The Uruguayans like partying – and they hook their parties onto Días – special days. El Día de la Mama, el Día del Papa… Okay, those are pretty ordinary. But then you get Child’s Day, Grandparents’ Day, No Smoking Day, Holy Innocents’ Day – even the Light of the Nights in December, when the sky is ablaze with fireworks for the official opening of the beaches. And in the middle of winter, on 24 August, there is Nostalgia Night.

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I first heard about it from my friend Raquel. “Everyone goes out. You dress up, you dance, you have fun.”

‘Why on 24 August?’

Her reply: “Claro. Because it’s la noche de la nostalgia.’

I ask a few Uruguayan friends about the history of the revelry. No-one knows. Nothing on the Internet. But for weeks coming up to the event the national newspapers are filled with advertisements for dinners and dances.

We receive three invitations. One to a flower power party at an English friend’s house, another from a Dutch neighbor to a karaoke and dance party. The third invites us to take a steam train to a wine bodega and drink the night away. This last one sounds like even more fun than the others, but a freak storm hits Uruguay the night before and Invitation Three is cancelled.

We plump for the flower power party. What shall I wear? I don’t have flares, or even “flairs”, as specified in the invitation, nor do I have long hair to braid and decorate with flowers. I decide I’ll be an anachronistic punk.

I start with Gloria, my hairdresser. And yes! She has the answer to my question!

“Thirty years ago,” she says, as she shampoos my hair and the water trickles into my ears, “a night club owner decided to have a retro party on 24 August, and the idea caught on. Now there isn’t a night club or restaurant in Montevideo that doesn’t mark la noche de la nostalgia.”

She chops, hennas, gels, tweaks and tugs. The result is attractive – black and spiky. Okay, I’ll build on this. I never was very punky, but I have a black slinky top. And a jangly Zanzibar chain. And a mean-looking heavy silver bangle. I can add some black eye makeup. And my black ankle boots. “I’ll lend you my black leather jacket”, says Gloria.

But I need black jeans, and it’s already 6 p.m.

“Juan Perez”, I decide. Since my extremely elegant friend Eugenia let me into her secret, I have become a regular at Juan Perez, a poky little second-hand shop in my neighborhood, where you can uncover real treasures.

“Black jeans?” I ask. The two pairs they have don’t fit. (In Europe I’m considered ‘medium’ – here, among the sleek South American beauties, I’ve become ‘Extra Large’)

“What about these?” The salesgirl hands me a pair of stretch black pants with pseudo-leather strips down the sides. Not really my taste, but I try them on. Perfect fit. And definitely punky. And somehow, they look familiar.

“How much?”

“300 pesos, señora.”

300 pesos? That’s $12! You can hardly go wrong with $12. I buy them.

At home I take them out of the bag and suddenly realize where I saw them last. I tried them on last week in a smart shop in Punta del Este… they were priced at over $250. I read the label. Valentino’s…

VALENTINO’S!

Juan Perez
Rostland 1551 bis
Carrasco
Montevideo
Tel: 00 598 2 604 3528