Latino Love Hangover

It was August 2008. I had just gotten back from my summer holiday in Spain where I fell in love with the future father of my children. Well actually Antonio was really just a caveman who was great in bed- but at the time it really didn’t seem like a summer fling, it felt like true love.

My life was at a crossroads, I had lost my job and I was debating whether or not to leave Hong Kong forever and live out a fantasy with my Spanish stud-muffin in Barcelona.The separation and uncertainty were killing me. Antonio had called me the night before and we fought about things we’d probably be fighting about for the rest of our relationship. I knew in my heart he was not the guy for me and that things had to end. I was depressed and confused- about life in general.

Then a typhoon 8 blew through town. The short squalls of rain went hand in hand with the ominous gusts of wind. The weather matched perfectly with the tumultuous feeling I had inside. While not the most rational choice, I felt  the only solution was to drown my sorrows in my gin. Luckily, there was a typhoon party going on at Stormies and my girlfriend called me to come down. When I arrived, my girlfriend was dancing in the street barefoot with wet hair and it was only 5pm. Needless to say, she was slightly intoxicated. I was immediately presented with a tequila shot. “Here.” She slurred “This will make you feel better.” I knocked back the burning elixir hoping that it would indeed be the cure for my heartache.

An hour after me and Jose Cuervo has gotten to know each other intimately, I stumbled home, the rain and the wind masking my tears. I didn’t care that my umbrella was inside out and that I was soaked. I got home, proceeded to crawl under my dining table and dialed those dreaded long distance digits to Spain. As you can imagine, there was a lot of psycho babble as well as tears and hysterics. The poor guy, being that he was in a different time zone, was completely sober as I unleashed my alcohol-inspired verbal diarrhea.

Luckily the call waiting started to buzz. I answered it and it was my dear friend Jose. Jose was modeling in Hong Kong and he was like a big brother to me. “Girl, come to the Gucci party right now he said. Stop crying. No drama. It’s a really good party and there’s champagne. You’ll like it.” Bless him. I started to complain that there was no way I’d get a taxi but both guys had hung up the phone. So I walked out and miraculously, I managed to get a taxi.

The Gucci party was almost over when I got there but there was still a lot of champagne to be imbibed. I couldn’t believe how many people were at the Convention Center in a typhoon 8. We started grabbing every glass of champagne we could get our hands on and pounding it back like it was our last day on earth. It just seemed fitting somehow. Then we proceeded to grab some random local people that were dressed to the nines, made them dance with us and took photos with them in compromising positions in front of the Gucci paparazzi sign. We stole the velvet ropes, fashioned a few Gucci necklaces from the plastic letters that were on the paparazzi board and went downstairs to get a taxi. We waited for what seemed like hours and finally we managed to bribe a taxi to take us to Lan Kwai Fong for 150 honkie dollars. Highway robbery! We made up for it by annoying the taxi driver with this big traffic cone that we stole that was in the back seat with us. We were yelling into it and causing such a commotion. We figured he better put up with our ruckus since he was robbing us.

The last stop was Al’s diner where we had multiple jello shots and danced like crazy in the rain. One of the male models in our entourage was wearing eyeliner. (He was in the fashion show- it was Gucci’s idea!) He looked like a gay 18 year old (actually he was 21). Anyway, out of the blue he grabs me and in the rain, he plants his lips on mine and starts kissing me. Even though I was completely uninterested, in my liquid haze, I found his soft lips hard to resist. In that moment, drunk, liberated, the rain beating down my cheeks, all my troubles became irrelevant. It really did feel like the last day on earth.

That’s all I remember. I don’t know how I got home. When I woke up, I was home alone, still in my damp clothes, and it looked like the typhoon had actually blown through my flat. The room was spinning. Waves of nausea forced me out of bed and I zigzagged my way to the toilet. I looked in the mirror. My face was puffy, my eyes were bloodshot and there was mascara all down my face. My God! Who kidnapped my reflection and put a zombie in its place?!

I spent the whole morning driving the porcelain bus and the rest of the afternoon curled up in the fetal position with a pounding headache and two big bottles of water bedside. I still didn’t know what I was doing with my life nor with Antonio and frankly my dear, at that point, I just didn’t give a damn.

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