He turns and we follow him. The boys look thrilled and the one puts a hand on my hip precariously close to my ass as we make our way inside. Soon, we’re all distracted by our surroundings. The first wall is a lush garden leading up to the house’s portico, a tangle of jungle plants split by the wooden esplanade we’re now crossing. There are fairy lights strung through the foliage, giving the whole place an enchanted look. The festivities are already underway, and groups of glamorous partygoers are spilling out onto the patio and the small patches of grass that surround it. None of the ebullient din of the party could be heard from the street. It feels like we’ve gone through the looking glass.

“Some party,” Alberto says, raising his eyebrows at us. The boys, I suddenly realize, look as underdressed as I do. I half expect some security personnel to appear and ask us to leave. I’m reminded of all of the parties the trustees threw us in Aspen and Vail where it always felt like a mistake that someone let a bunch of punk kids into a place this nice.

Inside, there is music playing and yet more beautiful people tumbling over one another. A jumble of languages emerges from the babble: Spanish, Italian, French. A handsome young man, his bow tie already undone, ambles by holding two overly full glasses of something clear. He says hello in Spanish to the three of us, and then offers me his extra shot.

“Might as well,” I mumble to myself in English and toast my drinking buddy. “Bottoms up,” I say and drink what turns out to be tequila.

We’re carried along with a tide of people to a massive gleaming kitchen, where waiters bustle around efficiently and someone directs us to a bar in the corner. As we wait for drinks I take a moment to scan the crowd around me, and as I do, I notice that not all the guests are as young as the one who answered the door. People in their thirties and forties mingle with younger guests. There’s an elegant octogenarian in a full-length black gown laughing gaily in a crowd of younger men; someone drapes a feather boa around her shoulders, and she smiles and plants a kiss on his cheek, leaving a gash of red lipstick behind.

Santiago (maybe) is getting handsier by the second. I’m feeling the booze and don’t really care one way or the other. When we make it to the bar, I order a glass of champagne.

“¡Vamos a bailar!” Santiago says, pulling me back to the main room, where people have moved some of the furniture to make a dance floor and incorporated the rest. A skinny girl in a sequin dress has climbed on top of a thankfully formidable-looking coffee table.