Black Out
“So our little trip to Mexico came up in a discussion recently,” she said.
“Oh, really?” I raised my eyebrow. “That was sure something else, wasn’t it? How did it come up?”
“Well, I was defending this poor girl in our hiking group. She was hung over after getting blackout drunk the night before, so she skipped the hike. The others in our group were mocking her for it. I’d had enough of their catty behavior.”
“What did you say?” I asked.
“Just that I’d been in a similar situation once myself, so I sympathized with the girl. They seemed surprised that I would ever drink at all, let alone enough to have a hangover the next day. Obviously, I don’t hike with them anymore after how they treated that poor girl,” she smiled.
Decades ago, shortly before college graduation, we decided to spend spring break in Southern California. The fare was cheap, and a quick holiday was the right prescription for senioritis. While there, on a whim, we took the train down to the border, and crossed into Mexico for a ‘fun’ experience.
‘Fun’ consisted of shopping and hitting the tourist bars, and grabbing a lunch of fajitas, daiquiris and margaritas at a nearby cantina. We had a fair amount to drink, courtesy of the waiters at the cantinas who and poured tequila directly into mouths of eager drinkers while blowing whistles to upbeat house music. It was fun for a while, we bounced around all afternoon, wandering around the plazas in our twenty something stupors the vendors probably saw all too often.
While getting drunk in a foreign country is one of those bucket list type of thing many college students dream of doing, I felt our adventure was a dumb move in retrospect. For starters, we got drunk in a city we’d just set foot in hours before. Then, we got lost. Back then, I prided myself on my good sense of direction, so I forged ahead, deciding that the direction I walked was NORTH, thus our ticket back to US soil. It wasn’t, so we ended up on a circuitous route before we figured out how to get back to the border.
Then, some man tried to pick pocket me. While we walked around Avenida Revolución, the downtown Tijuana historical tourist center, he reached over to unzip the pocket of my backpack, where I kept my wallet. She caught that, and blocked my backpack pocket before any damage could be done. She zipped it back up, and glared at the man, who retreated into the crowd. I was unaware I was even a target until I’d felt the hand on the zipper of my pack.
That was enough to sober me up very quickly.
As the sun began to set, so we hastily made our way back to the border. I moved my wallet to a safer place, and I kept a more watchful eye over both of us.
The rest of the trek back to the US was uneventful, save for a souvenir bottle of strawberry rum leaking all over my backpack. We were lucky. Since then, we have certainly encountered more misadventures that could have gone worse. Still, it wasn’t until last week that I learned that she had forgotten everything after the pickpocket incident.
“Not much happened,” I said with a shrug. “We made it through security without incident, and took the train back up to the city. I took a picture of you with the strawberry rum at the hotel that night before we tasted it. It was garbage, so we left it at the hotel upon check out. I still can’t drink rum, and it’s been what, nearly twenty years?”
“I don’t even remember the rum,” she said.
“You weren’t missing much,” I replied. “I am surprised that you don’t remember anything. I didn’t realize you’d had that much to drink. At least we were together.”
“True,” she said, “But I would never drink that much again, no matter how many friends were with me.”
“Better than alone,” I said.
“Yes,” she smiled. “Better than going at it alone.”
*** *** ***
Author notes: The events are based on a true story. Names have been omitted to protect the innocent. The topic for this entry is: That One Friend . Thank you for reading.
“Oh, really?” I raised my eyebrow. “That was sure something else, wasn’t it? How did it come up?”
“Well, I was defending this poor girl in our hiking group. She was hung over after getting blackout drunk the night before, so she skipped the hike. The others in our group were mocking her for it. I’d had enough of their catty behavior.”
“What did you say?” I asked.
“Just that I’d been in a similar situation once myself, so I sympathized with the girl. They seemed surprised that I would ever drink at all, let alone enough to have a hangover the next day. Obviously, I don’t hike with them anymore after how they treated that poor girl,” she smiled.
Decades ago, shortly before college graduation, we decided to spend spring break in Southern California. The fare was cheap, and a quick holiday was the right prescription for senioritis. While there, on a whim, we took the train down to the border, and crossed into Mexico for a ‘fun’ experience.
‘Fun’ consisted of shopping and hitting the tourist bars, and grabbing a lunch of fajitas, daiquiris and margaritas at a nearby cantina. We had a fair amount to drink, courtesy of the waiters at the cantinas who and poured tequila directly into mouths of eager drinkers while blowing whistles to upbeat house music. It was fun for a while, we bounced around all afternoon, wandering around the plazas in our twenty something stupors the vendors probably saw all too often.
While getting drunk in a foreign country is one of those bucket list type of thing many college students dream of doing, I felt our adventure was a dumb move in retrospect. For starters, we got drunk in a city we’d just set foot in hours before. Then, we got lost. Back then, I prided myself on my good sense of direction, so I forged ahead, deciding that the direction I walked was NORTH, thus our ticket back to US soil. It wasn’t, so we ended up on a circuitous route before we figured out how to get back to the border.
Then, some man tried to pick pocket me. While we walked around Avenida Revolución, the downtown Tijuana historical tourist center, he reached over to unzip the pocket of my backpack, where I kept my wallet. She caught that, and blocked my backpack pocket before any damage could be done. She zipped it back up, and glared at the man, who retreated into the crowd. I was unaware I was even a target until I’d felt the hand on the zipper of my pack.
That was enough to sober me up very quickly.
As the sun began to set, so we hastily made our way back to the border. I moved my wallet to a safer place, and I kept a more watchful eye over both of us.
The rest of the trek back to the US was uneventful, save for a souvenir bottle of strawberry rum leaking all over my backpack. We were lucky. Since then, we have certainly encountered more misadventures that could have gone worse. Still, it wasn’t until last week that I learned that she had forgotten everything after the pickpocket incident.
“Not much happened,” I said with a shrug. “We made it through security without incident, and took the train back up to the city. I took a picture of you with the strawberry rum at the hotel that night before we tasted it. It was garbage, so we left it at the hotel upon check out. I still can’t drink rum, and it’s been what, nearly twenty years?”
“I don’t even remember the rum,” she said.
“You weren’t missing much,” I replied. “I am surprised that you don’t remember anything. I didn’t realize you’d had that much to drink. At least we were together.”
“True,” she said, “But I would never drink that much again, no matter how many friends were with me.”
“Better than alone,” I said.
“Yes,” she smiled. “Better than going at it alone.”
*** *** ***
Author notes: The events are based on a true story. Names have been omitted to protect the innocent. The topic for this entry is: That One Friend . Thank you for reading.