Quejarse de algo

to complain about something

The Room overlooks The Strip. The Strip is lined with souvenir and chocolate shops, and with hostels and hotels bearing names like Tango Inn and Dazzler Hotel. We are immediately across the street from a 24-hour taxi service and two buildings down from a club called Dusk with a backwards “k.” Our street becomes the two-lane highway hugging the lake all the way to the Hotel Llao Llao, 30 kilometers away.

Mostly we have learned to sleep through the sound of cars, trucks and motorcycles—many overdue for an exhaust system replacement—accelerating on their way into or out of town. We mostly sleep through the sound of people on the sidewalk. (That time the taxi drivers and I watched an arrest unfold directly below The Room’s window at 3:30am was an exception.) I don’t sleep through car alarms, but it’s not that hard to fall back asleep. Dusk, however, is a problem.

Argentines often don’t eat dinner until 9pm or even 10pm, so they don’t go out to clubs until midnight. That means club shows don’t start and things don’t get hopping until 1am or 1:30am. Last night Dusk hosted a band and, while the lyrics were indistinct, I could hear drums and the audience shouting and excessive bass. If I hadn’t been so reluctant to get out of bed this morning, I would’ve indulged in one of our new pastimes: watching the zombies walk home at 7am or 8am.

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