Dearest devotees of questionable European nightlife,
There was always a certain grimy glamour to the Euro-trash club experience that I knew I’d crave. It wasn’t just the lingering scent of cigarette smoke woven into my hair for days, or the sweaty, anonymous press of bodies in dimly lit rooms, punctuated by the inevitable blast of cheesy Italian ‘80s anthems. Beyond the uniquely chaotic “vibage,” I genuinely missed those forays into the mysterious realm of the 21+. I’d glimpsed the “Sex and the City”-esque adventures that might await me in my late twenties and, crucially, survived the ultimate test: navigating cobblestone streets in heels. I’d even stared into the eyes of a higher power, if that power was a bouncer judging the hemline of my skirt. I had tasted the forbidden fruit beyond the velvet ropes, a world my barely-legal American self would be denied upon returning stateside.
The post-Europe blues hit hard. So, when a friend from my hometown extended an invitation to a One Direction “all ages night” over the holiday break, a part of me, perhaps foolishly, said yes. My high school party scene had been…lacking. Think folding chairs, lukewarm Coors Light, and a barn. The bar was low. I was almost morbidly curious to see what my hometown nightlife had evolved into. Plus, the “all ages” aspect offered a comforting illusion of safety from any awkward encounters with my past.
My friend’s mom and aunt were also joining our expedition. The pre-party at their place was a suburban tableau straight out of “Big Little Lies”: an impressive spread of crudités, Christmas cookies, and, somewhat incongruously, Jell-O shots. This display of white wine suburban revelry almost convinced me that the club’s clientele would skew older, perhaps even…sophisticated?
Reality hit the moment we stepped inside. The club was a stark, rectangular box, instantly evoking memories of a middle school cafeteria. Exposed pipes snaked across the ceiling, linoleum floors stretched out before us, and a sad wooden stage stood at the back. DJ Blade Trip, who looked barely old enough to drive, hunched over his turntables, intensely focused as he blasted “Best Song Ever” by One Direction. My friend’s mom made a beeline for the bar, while we tentatively edged into the crowd, the actual demographics of which were rapidly coming into focus.
Now, it’s important to preface this by stating my neutral stance on One Direction. I’m neither a die-hard fan nor a vocal hater. They simply existed outside my teenage orbit. Growing up, I genuinely thought there were only four of them. Heading into this One Direction-themed night, I figured it would be…fine. Somehow, I’d completely underestimated the intense, unwavering devotion required to be a superfan of a band that hadn’t released new music in a decade.
Looking around, I’d estimate the average age in the room hovered around 14. Gaggles of girls in jeans and “going-out tops” (a relic I thought we’d collectively buried in the early 2010s), low-top Converse sneakers, and furtive vape pens tucked into vintage Guess purses their moms probably lent them. I watched in dawning horror as the crowd, visibly devolving into adolescence before my very eyes, shrieked along to lyrics I didn’t recognize. It felt less like a concert and more like some bizarre teenage ritual, and I couldn’t decipher if they were praising a pop-idol deity or welcoming me to a particularly awkward circle of hell.
DJ Blade Trip, in a move that can only be described as performance art, began launching plush toys into the screaming throng. He then escalated things with a water gun, spraying the crowd with the manic energy of a Kidz Bop Steve Aoki. Given the trajectory of my evening, I was, predictably, drenched. But DJ Blade Trip, ever the showman, was prepared. He returned moments later wielding a leaf blower, proceeding to blast the now-soaked crowd with a gust of lukewarm air. The night continued its surreal descent. Chains of giggling, slightly unsteady teens navigated the dance floor, and I eventually found myself standing next to a middle-aged woman calmly holding…an actual infant.
The baby. The baby nearly broke me. Suddenly, I was a character in a low-budget horror film, a wide-angle lens distorting my face as I stumbled through the throngs, desperately seeking an escape route from the teenaged vortex. When I finally clawed my way to the edge of the dance floor, a shattering realization hit me with the force of a poorly mixed tequila soda. Despite my friend’s mom gamely downing drinks at the bar, I was the one embodying every college student’s holiday nightmare: officially, irrevocably, too old to be here.
My night mercifully ended without further incident, and I returned home from my “wild” evening with a profound hollowness in my chest. An intense, almost painful yearning for the chaotic embrace of a Euro-trash club. A longing that transcends mere words.
To paraphrase Passenger, “You only know you love her when you let her go.” And, in that moment, surrounded by the echoes of teenybopper anthems and the phantom scent of baby powder, I truly understood: I had let Euro-trash go. And I desperately wanted it back.
Too old for this,
Lucy
