At this point, I should explain that I carry a small notebook everywhere I go. I jot down thoughts and ideas as they come to me. I even keep track of places I find or happy hours that are particularly good deals. To catch you up on the last week or so, I figured I would offer these fragments from my notebook.
CHERYL
After a long evening of exploring downtown DC on foot, I stopped to get a cold beer at an old place called Harry’s. I stood at the bar next to a girl who introduced herself as Cheryl, and who seemed a little too loud and a tad too intoxicated. I thought it might be time for the bartender to cut her off or for her friends to take her home.
Then I began hearing fragments of their conversation, and, when I appeared interested, she turned to me. There were a few moments of the usual small talk, and then the bartender placed a fresh cocktail in front of her, courtesy of one of her companions. She was unsteady on her feet, and, as she pulled the drink toward her, a bit splashed on the bar.
Looking at me, she grinned, lifted her glass in a familiar gesture and chirped, "It’s my twenty-fifth birthday!"
Now it all made sense. Chuckling, I tapped my glass against hers and, feigning concern, said, "I hope you make it to twenty-six."
She sipped and put the glass down in front of her. I could tell, at that moment, a thought had entered her mind, one that was familiar but nonetheless unpleasant. I watched as the expression on her face changed, and a haze descended over her eyes, giving the impression that she was looking at something far away, but seeing nothing.
Without facing me, she leaned and whispered, "My mom died on my birthday."
I don't think her hard-drinking friends had any idea. I guess she just wanted to tell… someone. I was the lucky one. I wondered how long ago it had been, and thought how awful that must be. Before I could say anything, her eyes brightened again. The silence hadn’t been long enough to be awkward.
"Aren’t you going to wish me happy birthday?" Loud, drunk Cheryl had returned just as suddenly as she had departed.
"Happy birthday," I said as I smiled and nodded at her, and took a big swig from my mug.
One of her friends grabbed her and pulled her away down the bar. Someone had bought a round of shots.
Left alone, I drank a silent toast. Birthdays are sometimes bittersweet, Cheryl. Yours will always be so.
Cheers.
THE BRICKSKELLER
I go to the Brickskeller (Link HERE) about once a week. I've spoken of it often to friends. They have 1000 different kinds of beer. They're officially recognized by the Guinness Book as holding the World Record for most beers available in a single retail location. The beer menu reads like a small novel. I love it. (Seriously, the beer list is HERE).
Most of the people who go there are beer snobs like me, but, occasionally, "normal" people arrive at the downstairs bar, no doubt by accident, and say things that seem silly to me.
One guy, with no idea what to order, told the bartender, "I'd like a beer with character..." For some reason, I immediately conjured up a mental image of them delivering a beer and Jack Nicholson. Sometimes when I'm by myself, I giggle. I'm sure people wonder why.
Once, a guy walked up and ordered a Coors Light. The look on the server's face was priceless. Her thoughts were as clear as if she had a scrolling sign on her forehead. With all this good beer here, you're ordering THAT? She looked at me in mock confusion. I grinned and shrugged. It was awesome. She brought him a Coors Light. He sat at the end of the bar, in the corner, drank it quickly, and left.
Later, a new arrival walked up to the same server saying, "Can I have a water and a Miller Lite?"
I said to her, knowing that he could hear, "Isn't that redundant?"
This server likes me. I can tell. She seems just a bit too happy to see me. Ahh, the life of a beer snob.
HISTORIC FLOORBOARDS
Inside the historic Georgetown Inn (Link HERE) is a place called the Daily Grill. During the course of my wanderings, I stopped there once for a happy hour glass of wine and one of their delicious $3.95 appetizers. The hotel has been in that building for forty years. I have no idea how old the building may be.
As I always do when I'm exploring, I had my backpack with me. I rarely venture out unless I have my camera, my notebook and my raincoat. I hung the backpack over the back of the bar chair, and ordered ahi tuna and a pinot grigio.
It wasn't long before I noticed that everyone who walked behind me seemed to brush my backpack. I would scream for a week if someone ripped off my camera and notebook, so I am always aware of where it is, and cautious about my surroundings. But why would everybody, in the Georgetown Inn of all places, continue to tussle with my backpack as they walked past?
I'm generally a calm person, but I was beginning to get a little annoyed. Then I noticed that every time I felt my backpack move, a noise accompanied the motion. What the hell?
Finally, I turned and watched one of the servers as she walked behind me. One spot in the old floor dipped, and the board creaked as she went. The right rear leg of my chair was perched on the end of the broken board. No one had brushed my backpack after all. They had simply walked across the soft spot on the floor which caused the right rear leg of my chair to lean just a bit, thus causing my hanging backpack to swing slightly.
I shook my head and laughed at myself. The price you pay for dining in places with historic floorboards.
HONESTY
I always appreciate honesty, even when the truth is sometimes painful or inconvenient. And I always have a tough time knowing how to deal with beggars. The compassionate side of me wants to help if they are really hungry and down on their luck. But I wasn't put on this Earth to support someone else's bad habits.
I often carry in my wallet gift certificates for a free foot-long sandwich from Subway. If someone stops me, and is genuinely hungry, I can feed them, indirectly at least. There are Subways everywhere, and that always seemed like a good way to be kind.
Today, a man appeared on the street with a sign. He was facing the other way, but I knew what the sign must mean. I thought about the contents of my wallet. I had left the certificates behind. What a shame. There is a Subway just two hundred yards away.
When he turned to face me, I read his sign, and laughed out loud. He caught me in a weak moment, but I needed a good chuckle. And, honestly, I was impressed that he had gone to the trouble of having his sign laminated! He let me take his picture - provided I gave him the $2.96 in my pocket. There is something to be said for honesty...
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