Didn't miss a beat
Throw back to Southwest Alief Texas!
One of my middle school besties, Mary (or "Little Mary" according to the rest of my family), is in Philly this month for work. We first touched base about three weeks ago, but all three of the phone numbers I had for her were wrong, but we finally fixed it on the ever-reliable Fb.
I packed an overnight bag on Friday morning and texted her during the day to see if she could meet up that night. We haven't seen each other in eleven years. Someone at work asked if I was nervous about seeing her. "People change," he cautioned.
The optimist in me gave me courage. We knew each other when we were still naive and hopeful, when our souls were still pure. Try as we might, our innocence wouldn't allow us to hide our true selves back then. No matter the toils and regrets between then and today, it is comforting to know that such a friend will recognize the true, earnest You under the soot of the passing years.
I dropped the car with the valet, and for a quarter of a second hesitated: maybe I should be more nervous about this; it might be awkward. But the elevator doors opened and Mary, with that great familiar smile and chuckle, rushed out with open arms. We talked for about twelve hours straight.
She is quick to friend and has been painting the town since she arrived, so she knows of great places for food and drinks, and has acquaintances throughout the city. Of course, still beautiful, independent, witty, and sweet as ever. Sometimes it was like we hadn't seen each other in eleven years, filling in all the details about our families: her sisters' marriages and children, my father's death, living in Europe, living in Florida, boyfriends, jobs, and school. Sometimes it was like we'd been together all along - dancing and drinking, and endless chatter about shopping and boys. We laughed and laughed.
We had some quick food at Ladder 15, and were impressed with the kim chi in the Korean tacos (I was really skeptical). The rock shrimp were tasty, and I was so stuffed after sampling everything that I didn't even get to the creamy gruyere on the delicious oxtail cheesesteak.
She asked about Philly fashion. Although I never articulated it before, I was able to describe the "typical" bar scene Philadelphian guy with alarming accuracy: black leather shoes, jeans of a "certain" wash (you know it when you see it), button down shirt (blue or white) with stripes, and just a brush of pomade in the hair. In the summertime, khaki cargos, leather flip flops or birkenstocks, and short sleeve button downs or polo shirts from express.
When I finished my fashion analysis, we took a visual survey of Ladder 15. We laughed and laughed. Exactly 100% of the men in attendance were dressed that way. No knits, no t-shirts, no brown leather shoes, black jeans, or khakis. 100%. Amazing. Last night she went out and noticed the same trend. I guess Dutch fashion rules span the globe.
We started walking back to Mary's condo to drop off the left overs. "Catherine, what are we going to the hotel for now?" We laughed and laughed. We had passed the leftovers off to a homeless person sitting on Chestnut Street about ten minutes ago. A few extra blocks in heels never hurt anyone. . . that's not true at all. So we went to R2L, a restaurant and lounge on the 37th floor of the Ritz building. We enjoyed a beautiful view of the city and sipped some of the smoothest wine I've ever enjoyed - a creamy Furmint.
At Tequila's, we drank too many vodka-tonics and picked up the food for the work function Mary was hosting the next day. The owner passed us two large paper shopping bags bursting with fresh guacamole, ceviche, and tortilla chips for 200 people. We tettered out of there, giggling about nothing. We giggled about everything in the cab back to the condo, and laughed and laughed as we manuevered the giant bags of food out of the cab.
When the bag I was carrying split from the weight of the food, and guacamole exploded all over the street, our shoes, and my feet and jeans, we lost it. I bent down to assess the damage to the guacamole tray. Mary was already squating on the street, scraping avacado off her clothes, and trying to salvage the good guac. She was squinting really badly.
"Can you ask that car to turn its lights off?" We had dropped the food right in between cars waiting for the valet service. I composed myself for a minute and approached the driver, who definitely thought we were idiots. She humored us and turned her lights off so we could rescue the food. In a hysterical fit of laughter, covered in guacamole, we finally arrived at her condo entrance, only to have the food fall again, splattering all over our purses, the carpet, and her front door. But we are resilient girls. After a quick clean up and freshen up, we were back out on the town.
We made the obligatory Capo Giro stop - pistachio and hazelnut - and cabbed it (don't ask me why) to nearby Tavern on Camac, a gay danceclub overfull with gorgeous men who wondered how long Mary and I had been "together." For shame. To make this historic reunion even more endearing, we drank and danced the night away with beloved Geoff and his friends. And of course, we laughed and laughed.
