Tag Archives: booze

My kind of crazy

That we were walking along a two-lane highway with a five-foot wooden skeleton and a water bottle full of bourbon really should have been our first indication that we had, perhaps, over indulged. The five of us – six, if you count the skeleton – had reached a decadent apex of sorts, the net result of marathon drinking in the Michigan woods and the inevitable hunger that follows.

The destination, a roadhouse, couldn’t have been more than three blocks ahead. But what should have taken in sober steps a few minutes to reach took us an hour. Our lot arrived rowdy, ravenous, trailing mud from the shoulder, and clearly not at its most desirable.

The five or six of us crowded around a table intended for four. Anything, really, could have caught the attention of the night manager then: our insistent voices, spilled booze, the occasional embrace of a wooden skeleton. Mostly though, it was just us.

Where at home the affectionate cacophony of our Michigan gang’s friendship is normal, in public it becomes at best a nuisance, or worse, a hazard. And so we found ourselves, skeleton and all, unceremoniously escorted back to the dirt, on the road, exactly where we left off.

Such is summer for my guy and I, part sweaty lark and part madcap inspiration. We are at once decadent and motivated by the potential of brilliant sunshine, restless and seeking something more than what the everyday brings.

The languid posture of New Orleans calls to us early in the season. This is, to me, when the Quarter is at its most perfect. Sunshine and humidity keep doors open most hours of the day while the city gently hums in a radiant current.

Tradition dictates that our first cocktail come from Napoleon House, where the bartender assumes we’re locals who just happen to spend most of the year in other places. I’m happy to oblige the illusion. He hands me a Pimm’s Cup and my guy a bourbon, and we toast to being home.

Many, many years of visits to the Quarter have revealed only enough to know that there is more I need to see. We weave between uneven streets to find Backspace Bar. If there ever were a place built specifically for my vices, this would be it, all rich and textured and ready to breathe with me as needed to expel my ghosts on page.

My guy eases onto the waiting stool next to mine knowing we may be here a while. A raven sits over the bar, flanked by classic typewriters on antique shelves. Worn hardcover books press against a brick wall. The atmosphere is deliberate, of course, suited to the more refined barfly and offering better booze to keep us satisfied, with just enough dirt in the fireplace to remind us where we’re headed.

We stay long enough for several bourbons and a plate of red beans to materialize and vanish with familiar comfort. Breeze from the open door catches us eventually and prompts us back to our curious path, holding hands and smiling into the steamy sunshine. There are friends to meet soon.

We’re three bars ahead of them when a random storm forces us to slow our wandering. It’s just as well. Even as locals, our friends find it hard to track our Quarter footsteps. So my guy and I pause under a balcony as long streams of water pool into the street. This fleeting burst doesn’t change the color of the Quarter; it only enhances the vibrant foliage above us and surreal light from windows. Sidewalk saints, sinners and us all linger in the moment, connecting briefly under doorways and balconies to observe the fluid energy. As shared cigarettes burn out, so does the rain, and life, or otherwise, continues.

Our friends eventually catch us dancing in a doorway to the irresistible and incomprehensible rhythm of a Cajun jazz band. Heddy takes charge to lead us to the river, where a large festival is in perpetual progress. She chases the entire length of the Quarter in what seems to be a single step without ever once missing an in between moment. Her always-moving hands slide oysters and drinks into our willing ones, her spirited pace encourages us deeper into colorful corners we may have otherwise overlooked. She is a vivid encapsulation of New Orleans, entirely in love with her world and more willing than I could ever be to share it.

At the height of summer we visit the horse track. Arlington Race Park has an unapologetic bloom from more than 80 years of historic grandeur. Here, women wear hats, men wear bow ties, and hours are marked by post time since the noon sun lasts all day.

The cotton white Grandstand rises in electric contrast against the lush landscaped gardens, paddock, and track. Brilliant curved staircases lead to the main level, where the classic splendor collides with anxious perspiration and pencil shavings.

Real betters hunch over the Daily Racing Form and tip sheets in confined corners to construct elaborate trifecta boxes and exacta wheels. Our betting style, though conducted though my own superstitious rituals, is random and unremarkably simple. Whatever magical blend of name and color strikes our fancy becomes our bet, always placed with the gristled teller Roger, who will, on occasion, offer inside tips to win us a little extra cocktail cash.

It won’t be long before the formal bugle call to post, when taught horses and their jockeys will parade onto the track and to the gate. I smile at my guy. We link arms and walk past the tellers to a small side bar where Jacques is waiting.

Jacques isn’t the only reason we visit the track, but he is the best; a decorous bartender keen to good bourbon and always ready to compliment a couple in love. He immediately reaches for a bottle of bitters, the hallmark of a cocktail he created for me and has perfected over the last seven years: fizzy lemon-lime soda, rich bourbon poured with a generous hand, and spicy bitters, with a spear of orange and cherries to swizzle. It is not the fanciest drink ever created, but it tastes of summer and is made all the more sweet by the friendly kiss to my hand Jacques delivers with it.

