Three cocktails, and I am starting to understand why Irishmen always stick to beer. The calm atmosphere in the lounge bar is almost perfect. The seats are soft in discrete nuances of blue and red, the speakers are softly playing Portishead at the perfect volume, the bartenders are quick and effective but with a quiet sense of humor. Everything would be perfect if it weren't for one thing - the Irish wish to give you value for your money, something that in this case sadly ends in disaster.
The cocktails are a mile too strong.
The first one, a Midori Sour, went down relatively easy, but when I got my second one out I almost choked after my first sip. My sweet Toblerone tasted like gasoline mixed with Kaluha. It could almost make you cry. The delicate mixture of chocolate and honey was completely thrown away by a dominant taste of alcohol that almost made your eyes tear up.
My last attempt had been at a Velvet Hammer, a chocolate and cream based thing topped with nutmeg that K had had in the beginning and that had seemed pretty decent, but only after the first sip I knew that I was conquered.
After having been stirring my straw in my Martini glass for almost ten minutes without being able to take even a sip I give the rest away to the other girls. I am starting to get drunk, and the cream from the last bomb has gotten stuck in my throat and is starting to make me feel queezy.
And once again - for which time in the row have since long lost count of - I long back to December one year ago and happy Monday in bar in a country far away, a pair of blue eyes that looked at me and the feeling that this was all I ever wanted in the world.
The rumble in my stomach takes me back to reality. S is telling about when she went diving in Australia and lost her guide when the group swam across from the salty sea to the sweet water. The other girls are laughing. I am stirring the sad remains of the distorted Velvet Hammer. The cream has stuck to the straw and is forming a thin white cover for the black plastic.
I put the straw to my mouth and the taste spreads in my mouth. Even in these small amounts you can still taste the alcohol.
And I know why I am going back home.
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If you go to the court room, you listen to the details of the case (the last one I remember was a college suing and employee because he broke a telescope lens) and they go through each of the jurors and ask questions. After that, they tell about half the jurors that they can leave and the other half that they'll be on the jury. That's as far as I've gone. Essentially, it's a really boring way to waste a day without making any money or learning anything.
I happened to look at Cork on Wikipedia a while ago, to see where it is in relation to Dublin. I noticed that it's listed as the second largest city in Ireland with a population of.... 274,000. Scottsdale, which, as you mentioned, is only part of the Phoenix Metro area, has a population of about 241,000. Phoenix is about one and a half million. I find that amazing. I just can't imagine living around so few people. My whole life has been spent in orbit of major cities - from San Francisco to Phoenix.
And yes, the slogan for Expelled was sort of... confusing. If I didn't know better, I'd say it was intentionally satirical. But I do know better. They're just dumb.