Attack of the She-Males: Or How I End Up in Adams Morgan Every Weekend

I don't care. Don't tell me I'm wrong. Don't tell me there's another way. It never fails...

Now, having been a DC resident going on five years, I consider myself educated, knowledgeable even, about the nightlife of this city. Wanna know where to grab some good Ethiopian grub? Gotcha. Mexican? Covered. How about some sushi? Just say, "Konichiwa, bitches." I'll even dress up all chic-like and escort you to Seasons or Capitol Grille, Mortons or Milano.

I've been to every cheesy club in NW. I've been to the hotspots in NE, SE, and SW...even on the evenings of various shootings (I'm telling ya, it's just my luck). I frequent the many lounges of downtown, hell...I'll even occasionally hit up the frat boy bars of Georgetown. Just keep me out of Arlington, for the love of God...I don't even wanna touch on that subject.

MASSIVE RUN-ON SENTENCE WARNING...NOW:
So, how is it, being the hip young urbanite that I am, that almost every Saturday night, rain or shine, wind or hail, presidential election or terrorist attack (pretty much the same thing in my book), when the bartender yells "Last call" and turns up the lights, I wink and slink away guilt-free from the hottie I was chatting up and from whom I took plenty of free drinks, and I then stumble to the door in a vodka-drenched stupor to...what? What's this?

OHMIGOSH! The horror! The humanity! What is this swirling leviathan of chaos? Kiddies, prepare yourselves: It's 18th Street at approximately 3:30AM on any given Sunday morning. Well, I'll tell ya, nothing sobers you up quicker than that scene. Geez Louise Almighty! Upon leaving the haven of the bar-cum-danceclub-cum-meatmarket, it hits you: the stench of 18th Street. Sweat, stale alcohol, vomit, blood, pizza, gyros and Ethiopian food mix with a not-so-subtle hint of sweaty balls in pantyhose (but I'll get to the she-males later).

I promise you, I can never quite remember how I ended up in Adams Morgan. The evening must have taken a turn for the worst at some point. It usually begins with a great meal or a cocktail in some stylish DC venue. Maybe we stopped at a houseparty and a few beers turned into a power hour, complete with jello-shots, flipcup, and drunken sorority girls, nay, sorority girl wannabes, dancing topless on couches (you know who you are, but lucky for you, you all look alike to me). Or maybe it was a really lame houseparty, and we drank all their booze just to punish them for being so uncool. Regardless, at some point we ran out of ideas, or one of my drunken friends just yelled out, "Adams Morgan!" and off we go, skipping toward the threshold of hell.

Inevitably, when I arrive on the 18th Street scene, I'm in that delightfully giddy, drunken reverie-type mood. All the people are "beautiful", even the bum by the ATM. The ladies are decked out in their cutest jeans, halter tops and stilettos, makeup flawless. The guys are resplendent in khakis and button downs, having just lacquered on some gel to keep their hair from fro-ing out in this humidity. I don't even notice the long lines outside Sake, Tom Tom or Heaven & Hell. There don't seem to be any at all...if there was a cover charge, I sure don't remember it. There's a seemingly endless wad of cash tucked in either my bra or the back pocket of my too-tight jeans. It all seems so glittery, so energetic, so perfect....ahhhh....

THEN EXPLAIN TO ME HOW IN THE HELL THIS MOSHPIT OF HUMANITY IS THE SAME UTOPIA UPON WHICH I ARRIVED JUST THREE HOURS EARLIER?!?!?!? Now, the scene is chaos. People are shoving, trying to get out of the bar, trying to get a slice of pizza, trying to get to their cars, trying to get a phone number, AND OBVIOUSLY TRYING TO ANNOY THE HELL OUT OF ME. Where are the beautiful people from the beginning of my evening? I saw them in line...I saw them dancing beside me...but they have all disappeared. The chic and fabulous are nowhere to be found. I shit you not. Upon leaving any Adams Morgan bar at closing time, I encounter only one thing: a SLEW of black men, most with more gold teeth than regular teeth at all, fumbling all over themselves to touch me, hold my hand or get my number. Now, I do not say this as if I were the hottest thing to ever walk the planet. In fact, it was positively terrifying the first time it happened, because I have never ever received that much attention from one man in my entire life, let alone a dozen all at once.

Once I break out of the Dating Game, I come face-to-face with a herd of people (most of the females looking like they skip most meals, anyway) literally wolfing down gigantic, gooey slices of pizza. You ever tried that stuff when you're sober? I promise you'll never eat it again when you're drunk. I turn away in disgust, searching for my friends, when I hear someone call my name. I whirl around in response and gasp for breath as someone grabs me in a bear hug and lifts me off of my feet. Nevermind the fact that I have no idea who it is.

