It’s not often that I go to happy hour. People crowded into tight spaces, noise,
chatter and boisterous glee – this is not what I need at the end of a long workday. For me to unwind and recharge, I like to be
alone. Most days, I scurry home to my
woman cave. But every now and then, I
crave something different. So, here I
am, off to happy hour.
Exiting at Gallery Place-Chinatown, I make my way up 7th
street. Seventh Street is its usual carnival of
activity. Cars and buses fill the street with their obligatory honking. People on foot are rushing to get somewhere until
slowed by dazed tourists. And bicycles brazenly
cut through it all. But it’s Friday, and
a little more mayhem, somewhere between kids on the last day of school and
animals escaping the zoo.
I arrive at La Tasca and I’m pleasantly surprised. There is a sea of dark wood throughout – the
flooring, tables, chairs and the bar. Large,
wrought-iron chandeliers hang from the ceilings. The
restaurant is warmed by golden walls. Red
and yellow accented décor remind me that LaTasca has brought Spain to downtown
Washington.
After excusing my way up to the crowded bar, I find James
and Hilda. James greets me with his
usual “Heyyyy…KayKay!” James I’ve known
for almost 20 years, and Hilda I only know through James. A few times a year I go out with them and
experience something new. I once went
with them on a bar crawl which was cool until we reached the third or fourth
bar, a club with 3 floors. Shortly after
entering, I knew I had had enough. When
they went to another floor, I headed straight to the exit. Via text, I bid James adieu.
After settling in beside Hilda I look over the menu. I don’t usually fool around with sangria but La
Tasca has seven sangrias on their happy hour menu. Hilda, a connoisseur of happy hour, says the
sangria they’re drinking won’t bother me.
Although my stomach wasn’t convinced, I follow Hilda’s suggestion. There are only 2 bartenders
behind this very long bar and they spastically move from one customer to the
next. Without much effort, Hilda gets the attention
of one of the bartenders and orders another pitcher of sangria and my dinner of
mini empanadas and calamari from the $4 happy hour tapas menu.
The three of us chat about everything but nothing in
particular. Hilda and James have been here
for 2 hours before my arrival enjoying their sangrias and appetizers. They had caught up on their lives since last
seeing one another. Hilda’s ability to
get the attention of the bartender was impressive and we tease her about it. Most of our fun is in watching
the bartenders and the happy hour patrons crammed around the bar. These patrons were mostly young professionals
and they dressed as if they took their young professional jobs seriously. We, on the other hand, are not that; but can appreciate
those not-so-good-ol-days.
James went to check the meter and soon after, Hilda and I find
ourselves discussing men and dating. I
smiled at the thought of two single gals at a bar talking about men and dating –
a bit stereotypical but great fodder for happy hour. We giggled, raised eyebrows, and pursed our
lips as we talked. We took a more whimsical approach to our single
status instead of war stories and hopeless resignation. James has returned and we finish off the last pitcher of the evening. James asks “Ya’ll ready to go?” which
was a statement that it was time to leave. We made our way out of the restaurant that
was still packed with those that had come for happy hour.
Hilda and I headed to the train station and the last thing I
said to James was, “I hope I make it home ok.”
Pointing at me, he answered, “Look, all you have to do is get on the
train.” I nodded like a younger sibling
receiving step-by-step instructions.
But first I had to keep up with the fast pace and chirpy conversation of
Hilda. All of this, I did; in spite of a
queasy stomach and the dizzy detachment from the happy hour sangrias.
On the train, I sat back and relaxed; smiling at these last
few hours. I was happy to make it to the
metro and down the escalator, amidst moving people and morphed objects. Happier still, that the contents of my
stomach remained intact and in my stomach.
I really enjoyed myself as I was with friends - talking about nothing,
eating, drinking, laughing, living. It was our time to caste off or delay the worries
of this life. Once home, I texted James
to let him know that I had made it home and that I was alive. He said he was glad that I came out. I texted, “Me too! I had fun! Imagine that.” To this he replied, “Smh.
Imagine.”
For non-texters...Smh = shaking my head
