The Only Bar in Guadalajara (GDL)

After a hard day of traveling, the least I expected of Guadalajara was to be able to kick back, relax, and have a drink with some of my hostel-mates. That dream was abruptly shattered when I heard of the ¨Ley Seca¨, which forbids the sale of alcohol on election weekend.
No Corona, no margarita, no tequila --not even in Tequila, the town outside Guadalajara which gave the liquor its name. Why o why?

It`s no secret that Mexicans like to drink, so the government decided it would be a good idea to ban the sale of alcohol during election weekend. My guess is either they were afraid loyal voters would sink into a Sunday haze of drunkeness, or it`s part of the campaign to promote "clarity of mind" before the election, which also included a ban on campaign advertisement three days prior to the election.

All I know is, for the wayward traveler arriving in Guadalajara on July 1st, one`s options are certainly limited. After chatting with the hostel receptionist (who by the way offered to make me his roommate), I set out with 4 chicas --two Britons, one Aussie, and one American-- to find a place to eat and some action. Despite having been in GDL longer than me, they were completely clueless, and we blindly directed a taxi around town in search of an open restaurant. Fifty pesos (10 dollars) later, we settled on a place around the corner from the hostel and enjoyed an authentic Mexican meal.

Back at the hostel, we met up with their Mexican friend Jorge, who they for obvious reasons refer to as "Che." With penetrating, quizzical eyes, ripped jeans, and hair at his shoulders, Jorge makes perhaps a better Che than Gael García Bernal (also from GDL). Later, when I asked him whether he voted in the election, Jorge said of course not, that it was all a farce, and that the only real way to exert change, he insisted, was to adopt a lifestyle like his own --to eat, to sleep, to make love (this as he stroked the elbow of his newest American prize), but most importantly to travel around the country learning from "the people" and sharing with them all he`s learned. `Nuff said.

Along with Jorge were some exchange students whose length of exchange had long since expired. Now English teachers, bums, and frequenters of the Guadalajara valley`s hallucinogenic mushrooms, their accents mimiced too well those of Mexican street youths, chanting expletives in the stereotypical sing-song accent. Together with this group, which included an Italian boy and a German girl who couldn`t keep from molesting each other in the street, we set out in search of that elusive beer. After negotiating the price with a plump doorwoman, we entered an establishment called ACNE --yes, like the facial condition. Jorge treated us to some beers, which left me wondering the source of his steady flow of pesos. The beer was smooth, and we drank in a partially covered plaza, with a Spanish version of "These Boots Were Made for Walking" floating somewhere in the background.

Before I even had a chance to invite my compañeros to another round, we were on the move. After picking up some vintage 2006 Baja California wine with a twist-off top, we settled at the house of the had-been exchange students. As the night grew cooler the alcohol warmed us, and people began to drop like flies (the time now being close to 3 am). The first to go was the horny European couple, then the crazy Frenchman, and soon I was trying to keep my eyes open while we all watched two of them play a hopelessly boring game of chess. By 5 o`clock it became clear to me that the two girls who I had tagged along with had no intention of returning to the hostel that night (one was too busy nuzzling with Jorge, and the other dared not leave her side). So I stumbled out into the street, with no understanding at all of my current location, diligently repeating the address of the hostel in my head.

After getting change at my neighborhood 7-Eleven (why did I forget nobody has change in Latin America!), I boarded the taxi which would take me back to my dwelling place. I felt bad buzzing Carlos the hostel host at 5:30 am, and I apologized when he opened the door, though I`m not sure he heard me. In my bed minutes later, I wondered what tomorrow --election day-- would bring and whether I would be able to get up early enough to witness the opening of the polls at 8 am.

I didn`t.