"You look great!" He says, as I choke for air and struggle to remember where I've seen that face before. Oh, my precious Lord. My mind rewinds back to high school and a certain group of neanderthals that took such utter pleasure in making the lives of others (not just mine) so unspeakably miserable for four years. I know that face, dammit. He's that guy. The asshole. The one they called...

"[Insert cocky, third-generation-over-indulged-snob name here], it's been a long time. How are you?", I say, smiling my fakest smile. (He's really drunk, that's how he is. Pizza goo is hanging from one lip as he introduces me to his friend, an equally troglodyte-looking dude in those awful J.Crew shorts and a polo with, yes, you guessed it, a popped collar) Several moments of awkward silence pass after a cursory "what-are-you-up-to now" type convo, and I announce with great relief, "Well, nice running into you...(and not knowing what else to say) um, see ya at the reunion, I guess?"

"Yea, baby! October 7! Are you gonna be there? You gotta come! It will be so great! Just like old times!" I'll never know if he saw my jaw drop to the ground. I couldn't even think straight enough to remember how long I'd been out of high school, let alone remember the date of an upcoming reunion that will surely make for an interesting blog story.

"Er, um, sure." I say, waving goodbye and quickly making my exit. I quickly find my friends, including [insert hot boy who inevitably "just wants to be friends" here] and some astonishingly beautiful girl he's decided to bed down that even, er, morning, er, whatever.

After nearly having to arm wrestle some belligerent chick trying to get to her boyfriend at oh-so-holy Catholic U. while shouting expletives at me and questioning my African-American-ness repeatedly because my party didn't want to split a cab with her, I finally arrive home just in time to pass out naked on my bed. Alone. As usual.

At some point, hopefully many hours later, I'm awaked by my blaringly loud cell phone. Oh, joy. It's [Hot boy who wants to be "just friends"]. I muster the strength to speak. "So how was your night with what's-her-face?"

"Oh, yea. About that." He pauses. "I respect women, but I swear, if you tell anyone, I will punch you in the face without hesitation. She, well, she...[Astonishingly beautiful girl] wasn't really a she."

Aha. Balls in pantyhose. Gets you every time.

Birthday Cuddles and Arranged Marriages: Or Adventures in My Big Fat Greek Vacation

So, my best friend M decides to go "teach English" in France for a year following graduation. Oh, really? Is that what you call an all-expenses-paid snogfest across Europe? Just kidding. Well, obviously, being the great friend that I am, I had to come and visit. One small problem: I HATE FRANCE. And no, not for the anti-Bush, anti-war reasons you Red Staters might think. I love wine. I love cheese. I love people-watching. I love fashion. I JUST HATE SKINNY BITCHY CHAIN-SMOKING SNOBS. There, I said it. You know you were thinking it. But I digress...

Well, I made it abundantly clear to M that I wouldn't come to France to visit. I suggested we meet somewhere else. Somewhere neither of us had visited before. Somewhere with culture. Somewhere with hot boys. Somewhere with beaches. Somewhere called Greece!

Here's the highlights:

Day 1:
M and I arrive in Athens in the early evening. We navigate the subway system, choose a hostel for the night, and M marvels at my newfound ability to pack light. We enjoy a yummy dinner of Greek salad (of which M and I become INSTANT fans!) and spanakopita (spinach pie). Our waiter ogles our hot bodies while telling us which islands we should visit.

Day 2:
M and I get up early to try to make our way to Rafina, a lesser-used port of Athens, but to no avail. No one speaks English and we don't speak Greek. Great. We settle for a frappe drink (Frappe: an awful, frothy, nasty cold coffee drink Greeks drink 24/7) at McDonald's (yea, no breakfast food, just frappes) before returning to the hostel for more planning. The "helpful" staff and travelers at the hostel tell us that it will be "impossible" to get to the islands via ferry that weekend because we unwittingly chose the holiday of the Greek Orthodox Easter to travel. So impossible, in fact, that we had to walk write into a ferry office, request ferry tickets, and buy them straight away...wow. Real impossible. M and I decide to not take anyone's advice for the duration of the trip.

Oh, yea. That day also just happens to be MY BIRTHDAY!!! We spend the evening with some wonderful Aussies from the hostel, including B (to read more about our Aussie friends, check out my post on "Spring Break! Wooo!"). At some point between the ouzo shots and my flaming birthday tiramisu, B asks me if I want (loose translation here) "Eh bahthdie ku'ul" in his thick Aussie accent.

