Con los vaqueros
I got my first real sighting of Mexican cowboys at a place called Silver Saddle in Las Vegas. After a night at the club, I popped in there with Chandler on the way back to the hostel and found myself in the Hispanic equivalent of a b & s.
I had my handbag searched while Chandler was patted down by security for concealed weapons. I faced the establishment agape at all the beige and black cowboy hats, perched atop heads proudly displaying preened mustaches. While the bar was typically the domain of the male (including a sleeping male whose mustache was nodding towards the counter), the tables and dancefloor held mixed groups and couples.
They played cumbia, which I’m not a fan of, but the couples were getting into it as they held each other closely and trotted around the dancefloor in a type of waltzy, jig fashion.
It was something so far removed from what I’ve seen before, and it was the opposite of the glitz and sparkle of the Strip, but it was utterly fascinating and such a great place to see the stereotype of the vaquero.