/or organic.

Last night Matt was livid about the Comatose OD Guy. He says he's worked too hard for too long to get this bar to where it is, and now the police and authorities are going to have Sugar pegged as some kind of druggie bar. I had never thought of it like that, and I guess he has a right to be angry. But I think he took it too far when he said he wished the guy wouldn't make it. I found out what "en el horno" means: teetering on the brink of death. One of the only astute patrons left in the bar told me the guy was "in the oven." (I had heard it used before, when Leandro was last minute studying he claimed he was "en el horno con las papas," or "in the oven with the potatoes.") No one else seemed to notice what was going on, or even take note that the music was off.
See those flashing lights? See the man on the gurney? Get out!
Can I get another beer? No.
Malcom and Andres seemed pretty shaken up. Tonight might be a weird night. Paula, Kristin and I left as soon as we were paid, because I was sure it would hit the fan between Matt and Andres. Jamie left work a couple hours early, so she missed all the drama (and perhaps even her evening's tips, which were pretty low since it was a slow albeit eventful night.) Con paid each of us an extra $20 pesos. Maybe because we ended up having to close earlier than normal, maybe for the trauma induced...