"A what?" I ask cautiously. B, the gargantuan Aussie (maybe the equivalent of an American redneck), smiles his toothy grin again. "Ye know, eh bahthdie ku'ul. I wanna give ye eh bahthdie ku'ul."

Well, I don't want to be rude in a foreign country. I say, "Um, sure. That would be nice." How bad could it be? Well, B grasps me in a huge bear hug and kisses me on the forehead. "Ah knew ye'd like me bahthdie ku'ul." All of a sudden it hits me. Ooooh, he was giving me a BIRTHDAY CUDDLE. Haha. Awesome. From now on, when you see me on your birthday, look out. You're getting a birthday cuddle!

Day 3:
M and I make our way to Piraeus to board a ferry to Mykonos, one of Greece's Cycladic islands. A crazy horde of hotel and hostel owners meet us at the port, trying to get us to stay at their place. After not much haggling, and M shooting me a few worried looks, we get a place near Ornos beach, away from the main town, but still very nice. We feast on some yummy bits from the local grocery store and go into town that evening, where we witness a candlelight procession in honor of the Greek Easter...this is an interesting departure from the Mykonos (so we were told) that is the epicenter of gay nightlife in the Greek isles.

Day 4:
M and I chill on Ornos beach. We meet some American students and convince them that I am actually a business owner on vacation from Montana. My business? Funny you should ask. I own and operate a rodeo clown school. M can barely contain her laughter, but I think we had them going for a while.

Day 5:
M and I set sail for Santorini, or Thira, one of the most famous of the Cycladic islands. It is one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen! We get a great room for only 10Euro per person, per night. We enjoy a romantic (too bad no boys around) dinner high atop the caldera cliffs. After having a bit of a grumple dumple mood swing on my part, M kicks my ass but then gladly accompanies me to Murphy's, an Irish pub in the middle of the Aegean Sea. Random.

Day 6:
M and I decide we love Santorini and would rather stay there for the duration of the trip then move on to another island. We take a morning cruise to the active volcano nearby and swim through freezing waters to the hot springs before lunch in Thirassia, another small island off of Santorini. Upon returning to the hotel, we run into B and T, our Aussie buddies from Athens! How random!

During dinner, M and I spy a guy eyeing us from a nearby table. He recognizes us speaking English and starts up a convo. His name is J, from Cali, and works for NASA. I think he's a nice enough guy...I find out later that M thinks otherwise...Hehe. He invites himself to walk around the town shops with us after dinner.

J, M and I stop into a jewelry store where I find some beautiful silver rings. The shop owner, G, turns out to be an American from Virginia. He's somewhat handsome, but considerably older than me. He tells us all the great places to visit on the island and absolutely insists we must visit a restaurant called Santorini Mou. He knows the owner. In fact, he says, he'll accompany us there the following evening...

Day 7:
After a day of roaming the countryside, M and I meet up with J and G at the restaurant. Mikhalis, the owner, is a perfect caricature of the old Greek taverna owner. He sits at our table with us, drinks his ouzo, and serenades us by guitar. Mikhalis and G tell us about their adventures with famous patrons of the restaurant, such as Jennifer Aniston and Green Day. Meanwhile, G makes sure my and M's wine glasses are never empty.

G, Ari, J and M

Ari and Mikhalis, Owner of Santorini Mou

After a while I'm buzzing, and I notice a small gold glint. "G, is that a wedding ring?" I ask, pointing to his right ring finger. I had checked his left already, because, as a woman, that's just what I do. G smiles, not a bit concerned as I about the fact that we had not heard a peep about Mrs. G up to this point.

"So, where's the Misses?" inquires M.

"I dunno, probably at home," says G nonchalantly. "Waiting on me."

"What about your kids?" I wonder. "Don't they care you're not home with them?"

"Kids?" G laughs. "God, no. My wife's way too young for kids. We've only been married four years." M and I blink rapidly. How old is she? we're thinking. G then elaborates, as if reading our minds. "Well, my parents weren't too thrilled with me, running off to Greece to start a new life. So, since we're Greek American, they preferred a marry a local girl. A family here on the island presented me with their three daughters, and told me to pick one. I chose the middle one, who was 17 at the time (bear in mind G is probably pushing 50), and took her to a pizzeria for our first date. After about an hour, she says, 'Okay, I love you.' I tried to agree, saying, 'Why, sure. I think I could grow to love you, too.' She cops an attidude and says, 'You think? You think you love me?' I caved in, said I loved her, and three days later I was hungover and married."

