Ode to Bucket Night
I miss these faces.
I miss the way the Wednesday night neon lights of the Union Pub color each picture, each memory in a soft pink and orange haze.
And the buckets—boy do I miss the buckets.
At $7 for the cheapest bottle of beer and $9.50 for a skimpy shot of Jameson, my wallet really misses the buckets.
Our second night in Australia was a Wednesday, and although my body was craving sleep and my mind felt shy and introverted, when the hostel staff made the announcement that they were giving away free drink cards for a local bar, I waited about thirty minutes (not to seem to eager, of course) and then made a bee line for reception.
As the guy at the front desk handed me two drink cards, one each for Curtis and I, I heard him turn and say to the staff member standing behind him, “Well, that’s three.”
Three? The hostel had offered free drinks to backpackers on a budget and only one other person had taken the bait? Oh no. This is going to be so lame.
I could see it now: a big vacant venue, a terrible DJ spinning to an empty dance floor—or worse, a dance floor with one brave (or drunk) guy flailing his limbs and looking slightly sad and lonely—and a collective sentiment of awkward discomfort floating like thick fog throughout the bar.
But there were really no compelling reasons not to go. If it was miserable, we’d have our free drink, fight off some of the jet lag that was beginning to try to define our nights, and be on our way.
When we arrived, we redeemed our tickets for a Carlton
“This would be really great if we had friends with us,” Curtis said, giving voice to my own loneliness. Then he smiled and reassured himself (and me by extension). “Soon.”
The music stopped and the host of the night, dripping with sweat and wearing a prominent Habs belt buckle, announced that it was time for—and I’m not kidding—DANCING MUSICAL CHAIRS.
As the game neared its finish (I believe it was the semi-final round), there was a dispute as to who had the biggest percentage of bum on a chair occupied by two guys. The host decided to settle the issue with a friendly game of Rock, Paper, Scissors.
Except, one of the guys had clearly never played Rock, Paper, Scissors before. Each time the other contestant pounded out his choice of weapon, the boy from France
“Rock, Paper, Scissors!” Rock… Rock.
“Rock, Paper, Scissors!” Paper… Paper.
It took them a few rounds to realize the French boy had no idea what was going on, and after a few minutes of near-hysterical laughter from the crowd, they settled instead on repeating the disputed round of musical chairs.
At the end of the night we went home cheerful and tired, and the following Wednesday we were back again with a handful of friends we had met over the previous week. It felt like progress.
The games began, and we watched, hands over our laughing mouths, as players danced and fought their way through musical chairs, boys stripped down to their boxers in the lap dancing competition, and girls spun dizzily in the Mummy-wrapping game.
Last night we were back again, and this time a new friend and I worked up the courage to compete in the Limbo competition. And I won a free trip down the Great Ocean Road, worth $115! My thighs were sore and my hands were red from too many enthusiastic high-fives, but I was happy.
It’s not a perfect substitute for Bucket Night, and the friends we go out with change week to week as people come and go out of the hostel, but it marks the beginning of a social life, of friends and patterns and laughter because “ohh, do you remember when he did that last night? That was soo funny.” The beginning of a temporary—no, new—life away from the life I knew and loved. Not a replacement but another adventure altogether.
With love,
the traveling stahr...
Read more...
