Meeting the Locals

So I spent a few nights out at some Boston bars and here's what I have to report. Boston is strange to me. So is drinking with new coworkers. They're sort of the closest thing you have to friends when you start a new job in a new city, and you feel (especially after half a beer) like you know them, but that's only in relation to the rest of the region you're in where you know not a face. I just found myself looking around having the same reaction I had for the first three years when I lived in Dallas: "Holy shit. I'm in Massachusetts." (Only in Dallas, I'd say Texas, obvs) Not just Boston. Massachusetts. That name has more impact, I guess because it's harder to spell - I'm still trying to get it right, and sounds more like uncharted territory than does Boston, which is simply a Vampire Weekend reference now. Or home to a lot of sports teams. Whichever you want.

One of the best parts of living back in a real city (sorry Dallas...) is walking between bars. Not like, down the same block, I mean down a few blocks. Or a mile. Into one T stop and out another. I've missed walking. It makes the night more of an adventure and helps keep you, well, walking upright. Unless you consider DUI-ing your way down Hwy 75 from Addison to Dallas a worthwhile Saturday night adventure. Me, not so much.

I went to a few definite locals-only places. One with really fucking awful powder blue walls and a sad group of people. I will try my hardest not to go back there. It's called Remington's. It was really the only choice at the time, in my defense, in case you look it up. I also found myself being taken to the original bar for 30-45 year old dudes looking to score with barely 21 year old girls. A decent time (did I just say that?), lots of A&F, students, a group sing-along to Come On Eileen and bad well drinks. Oh, and a $5 cover even for girls!

One night involved a stop at a good place for actual adults, not just those looking for junior junior leaguers (total southern reference). At this place, you just told them what you were in the mood for (drink-wise) and they made you an unexpected drink. That place was called Drink (at least its concept was pretty original).

The best worst place of the weekend was probably the bridge-and-tunnel bar called Whiskey Priest. It's on the wharf. Or waterfront. Whatever it is here. Waterfront. Is it just a given that in America, if something is on the waterfront these days, it will be really trashy? Anyhow, it's a few stories tall. And it's full of meatheads and the latest top 40 plus the usual JBJ and GNR and dudes fighting dudes for no good reason. We stayed until the lights came on.

Don't get me wrong - all of these places were fun because all of these places were new. That's the beauty of being in a new place. You just don't know any better.

This weekend I go back to Dallas to wrap up some loose ends. I'm selling the MINI that I got in February (as much as I tried to love it, it never felt like it was meant to be) and hanging out with a few friends, though not the boyfriend; that has ended and Boston has begun.

So this is all happening. Here's to a weekend of carne tacos and queso and 105 degree weather.

Also, I have Come On Eileen stuck in my head now. You know you wanted this.