huge success in downtown Fort Lauderdale, the fundraising alcoholic
trolley adventure has made its way to Palm Beach county. My friends (V and M) and I are on the inaugural Delray Beach Bus Loop. The route runs
right down the busiest stretch of Atlantic Avenue, a traffic disaster on
a Friday night which could have easily been avoided with more careful
Some of the bus drivers didn't know where they were
going -- like, they had no idea. The first
bus we got on was missing its Bus Loop Ambassador, volunteers who know
how everything is supposed to work, where it's supposed to go, and how
to handle any problems that might arise. After listening to
the beleaguered driver go back and forth with some of the other
passengers, I made my way to the front and showed him my Bus Loop Card. It had the route printed on a street map on one side, the other side had all the venues and the drinks and appetizers (if any) that they offered.
I told him he
needed to turn left to get us to our next stop. He did so -- with me still standing with the door still open. V looked ready to launch out of her seat and catch me if I fell out of the door, which I appreciated. I flung myself into the first row and hung on.
We were ready to get off. Prior to me directing the bus, this was our situation. M had shouted over the
general melee inside the trolley: "This is my friend Rebecca [me]! She's sexy and she likes a booty smack!" I ducked my head and cringed behind V. Hooting and whistling followed. I glared at
M, who was perched on the bench at the back of the bus. She did
not look sorry. Thanks to the vodka
and tonic I'd gotten at Bull Bar with my Loop Card, this was hilarious
instead of terrifying, but anyhow, I wanted to get off, while this was still the only response to the pronouncement.
Also, V, who sat next to me, was having her hair petted by The Stalker. We
picked up The
Stalker a few bars ago and haven't quite been able to shake her. She
very nice as long as you're the sort of person who enjoys overly
personal "compliments" that make no sense. M was gesturing wildly over
The Stalker's head, mouthing "Stranger Danger! Stranger Danger!"
V took the whole thing in stride and instead
explained to the couple next to us that, no, the tattoo on her shoulder was not of her child, it was of Rosie the Riveter.
Soon enough, we were at Falcon House. Many of the patrons that night were first-timers -- and you saw that on their faces upon entry because the Falcon House is not at all what you'd
expect. Instead of a pub, it's more like something you'd find on
South Beach. The light inside is red, and there's club music (Rihanna) playing
alongside a rolling sea of loud, drunk patrons enjoying themselves. At
the bar, I got my Loop Card stamped and claimed my beverage. Each stop on the route had a different drink. At Bull Bar and Caliente, it was any liquor. At Sail Inn, it was a lemoncello. And at Falcon House, it was a margarita. It has been the most generously sized drink so far -- and the most delicious.
I sipped. Good God, I have never enjoyed a margarita so much! I scribbled in my notebook. I'm pretty sure at
that point I wrote something really poignant about friendship and love
and the meaning of life, about how bars and bus loops can bring new
people together and renew old friendships. It was the sort of life-affirming prose so transcendent it becomes
poetry. (I cannot read my smugdey notes; my little notebook got drenched
in the condensation of my many drinks.)
I had only introduced V and M tonight. They were completely different looking, V covered in tattoos and M, petite and Latin, smoothing her perfect hair. They were already in
friendship-love with each other, heads together, conversing in Spanish.
What I wrote was probably epic,
but then so was the margarita.