Crowds gather at the finish line. It’s impossible to see the entire dynamics of a race from that vantage, but we cheer wildly at the starting bell and eye the large video screen to find our favorites. The appropriately named Read to Me runs well. He pulls ahead of the pack. I clutch my ticket and feel the pressure of my guy’s shoulder next to mine. The crowd swells in anticipation as the horses round the corner; we yell encouragement as Read to Me’s nose dips behind another horse. And then, he pulls forward again to thunder past us and emerge as winner, and our victory.

Like the races, our summer passes in a heated flash. I can always tell we’re nearing its end when I no longer see the Big Dipper through the sunroof of our car. I track it, you see, every night we visit the drive-in.

At the McHenry Outdoor Theater, the sky is clear and well suited to both star gazing and movie watching. We arrive long before the gates open only so we do not have to battle anyone for what has become our spot. The silver speaker pole looks like all the others, of course, but as the location of our very first date represents something more akin to home.

With our lawn chairs in tow and flask in pocket, we are at our most casual on that gravel oasis. We bask in the remaining sunshine, lick popcorn salt and nacho cheese from our fingers, and lean into each other to watch stories unfold.

Summer always resonates with uncommon pleasures. Some we find through our lasting friendships and unexpected acquaintances; others are found indulging our wanderlust. But while reveling in the lavish sunshine and especially when sitting under the sky at the drive-in, we find our best moments intertwined in each other. Such is our summer.

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Mix it with rum

Our days start with rum and end with champagne. There was bourbon for a while, too, but we drank the bar out of Maker’s on our third day and have had to make accommodations. Many things are plentiful in Aruba, just not bourbon.

A lazy rhythm carries us through our days here. We start early and catch a boat launch to a small private island off the main coast. Few people are out, leaving us with the whole of an island to ourselves. Pristine white sand and palm trees stretch from end to end, flanked by intertwining mangrove trees at one side and a curved rocky point at the other. Flamingos walk the shore and cast silly shadows on my toes as I ripen in the fresh sun.

We hop from water to bar to hammock to beach, repeating the dance over several hours until we’re ready to find a new adventure on the mainland. There isn’t so much a downtown to an island that stretches 20 miles, only strips of stores, bars and restaurants, and rows of high rise hotels along the coast. Color, however, is everywhere.

Local buildings painted in vibrant shades of green, pink, and yellow nod to the island’s Caribbean influences, while tiled roofs and ornate balconies show off Spanish leanings. A windmill can be spotted between the cacti and palm trees near Eagle Beach. Every influence from Dutch to Mediterranean converges here, with no specific one having discernible dominance.

It reminds me of New Orleans, at least in that I can wander the streets with a cocktail in hand. But Aruba rolls to its own accord, dazzling and fruity and surprisingly unassuming in its tropical splendor.

My drink radiates green, from the grenadine I hope, and tastes of sunshine. I purchased it using florins. American dollars are widely accepted but Aruba’s thin, colorful papers and small square coins feel satisfying in my hand. So many things remind me how far we are from Chicago, and the more foreign currency I collect, the further away it seems.

I love this new impermanent home we have made. Particularly for the seafood that can be had at every meal. Breakfast means a plate piled high with shrimp. Its plump texture and sweet taste make a perfect contrast to the fluffy couscous and salty olives served with it. Calamari comes for lunch, either breaded or lightly sautéed in olive oil, and we pop the tender rings by the handful, washing them down with heavy pours of rum and pineapple juice. They are meant only to sustain us until dinner.

“Which do you prefer, water or sand?”

The hostess points toward a line of small tables placed gently within the slow laps of the ocean, then indicates similar tables on the warm white sand. Iron trees sit next to each table for the shoes that are never required.

Sunset is all the more spectacular when your toes are coated with sand, and the soft rays are filtered through a large pitcher of sangria. Here, my guy and I hold hands and face the sun through salt-speckled sunglasses. The sun is low yet it still washes over us like Technicolor. It’s hard to imagine this is the same sun everyone sees every day when we are so far removed from the every day.

Giant succulent lobsters and caught-that-morning wahoo steaks are brought to our table with sides of melted butter and tarragon mayonnaise for dipping. Deceptively simple, the meal stretches into the easy dark of night before we finally move on.

Most of the travelers we meet are European. They winter here for months, a nouveaux riche circle that pulls hundred-dollar casino chips from their pockets and purses ceaselessly as we join them for rounds of three card poker after dinner. To them, with our blissful eyes and easy touching, we are honeymooners, and will remain so for next 20 years.

We play well. Several won hands eventually equal a bottle of Moet. Its dripping bucket is brought to us on the pool terrace. Candles in large hurricane glasses trace the outline of the infinity pool. Palm leaves rustle above us as we settle onto a couch and look out onto the ocean’s edges. Even under the moonlight, our glasses mist with condensation. We clink, we toast, and we continue our path into the never-ending throes of wanderlust.


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