What's the password?
I woke up this morning, and my stomach was definitely not happy with me. Drinking on Mondays-while novel-isn’t so wise, kids.
But on the other hand, it was for a worthwhile cause: I finally saw Kate and Jackie!! To be honest, it was surreal to be together again. (Well, not completely together, since you’re still missing, Emily!) Since I met her in New Zealand, and hung out with her there, a part of me still only associates her with studying abroad, yet now, she’s here-in the flesh-and in New York. So strange how time and distance works. However, this time around, my ear is no longer struggling to understand her fast paced British accent, and talking to her felt just like old times.
Of course, the old times wouldn’t be the same without going to a bar, and based on Jackie’s suggestion (since she’s a bar/restaurant guru for Zagat.com now), we went to a Prohibition-style speakeasy. Called “Please Don’t Tell”, it’s a bar located behind an ordinary-looking hot dog shop in the East Village. To get in, you not only have to make reservations, but you have to go into a telephone booth, pick up the phone, and wait to be ushered inside. In retrospect, they probably jacked up the cocktail prices just for that, but hey, going through a “secret” door felt pleasantly illicit.
But on the other hand, it was for a worthwhile cause: I finally saw Kate and Jackie!! To be honest, it was surreal to be together again. (Well, not completely together, since you’re still missing, Emily!) Since I met her in New Zealand, and hung out with her there, a part of me still only associates her with studying abroad, yet now, she’s here-in the flesh-and in New York. So strange how time and distance works. However, this time around, my ear is no longer struggling to understand her fast paced British accent, and talking to her felt just like old times.
Of course, the old times wouldn’t be the same without going to a bar, and based on Jackie’s suggestion (since she’s a bar/restaurant guru for Zagat.com now), we went to a Prohibition-style speakeasy. Called “Please Don’t Tell”, it’s a bar located behind an ordinary-looking hot dog shop in the East Village. To get in, you not only have to make reservations, but you have to go into a telephone booth, pick up the phone, and wait to be ushered inside. In retrospect, they probably jacked up the cocktail prices just for that, but hey, going through a “secret” door felt pleasantly illicit.