Free Talking to Girls About Duran Duran: One Young Man's Quest for True Love and a Cooler Haircut by Rob Sheffield

“techno-pop,” music that in my country only weirdos liked. They wore minifaldas on hot days. They had very strong feelings about the evils of the Catholic Church, unless they actually had Catholic mothers, in which case I wasn’t allowed near them in the first place. I fell in love with every single one of them.
    I’m not sure how Angela and Nuria became my friends. My third or fourth day, I was sitting by myself at lunch. Angela and Nuria came up and said, You’re eating with us. Con nosotras . I said okay. Angela had a mod bob and a high-pitched voice that chattered constantly. She gave me a book of poems by Antonio Machado, her favorite. Nuria didn’t talk as much as Angela; in fact, she barely said a word all summer. I thought Angela looked a bit like a pigeon, which I meant as a compliment, but I knew better than to say it out loud, even though the Spanish word for “pigeon” is the same as “dove.”
    We spent the summer going to discotecas and dancing—two Spanish girls, two American girls we knew, and me. Angela, Nuria, Kate and Ligia would primp and change outfits and put on their makeup, then we’d ride the subway, sometimes with other Spanish girls like Cristina or Casilda. We all kissed one another on the cheek twice a night, hello and good-bye. Lust was in the air, all of it mine, but somehow these girls knew I was never going to make a move on them. I wish I know how they could tell. Yes, I was in another country, speaking another language, but I still had the Esperanto word for “non-ass-grabber” written on my forehead. It was the most demanding social life I’d ever had; escorting these girls was constant work. My role was unclear to me, but it was obviously a good gig to have.
    One of them once made out with a guy while dancing, then claimed he was no good at all. That’s the only time I ever saw any of them get romantic on the floor. They weren’t here to mingle; they were here to dance and show off. As I got older, I learned that my role is usually served by hot gay dudes who don’t know they’re gay yet, rather than straight boys who are merely shy, so I don’t know how I got so lucky. Weren’t there any bona fide gay dudes around? Guess not.
    The perks of being in this gang were massive. It was my introduction to nightlife, to clubbing, the thrill of discoteca culture. I remember the flashing lights of the Metro, as if we were already in the disco just by heading out there. The ecstatic tingle of anticipation, almost unbearable, as each station passed by. The girls all nervous in their minifaldas . The metallic glint of the elevator, riding up from the Metro stop, knowing what was up there waiting. The billboards on the block (“Martini: Te Invita a Vivir”) that served as signposts to remind us we were on our way. The boys outside on their Motovespa scooters. Walking up to the door, with that adrenaline rush of fear. Maybe something will go wrong? What if they won’t let us in? A private party? That happens. But we always got in, maybe because we just had one boy and a gaggle of chicas.
    Pacha, that was the place. We were all sixteen—that was the age to get in. It was one thousand pesetas, about ten bucks, on weekends, but only seven hundred on weeknights. One final split-second wave of fear as you paid the money at the window. The pale green ticket stub. Getting in. The air-conditioning hitting you like a full-body slam. Crowding on the floor, the girls using their stiletto elbows, working our way across the room, somewhere near the corner. Finding our spot. There . We’re in.
    The girls started dancing, their skirts spinning away, and I followed along. The music was a barrage of insanely sexy techno-pop songs I’d never heard before—Depeche Mode’s “Just Can’t Get Enough,” Haircut 100’s “Favourite Shirts,” Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark’s “Enola Gay.” And the Human League—dancing to that, with actual girls. Can’t think, I’ll pass out. Just keep