Giant puckered bubbling steaming plopping anii aside.....

We finished up dinner amidst the lulling sounds of the pseudo-gypsy woman and her violinist friend caressing the nostalgia of the blind-drunk Russkys at the table next to us. And much glass breaking on the floor. And the stomping of aforementioned Russian businessmen staggering their way through traditional Russian dance moves. What can I say? We were inspired.

So off we went to boogie at one of the city's hottest night clubs. At the Hyatt Hotel. Where we couldn't find anywhere to sit because 75% of the tables are reserved for "members." Members indeed. We just crammed a dozen of us around a little cafe table with 5 stools. Ordered drinks. Waited for the DJ to start playing.

Which didn't happen until midnight. The DJ warmed up with a few somewhat danceable tracks, or at least I thought so. A hint of house, a bit of breakbeat, a dribble of dub. The dancefloor remained empty, colored lights zooming around in a fruitless effort to entice dancers, strobelights highlighting the lonely checkered vinyl floor, smoke machine lending its air of mystery to nothing but the DJ's decks.

And then he played the Shut Up song. ("Just shut up, shut up..... Just shut up, shut up.... Just shut up, shut up...." ad nauseum.) I don't know if it exists here in the States. I pray that Americans have slightly more discerning taste. But if you've heard it, you might be able to imagine the appeal that it holds for the 20- and 30-somethings stranded in one of the un-hippest national capitals within 1000 miles of the Caucasus Mountains. The crowd literally rushed the dancefloor in a panic to show off the strange sex appeal of wiggling around in one spot wearing tight 80s clothing and demonstrating an appalling lack of rhythm. Are acid wash jeans still sexy? Were they ever?

From there, the DJ established a playlist of some of the worst dance music I've ever heard, set on repeat loop of approximately 1.5 hours. We heard the Shut Up song no less than 4 times before calling it a night. But every now and then, the DJ would throw me a bone. A track that I might actually hear in San Francisco, perhaps not played by one of the mightier mix masters who send me to the heights of dancing ecstasy, but nonetheless vaguely palatable. As the rest of the crowd looked around wondering what this strange music was, I absolutely freaked out. I scared people. There was at least 5 feet of empty space around me in all directions. I stomped. I flailed. I grooved. I was wearing hiking boots at the Hyatt! It was fantastic.

Until the Shut Up song came back on.

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All in all, Azerbaijan was fun. I had a fantastic time visiting my incredibly smart, capable, witty, brilliant and beautiful cousin Laura (we share genes, dontchya know?). The presence of our also incredibly smart, capable, witty, brilliant and beautiful friend Mathilde made it twice as nice. Next stop: France...