Random Observation/Comment #179: There aren’t many rules I follow for St Patty’s Day. In fact, there is only one rule I follow: I must drink Guinness. That whole wearing green thing is non-sense; everyone looks like a pink elephant by the end of the night anyway. I often wonder why I don’t try to make every party night a reflection of the St Patty’s Day spirit, but then I remembered that my liver actually has other bodily functions. I’ve mentioned how much I absolutely love Guinness, but if my other entries’ tributes weren’t enough, I’ll reiterate: I would trade that Klondike bar for a Guinness even after doing the unmentionable deeds I’d need for that chocolate-covered goodness in the first place. Mmmm… Maybe a Klondike bar dipped in Guinness… no, that would be too good to be true.
Sometimes this holiday/tradition/obligatory drinking day has its ways of sneaking up on you. It’s funny how I don’t even remember most of my past St Patty Day moments from the past few years. I think there was one time where I was living in a hotel near 42nd street and just grabbed a Guinness at a bar, and another where I woke up in a part of the city I’ve never been. Regardless, I think they were good times.
I don’t quite remember most of the night, but my camera seemed to have captured the majority of the celebrations. Not only were there free funny hats, but there were also tons of alcohol and music in a very cozy Irish pub. As with most drunken nights, we met other groups our age with interesting quirks. I’m not sure why, but the Indian British guy stood out in my mind (after writing this a month later) – it’s probably because he was enthusiastically pissed off about everything in the world. It might have been a result of sleep deprivation or high alcohol concentrations, but this bloke was just hilarious. I don’t remember if he said funny things, or just said them in a funny manner, but it really brings a night together when there’s an angry drunk with a heavy accent to liven up the crowd. Cheers.
I couldn’t think of any better way to end the night than learning a valuable lesson. My introduction to Reeperbahn was basically like a first swimming lesson on the Titanic. I mean, I didn’t risk the chance of dying from this experience, but a fairly flustered Clemens is rare. I guess I wasn’t expecting the skimpily dressed lady to walk up to me and grab my arm. She said words I didn’t understand, but her eyes and suggestive grin was more than enough to give a signal. It made me extremely uncomfortable, which led to this slight bow and paint-on defensive smile. Who knows? She could have been a sweetheart and offered me a discount – “That’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard” (Props if you got the reference).
In order to avoid these awkward situations, a man should escape the devils’ eyes/radar/sixth sense/targeting system. If you were in the jungle, like Arnold, you would try to cover yourself with cold mud (easier reference). I guess this would work as well, but an easier solution would be to latch onto the closest person possible. Their view seems to only focus on individuals. Large groups walking with arms linked and synchronous stepping just blends into the surrounding. It is also an imperative to avoid eye-contact. Their hooker-instincts prey on the weak-minded; if you sneak a glance, you give off the stench of an injured rabbit. However, going to Reeperbahn is really like joining Fight Club; if it’s your first time, you gotta get harassed. It’s part of the welcome, and – oh, my – is it a welcome.
Other than getting attacked by hookers, this was also the first night of getting to know some great friends. This new network of individuals would bring me many more good times and unforgettable memories.
Everyone’s Irish tonight.
~See Lemons Irish