It’s 10:15 a.m. on a Friday in a cantina in Valladolid. I’ve spent the last 10 minutes trying to figure out what I’ve walked into, but my only real lead is a table of a dozen 50-somethings singing and dancing to Timbiriche’s “Con Todos Menos Conmigo” over 2-for-1 cantaritos.
As one caterwauls, the others use their straws like wands, stirring around tequila, grapefruit juice and years of suffering in an earthenware jar while nibbling at salted rims and cooling themselves with hand fans. They’ve held the karaoke playlist hostage for as long as I’ve been in the bar — passing the mic around their table like a talking stick at a powwow — and judging by their energy levels, there’s a lot more where that came from.
Leave it to Mexicans to turn a broken heart into a party.
Between songs, the bar’s hostess welcomes newcomers to their weekly Noche de Despecho, literally “Night of Spite,” figuratively, a nocturnal AA meeting for people struggling with a breakup, if AA meetings were musicals. She invites others to request songs — let it all hang out for three minutes — but at this rate, they’ll have to come back next week before their song gets played, and I’m still learning the words to “Mi Historia Entre Tus Dedos,” so regrettably, I can’t.
The Sala de Despecho phenomenon
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Somewhere in Guadalajara, Pepe Rodríguez is smiling. He’s the architect, the reason these “Salas de Despecho” are popping up all over the country, from Mexico City to Mazatlán. Word is, he used to come home drunk and sing heartbreak songs in the early hours with his friends. Now their misery is ours.
Part of me wonders what it says about a culture and its views on romance that bars like these have become all the rage. The other part marvels at how adept that culture is at purging pain.
I don’t need to say a word to these women, and I can guess how their relationships ended. The setlist gives it away.
One in a red blouse and knee-length white skirt belts out “Un Millón de Primaveras” by Vicente Fernández. She’s taking way longer than her ex to move on and makes no apologies for this. Another in a black dress swaggers through “Se Me Olvidó Otra Vez” by the incomparable Juan Gabriel. I suspect she’s what her compatriots would call a migajera: she knows it’s over but has left the door open in case the old flame decides to walk back in.
Still another sings “La Puerta Negra” by Los Tigres del Norte. She never had a chance, and now laments the role of puertas negras, or invisible societal barriers imposed by families that prevent lovers from being together.
And then there’s Miss Machiavelli, biding her time coolly as she interprets Oscar D’León’s “Llorarás,” promising her ex, wherever they are, that they’ll be the ones crying when all is said and done.
‘Misery loves company’
This isn’t a ceremony of sadness; it’s equal parts group therapy and public shaming.
Mounted on the wall behind the table where the women sit is the head of a donkey, which, I have to imagine, isn’t entirely without symbolism. In lieu of the spurners not in attendance, those singing have another perfectly suitable jackass to whom they can direct their discontent.
Science says that’s the magic behind these spots.
Each full-throated note, a trigger releasing feel-good endorphins and oxytocin; each sustained falsetto, a cue to the body to lower cortisol levels; each heartbreaking lyric, a step toward processing pain; and each neighbor who joins in, a small confirmation that whoever’s singing isn’t suffering alone.
It’s Friday night in the Sala de Despecho, and misery loves company.
Ethan Jacobs is a freelance writer and writing coach based in Playa del Carmen. He has written extensively in narrative and short fiction formats, and his work has received recognition both domestically and internationally in microfiction, short fiction and narrative essay formats.
