The world does not want me to be classy. I went to the North End for dinner; I even wore a skirt. But the bars near Fanuiel Hall would have none of it.
My entourage included two other fresh 21s, all of us rearing to dive tequila-shot-first into the bars and clubs that we'd been hearing about since we were just snot-nosed freshman.
The problem was that, though we had technically achieved the status of "Adult" swimmers, it's tough to lose the clumsy awkwardness, the baby fat that buoys us through our daily lives. Let's put it this way: If we were spies trying to convince the enemy that we were mature, blas?©, chic and belonged in swanky bars, we'd have been squarely made.
We were also joined by an Irishman who had his first drinking experience at age 11, when he stole a travel-sized bottle of Paddy's Whisky from his parents' liquor cabinet and spent an afternoon in his tree-house getting sloshed. Clearly, there were standards we had to meet.
The first bar we attempted to infiltrate was Houston's. There was really only one problem with that goal: It wasn't a bar. True, it had a bar with dim lighting and cool red swivel seats - it even had tables shaded from the heat of the moon by fancy umbrellas -but Houston's is a chain restaurant.
At least the bathrooms were cool. The ladies room felt downright regal with its marble sinks and full mirrors. A source told me that the mens had individual TVs in the stalls. So, I suppose this recommendation is twofold: If you want a really fantastic mixed drink during dinner time or just really gotta pee, Houston's is your palace.
Apparently, the uncomfortable atmosphere of the evening has pervaded my writing. For that, my deepest apologies.
After Houston's, we were somewhat unsure of our next move. The line for Ned Divines wrapped around the building past Cheers and, as much as the bouncing lights upstairs beckoned us, one of my friends was Irish: Waiting in line for a drink was nothing short of blasphemy for him. He had a drinking itch that needed to be scratched.
Thus begin our Ulysses-esque odyssey of trying to find a bar that wasn't too crowded, wasn't too busty, wasn't too old, wasn't too expensive and wasn't too touristy - in short, a bar that fit our slightly indie and one-quarter European tastes. Imagine Goldilocks had she been four thirsty college kids with a penchant for good booze and a good time, as long as we're sticking to this theme of childhood.
After a secret, panicked call to a friend, explaining this dual need to impress and to find a friggin' bar, our next location was set: Clarke's Turn of the Century (21 Merchants Road).
Unlike many of the area establishments, the lines were short and girls' skirts were long(er). In fact, aside from the $5 cover that our young gentleman friend had to pay and the fact that we had to pay for drinks at all, the bar largely resembled a frat. The feeling of roaming eyes on derrieres, the bitter musky scent, thumping club music, and the mysterious stickiness sucking the bottom of our shoes all felt too familiar.
It's almost embarrassing to admit how comfortable we felt there. So comfortable, we were bored (it should be said that our Irish friend was perfectly content with his Jack and Coke, happy to have finally gotten his drink). Yet, while we entertained ourselves with such intellectual pursuits as pitting Danny Devito against Napoleon in terms of "who'd you rather do," I realized that it was exhilarating to feel out of place. Each day, we blend in with 5,000 other college kids.
I liked feeling like a secret agent, behind enemy lines.
