Back to the Hurricane that wasn’t… (Isn’t a dance in the rain and a splash in the puddles better than taking shelter from a havoc-wrecking, unpredictable storm?)
I left you last at lunchtime Thursday, where we broke from the workday and I grudginly shared the best green bean “fries” in all of the world with EB.
Thursday evening could have wound up being a major catastrophe. After finally finding a parking spot (after 30 minutes) and showing off my impeccable parallel parking skilllllzzzz, we headed to my go-to cafe in Laguna Beach (seriously, I haven’t eaten a proper meal anywhere else). We enjoyed a deliciously healthy dinner, washed down with some girl talk, some Stella (EB), and some red (me). We got caught up in the live jazz and people watching and missed the sunset, which I felt like a giant jerk for, since it was almost all EB would talk about.
“blah blah blah sunset on the beach blah blah setting sun blah blah water blahhhhh” – EB
Being the impeccable host I say that I am, I had to hurry up and redeem myself before EB hopped an early flight back to OH. I planned to erase her missed-sunset anger with some authentic gelato, which she’d also never had. So I marched us down PCH in the direction of the cute hole-in-the-wall place I remembered from MT’s Laguna visit.
And we marched, and marched, and we marched some more.
By the time we finally found it (I may or may not have walked us passed the little alley way a time or two) EB was swearing at her heels and demanding a drink. We parked our aching old-lady bodies on a bench and gobbled up our dessert. Just as we finished we realized we were sitting right in front of one of the “dive bars” we’d put on the night’s agenda. Perfect, especially since I thought EB might stab me if I made her walk another foot in her heels.
The Saloon is this really awesome teeny tiny old-fashioned place that is literally, just a bar. No seating. You stand. At the bar. And drink. That is all. Oh and if you pay in cash you can see them use the old register that is somewhat visible in the middle of this picture :
|What more do you need than a bar to lean on and a shelf
full of booze?
(Also spotted in the pic, the jug of homemade pineapple-infused vodka. If anything could sway me from my beer/wine ways, it would be this. Yumm.)
After a couple drinks we tabbed out, ready to venture off to our next stop on our “dive bar” tour of Laguna, when EB got chatted up by what we both thought was a man with a terrible fake accent. Seriously, is that how guys pick up girls out here in the OC? By pretending to be foreign?
Well, it wasn’t fake. Him and his buddy are real Australians here on a real vacation. So there we stood for over an hour, tabbed out and without a drink, laughing hysterically at their criticisms of American food and trying to correctly pronounce “wanker”.
We finally bid them adieu and EB and I headed for an Irish pub where we were actually able to sit while we drank. We continued to revel in the hilarity of randomly meeting “the Aussies”, and any threat of EB flying back to OH early was replaced with the threat of changing her return flight straight to Sydney.
We left and wandered to our last stop of the night – The Dirty Bird – with a promise of live reggae music and an underground vibe. As soon as we entered we literally almost walked straight into “the Aussies”.
|“What are you Sheilas doing here???”|
We chatted some more, tried to keep passerby’s dreads out of our drinks, and soaked in some reggae (along with fumes from “Eau de Cannibis” that everyone seemed to be wearing).
A night that started with a rage full of parking angst ended up being one of the best times I’d had in a while. How can you deny a good meal, a walk along the beach, yummy gelato, cold drinks, and funny foreigners? Recipe for success right there.
The Tales of
Hurricane Light Drizzle EB are to be continued. For now I’ve got an office to put back together (which, by the way, is much smaller than the last), and a lukewarm cup of coffee to finish.
Happy Long Weekend Friday y’all,
Sheila Sarah Soon-To-Be