Calming the fire

My internal fire alarm went off when the bartender sprayed the liquid in his mouth at the flaming bottles he was juggling while dancing on the countertop. He blew a series of impressive fireballs, their intense orange crowns skimming the ceiling, leaving little embers like so many glowing insects.

Everyone in the room gave a rousing cheer. Everyone except me, whose eyes were locked on those amber specks sticking to the ceiling. The fire breather, like the other people in the small and packed club, didn’t seem to care, but I did (I later found out that my husband shared my unease). I moved a few inches closer to the exit.

It could be argued the spectacle was a routine performance and less hazardous than smoking in bed, but I believe my sudden mild attack of pyrophobia was not without reason. Nightclubs aren’t the most fireproof establishments in the world, if you’ve ever read those horrifying stories about club patrons dying trapped inside towering infernos.

OK, I probably was just being paranoid.

The thing about growing up (or older) is you start seeing things you never really saw before. Your priorities shift. Sometimes it puzzles you why the things that used to excite you, and that still do people younger than you, no longer seem as exciting.

For example, if this were 10 or 15 years ago, I’d be the first to climb on that countertop or any raised platform and start dancing my tush off. A drink in one hand, a cigarette in the other, arms flailing about with total abandon, oblivious of the prospect that someone’s hair might catch on fire. Wait, am I talking about my younger self or that reckless girl smoking and dancing next to me the other night while I dodged right and left to prevent getting cigarette burns?

Whereas I once thrived in such a thrilling environment, now I feel uncomfortably cramped, as if I’m always in someone’s way with the streams of people endlessly moving about, shoving their way through. I’ve been told I’m a happy drunk; you know, the type of person who gets merrily charming and affectionate when they’ve been tippling. Now I find that overly cheerful drunks, even my own companions, aren’t as much fun when I’m in a sober state of mind. In fact, they’re kind of irritating.

If I don’t stop this, you’ll start thinking what an old fart I am. And I probably am, but that shouldn’t stop me from the pursuit of fun on a night out dancing. Hence the pyrotechnic night in question.

Thirteen years ago, still a bunch of young journalists with way too much energy at day’s end, we did this quite regularly. We’d drink as though the idea of a hangover was just a mythologized phenomenon; we’d dance till we were the last few people on the dance floor, and just before dawn, we’d stumble out, happy and reeking of cigarette smoke, in search of a bowl of hot chicken porridge to cap off the night.

But a recent night out clubbing was more eye-opening than anything else – or should I say an interesting anthropological study. For one, I found out that bouncers at some places aren’t just in charge of security. Their main task now is to look at female patrons’ footwear and make sure they meet the standard, which entails having high heels.

Yes, dear reader, if you’re one of those women who take comfort in a closer connection to the ground – who believe one can look chic without having to sacrifice the health of one’s spine – if you’re a lover of flat shoes, beware, for the men in dark safari suits will seek you out among the high-heeled patrons and summarily deny your low-heeled patronage entrance. They will throw the cover charge back at you and make some rude remark. Arrive à la Lady Godiva but in a pair of killer heels, and they would probably let you in – and the horse (if she were in heels).

So we were denied entry at that first club (no names mentioned, but it has the 23rd letter of the alphabet in it, and also a number, and that’s all you need to know) because one of our friends was wearing flat sandals. No big loss. Another club, an equally trendy one that looked as if everyone was having a blast, accepted all nine of us more wholeheartedly.

If there’s one lesson to learn out from this recent night out, however, it’s that nightlife is hard on your body.

No more running off the excess alcohol on the jogging track or treadmill, or going to work hangover-free after pulling an all-nighter. These days, I need a good massage just to be able to carry on the day after. Plus, waking up with a quarter of the day already gone makes me feel as though I’ve squandered something precious. At some point in life, I must’ve turned from being a nocturnal animal to one that delights in mornings.

Fire fright, disdainful bouncers and changing circadian system aside, I wouldn’t want the experience any other way though.

+ Devi Asmarani

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