As with love or the Kingdom of Heaven, parties were never meant to be analyzed. By definition, the moment one begins to analyze a party is the moment one ceases to become a part of it. Valentina asks me. Some 200 Pink Palace guests mill around the bar in the moments before the Greek dancing starts, and there is a hint of excitement in the air. Tables full of sunburned boys swill beers and peer over at tables full of sunburned girls.
Solo travelers line the bar like sock-hop wallflowers.
Sitting with Valentina at the end of the bar, I entertain myself by eavesdropping on my neighbors. The Greek-looking guy. She nods over at a muscular, dark-eyed local fellow who's been skulking and pouting his way past the wallflowers since dinner ended. As the two girls giggle over this, a deeply suntanned blond guy in a floral-print shirt walks up to me with an exaggerated air of nonchalance. The blond guy makes a casual nod at Valentina.