High Octane

(I'm loving all your comments! I'll post a bunch of photos soon.)

I’ve been halfway around the world for more than two weeks, doing all sorts of great things. But there’s one thing I haven’t been doing…

Partying.

Not a drop of alcohol has touched my lips. I haven’t had a single puff of a cigarette. And I definitely haven't set foot on a dance floor. Most of us have already ventured into that college comfort zone, known as the nightclub, but because I was sick all of last weekend I have yet to experience the nightlife of an international student in Mysore.

So when a bunch of us decide to go to one of the very few local places, catering mostly by international students (most from Africa), I’m thinking, “It’s about time.”

“Sleek” is not a word that would in normal circumstances be used to describe Mysore. Mumbai? Probably. Bangalore? Yes. But Mysore? No way. High Octane is one of the few exceptions.

A narrow staircase filled with the muffled sounds of American radio pop hits foreshadows that the ambiance a High Octane doesn’t quite match up with the Mysore I’ve gotten acquainted with thus far.

Everything is as squeaky clean as an operating room. The walls are either ceiling-to-floor mirrors or painted a crisp white. Fiber-optic colored lights glow around the glass bar and cocktail tables, providing a warm illumination for the otherwise dim space. Rows of martini, wine, and cocktail glasses hang neatly upside-down behind the bar, ready to be snatched up by busy bartenders. And cushiony square chairs are positioned in clusters, like little living rooms, around the walls and small dance floor.

We head immediately for the bar. I am told bartenders here, unlike in the U.S., respond faster to men than women. So Christa and I hand our rupees to Alex and ask him to get us each a beer from the bar. Unfortunately, Alex is less than aggressive and doesn’t have any luck.

I decide to take matters into my own hands. I get my money back, break away from our little cluster of American students and find my way to the center of the bar. I wait until the bartender is nearly finished mixing a batch of drinks, lean in towards him and say “One beer.” He nods in recognition then grabs me a bottle of Kingfisher.

“80 rupees,” he says. I hand him a 100 rupee bill and wait for my change. While I’m waiting, James spots the beer in my hand and walks over to me.

“How did you get that beer?” He asks.

“I said, ‘Can I have a beer!”’ I guess acting confident and pushy translates into any language.

The bartender comes back and explains that he doesn’t have any small bills and if I come back later, he’ll have the 20 rupees he owes me. I shoot him a skeptical look then say sternly, “You better remember me when I come back.”

“I will,” he promises. I prolong my glare a second longer before making my way to the dance floor that’s been calling my name since I stepped through the door.

Suddenly it isn’t Mysore anymore. It’s New York City, Boston, or London. Nothing matters except the music and the ease in which it compels us to move. It’s physical and mental freedom. As the club fills up we take full advantage of the floor. We move and smile and listen. “This,” I think, “is exactly what I needed.”

And although I wouldn’t trade being in Mysore for London or anywhere else, there’s something priceless and unique about dance floors. I think it has something to do with the fact that it feels to me like the only place where people can be so physically close to anybody else, friends or strangers, and feel uninhibited and free to be instinctual. And embedded in it all is a sort of cleansing process. There goes the pent up energy – there goes the tension.

A couple times, some of the girls need to implement the unspoken “save me” plan to get other girls away from questionable dancing partners. You know what I’m talking about: when that guy with the slicked back hair and chaotic arms, whose been eyeing you all night, slowly inches his way to where you’re dancing. Before you know it he’s dancing right in front of you and getting his bump and grind on, way too close for comfort. You know that if you humor him and dance with this dude, you risk being stuck with him every time you hit the dance floor. So Instead, you find a friend and give her the “save me” queue – wide, pleading eyes – and she knows exactly what to do.

At the signal she shakes it over to her friend and ever so subtly cuts in, which usually involves taking her friend by the hand and dancing as close to her as possible, then guiding her away from said sketchy man and back into her group of friends. I guess dancing and music might be universal, but intruding on people’s personal space is still an international faux pas.

For the next couple hours we float in a triangle from the dance floor, to a table, to the bar. On my next trip up to the bar, I’m determined to the rupees the bartender owes me.

“One Beer”

“80 Rupees,” he says.

“You owe me 20 rupees,” I tell him sternly and pass him a 100 rupee bill. “I need 40 rupees back.”

By now James and Kendra are at the bar too, all looking for the change they are owed; they owe James 30 and Kendra 20. The bartender tells us all “OK” and goes to talk to another young bartender to gather some small bills. They shuffle through wads of money, wearing worried expressions for a minute then the bartender returns.

“I don’t have small bills,” he tells us. “come back later.”

“Later? What time later,” James asks him.

“No.” I tell the bartender. “I want my change now.”

I’ve been to enough places in the world where locals try to cheat foreigners that I’m not going to let it happen this time. This guy probably thinks that we’ll go away and just forget, or be too lazy to come back for our change. Besides, what kind of bar doesn’t have small change. I’m not walking away from the bar until I have a beer and 40 rupees in my hand- and James and Kendra have their change too.

Finally the bartender comes back with two 50s. We give him another 10 so its even and agree to split up the 100 rupees later; we trust each other more than we trust the likes of High Octane. And I realize I’m getting a lot better at putting my foot down.

When the pleasant exhaustion of a couple hours of dancing kicks in, a few of us decide to head home. Outside, the air’s cooled off and there’s only a muffled hint of American dance beats. Under the club, people are eating South Indian food in one of the many local dives. Within seconds a couple rickshaw drivers pull up, and none of them are willing to give us the usual meter-and-a-half after 10:30 fare.

So we begin to walk home, knowing well that in a few seconds one of the drivers would catch up to us and offer a fare we’ll accept. When it happens we pile in and it isn’t long before we’re back at Dhvanyloka and falling asleep.

Having (somewhat awkwardly) satisfied my craving for a party, I decide I won’t need it again for a while. It just doesn’t fit into the context of my experience here.

Not to mention, the frequency of deal with people who want to scam us is just obnoxious.

On second thought, even if we did pay the scam price for a ride home, and even if we didn’t get our change at the bar, the night technically still cost only a tiny fraction of what it would cost in New York or London– those places are just a lot more subtle about ripping us off. At least here I'm confident enough to be demanding and do something about it. In New York, I doubt I'd stand a chance.