In the meantime, I'm thinking, where the hell is that cab G promised he would call for us? J, M and I were sightseeing tomorrow and needed to get to sleep soon. M is incensed at this point. She and G start debating the idea of arranged marriages. I found Mikhalis and asked about our cab. Mikhalis looks confused and says, "G never called a cab...I'll get one for you." Now, I am sketched out. G had no intention of letting us leave soon.

Back at the table, G explains himself to Molly, saying marriage is an institution necessary to procreate and maintain familial stability, but "I could be in love with many people. When you walked into my store, I just fell in love with both of you," he says, gesturing to M and myself. I laugh, thinking, Okay, G, I'm not buying any more jewelry from you. AND WHERE THE HELL IS THAT CAB? At that moment, the taxi arrived and we bid adieu to Mikhalis. J, M and I jump into the car, with G trailing on his motorcycle, no headlight on. I swear he looks like Batman, his black leather jacket flailing behind him like a cape as he follows our taxi, a scary red glint in his eye. M and I leap out at our hotel as G exclaims, "Come on! Let's grab one more drink at Bar Tropicana!" I look at my best friend and run for our bedroom door.

Day 8:
J graciously rents a car and lets us tour the island with him. We go to an ancient excavated Greek village, the Red and Black Beaches, so named for the color of their sand, made from volcanic ash. We stop at a small, almost deserted beach taverna, where the owner makes us a fresh lunch of fresh fish just caught and goat cheese made from his very own goat. M puts on a brave face, but J and I enjoy the fresh fishies.

Ari, Greek Guy, Fishy, and M

Ari and the Fishy

At one of the beaches, J can't seem to start the rental car. M almost bursts into tears laughing so hard at him when he gets out to ask a local for help. At this point, she admits to me J reminds her of Napoleon Dynamite, and that's why she's been so annoyed with him all along. Now that she mentions it, I see the resemblance too, and I can't help but laugh.

M's description of J (in her own words):

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOh do I remember... I wish (sometimes) I didn't... actually that's a lie, Napoleon Part Deux was freaking hilarious and whilst being extremely nice and informative, I found most of his "little-known-little-cared about" factoids somewhat annoying as HELL! :)

So let's start with:
1) "Did you know that artichokes are indigenous to Greece as well as California?!" - Nooooooooo brainy-ack I didn't, but don't I care... that's what you really should be asking me. And again, the answer would be an enthusiast NOOOOOOOO.

2) Then how about the 'ice plants' that he thought to have discovered on the roadside of Santorini. - Yes, I know about ice plants and the purple (sometimes pink) flowers that bloom from them. Next time I have a medal for "Plant Discoverers" I will be sure to award it to Napoleon. Oh wait - actually I don't give out medals for whacked out things like this.

3) Next up -- starting the car. Now I am not (hopefully) trying to sound judgemental when I say this... but is it particularly difficult to start a car you have been driving around all day, if -- you are a NASA employee, are in your mid 30's, and can drive a stick shift?!! I dunno, apparently it is. The "Wow, this is really interesting"'s and "Gee whiz, what the geepers is the problem with this VEHICLE"'s were so amusing that I almost wet my pants.

That combined with the fact that he thought he was discovering "ancient" rocks on the beach (but they really turned out to be broken pieces of clay vases) and completely humored himself by skipping rocks (remember how he would laugh and say "OHHHH WOW, Gee that was so swift!!") made for a memorable day.

Now I add this disclaimer... I am being bitchy by making fun of him this bad. He was a really sweet guy, someone who was really well intentioned, good humored, very accomodating, etc. so in the end that all out weighs any of the above mentioned hilarities.

Red Beach

M can't take much more of J and stays behind while I tour the town of Oia with him. He takes literally 200 pictures of a beautiful sunset while I chat up a freshly divorced Aussie who's taken off work for a month to travel the world. What a life! That night, I say goodbye to J. Whew.

Day 9:
M and I are sad to leave Santorini as we head back to Athens. We happily find that T, an Aussie friend from Athens, is on our boat. We also find out that he ditched B on Santorini...just couldn't stand traveling with him anymore. He made up some "family emergency" and fled. Some friend, I'm thinking.

Day 10:
M and I stuff ourselves with what will be the last few authentic Greek salads for a while, hop a flight to London and go our separate ways. It will be a few more months before I get to see her again in the States, so I hug her tight :) I remember that I'll be going to work on Monday and suddenly feel depressed.

Bottom line: Go to Greece. Do it. Do it TODAY! You'll never forget it.