Even though we had been rudely, abruptly, and inappropriately cut off while in Seaside, we decided to attempt pubcrawling again, this time in Portland.
Our host was “already three wines in,” so we decided to take a cab to Mississippi; Ave, that is.
We stopped into one bar, had a drink, then ventured over to a bar down the road. We bought the first round and the second round was purchased for us by a ‘regular.’
Further rounds were offered – nobody ever discussed cutting us off – and we eventually decided to call a cab and return home.
We provided the driver our address, he appeared to enter it into his GPS, and, in addition, our host – now at least seven drinks in – provided detailed instruction, “Turn left here; take a right; just a few more blocks; this is it – we’re here.”
Except, we weren’t. “This isn’t your house,” I told her. “You’re right. La de da de dum, la de da de dum. What’s the name of that song? La de da de dum la de da de dum, something something birds…” was her pleasant response. I it was then I realized I needed to step in and did my best to help the driver enter her house address in his GPS. Unfortunately, the language barrier – he didn’t speak English, slur or la de da – prevented us from communicating effectively.
Miraculously, we eventually made it home. Not surprisingly, we still don’t know the name of that song or how we finally got there.