After eleven years, we didn't miss a beat.
One of my middle school besties, Mary (or "Little Mary" according to the rest of my family), is in Philly this month for work. We first touched base about three weeks ago, but all three of the phone numbers I had for her were wrong, but we finally fixed it on the ever-reliable Fb.
I packed an overnight bag on Friday morning and texted her during the day to see if she could meet up that night. We haven't seen each other in eleven years. Someone at work asked if I was nervous about seeing her. "People change," he cautioned.
The optimist in me gave me courage. We knew each other when we were still naive and hopeful, when our souls were still pure. Try as we might, our innocence wouldn't allow us to hide our true selves back then. No matter the toils and regrets between then and today, it is comforting to know that such a friend will recognize the true, earnest You under the soot of the passing years.
I dropped the car with the valet, and for a quarter of a second hesitated: maybe I should be more nervous about this; it might be awkward. But the elevator doors opened and Mary, with that great familiar smile and chuckle, rushed out with open arms. We talked for about twelve hours straight.
She is quick to friend and has been painting the town since she arrived, so she knows of great places for food and drinks, and has acquaintances throughout the city. Of course, still beautiful, independent, witty, and sweet as ever. Sometimes it was like we hadn't seen each other in eleven years, filling in all the details about our families: her sisters' marriages and children, my father's death, living in Europe, living in Florida, boyfriends, jobs, and school. Sometimes it was like we'd been together all along - dancing and drinking, and endless chatter about shopping and boys. We laughed and laughed.
We had some quick food at Ladder 15, and were impressed with the kim chi in the Korean tacos (I was really skeptical). The rock shrimp were tasty, and I was so stuffed after sampling everything that I didn't even get to the creamy gruyere on the delicious oxtail cheesesteak.
She asked about Philly fashion. Although I never articulated it before, I was able to describe the "typical" bar scene Philadelphian guy with alarming accuracy: black leather shoes, jeans of a "certain" wash (you know it when you see it), button down shirt (blue or white) with stripes, and just a brush of pomade in the hair. In the summertime, khaki cargos, leather flip flops or birkenstocks, and short sleeve button downs or polo shirts from express.
When I finished my fashion analysis, we took a visual survey of Ladder 15. We laughed and laughed. Exactly 100% of the men in attendance were dressed that way. No knits, no t-shirts, no brown leather shoes, black jeans, or khakis. 100%. Amazing. Last night she went out and noticed the same trend. I guess Dutch fashion rules span the globe.
We started walking back to Mary's condo to drop off the left overs. "Catherine, what are we going to the hotel for now?" We laughed and laughed. We had passed the leftovers off to a homeless person sitting on Chestnut Street about ten minutes ago. A few extra blocks in heels never hurt anyone. . . that's not true at all. So we went to R2L, a restaurant and lounge on the 37th floor of the Ritz building. We enjoyed a beautiful view of the city and sipped some of the smoothest wine I've ever enjoyed - a creamy Furmint.
At Tequila's, we drank too many vodka-tonics and picked up the food for the work function Mary was hosting the next day. The owner passed us two large paper shopping bags bursting with fresh guacamole, ceviche, and tortilla chips for 200 people. We tettered out of there, giggling about nothing. We giggled about everything in the cab back to the condo, and laughed and laughed as we manuevered the giant bags of food out of the cab.
When the bag I was carrying split from the weight of the food, and guacamole exploded all over the street, our shoes, and my feet and jeans, we lost it. I bent down to assess the damage to the guacamole tray. Mary was already squating on the street, scraping avacado off her clothes, and trying to salvage the good guac. She was squinting really badly.
"Can you ask that car to turn its lights off?" We had dropped the food right in between cars waiting for the valet service. I composed myself for a minute and approached the driver, who definitely thought we were idiots. She humored us and turned her lights off so we could rescue the food. In a hysterical fit of laughter, covered in guacamole, we finally arrived at her condo entrance, only to have the food fall again, splattering all over our purses, the carpet, and her front door. But we are resilient girls. After a quick clean up and freshen up, we were back out on the town.
We made the obligatory Capo Giro stop - pistachio and hazelnut - and cabbed it (don't ask me why) to nearby Tavern on Camac, a gay danceclub overfull with gorgeous men who wondered how long Mary and I had been "together." For shame. To make this historic reunion even more endearing, we drank and danced the night away with beloved Geoff and his friends. And of course, we laughed and laughed.
After eleven years, we didn't miss a beat.
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