Due to Friday night’s shenanigans, the four of us took a while to crawl out of bed and get moving on Saturday afternoon. We had bananas in the room from our sneak peek at breakfast before bed and at one point while we were trying to wake up, my sister threw her peel at me and it “octopussed” my face. And stuck. This induced a fit of giggles that would last until one of us finally left the room. At around 1pm we emerged, blinking against the sunlight and headed for the Red Line to take us downtown. A friend who lives in the city asked us to meet her at Bloomingdale’s so that we could all go grab a much-needed day-drink. Hangovers were on the brink and that is not somewhere we wanted to go in 90 degree weather. I had my head down, furiously texting and trying to figure out where we were going while I walked and was completely unaware of my surroundings. Which is how I ended up kicking a bird. The ladies have dubbed me, “Kaira Kicking Bird” in light of the strange Apache man and my abusive behavior. After walking in circles downtown (as usual) we finally found my friend and learned that she was running late for an engagement and would just be pointing us in the direction of lunch and drinks. Ok. Not wanting to have wasted all the energy it took to find her, we took her advice and headed to Dublin’s Pub for lunch and beers. Again, accidentally keeping the established Irish theme.
After our life-saving beers it was agreed that none of us wanted anything to do with sightseeing or the throngs of slow-walking people on Michigan Ave, so we headed back to the Red Line station and then the hostel. On our walk we discovered what appeared to be the stoop I fell asleep on when I was in Chicago for a concert a few years back. I’m a functioning adult, I swear.
We went back to our room to freshen up (reapply anti-chafing stick to our inner thighs) and decided to go sit out on the patio and drink some wine. It was a nice day. In the shade. We found our gaggle of Irish friends outside and joined them for what would be another marathon night beginning with drinking games. There’s no reason to go fight crowds of “dude-bro” guys and girls in the uber-expensive bars when there’s a built-in party where you’re already sitting. I mean, is there? Since we were running low on booze, two of the girls and three of the guys went to the liquor store where Honey Badger, Tiger and Bear learned about the famed “dirty thirty” or, “dairty tairty”, as they would say it. While we were sitting around and drinking through our fatigue I noticed two men walk past us and out the gate. I gave the girls the “eyebrow of appreciation” so they would take note and we all nodded in agreement. The second of the two had beautiful eyes, but they were both pretty. This prompted the “Gay or European” version of the “Drunk or Southern” game my sister and I invented in Florida last year.
The patio closes at 10pm to avoid (unsuccessfully) noise complaints from the residential neighbors so we moved the party inside and attempted to find some space. No luck. I went in as a scout before 10 and ended up being distracted by the two guys from previous paragraph lore. They invited me to play Foosball (hate that game) and I of course agreed. I learned that they were Lars from Germany and Valter from Switzerland. I wouldn’t have the answer to my “Gay or European” question until speaking with them on Facebook when I returned to my boring real life. (European). The rest of my group straggled in and we all eventually took over some poor people’s table, including a new Irishman named Jon and a Czech whose name I forgot. Because he was boring. The pretty boys (I’ll just call the German and Swiss men the “pretty boys” from now on) were in and out, until one of them went to sleep and the other sat next to me and tried to convince me to go wake him up for about half an hour. Nope! I refuse to be a hostel (hostile) stalker.
At some point while we were drinking and hanging out in the common area a singalong erupted. This was possibly my favorite moment of the weekend since it involved an obscure (to Americans) 90s girl group and a pop song. Amazing. I can’t even remember how it came up, but someone started singing the song, “C’est la Vie” by B*Witched, an Irish girl group from the 90s and suddenly every Irish girl and guy in the place was joining in. It was phenomenal. Of course, they were impressed that we American girls knew the words and I was just happy that someone else at all could sing them. My biggest regret in life is not getting that on video. We went on to discuss more British or Irish groups such as Westlife and 5ive and I was in teenybopper bliss. This feeling of bliss would later be replaced by annoyance at whoever kept playing one verse of a song and then stopping as soon as the crowd joined in. I mean, come on! We can only hear “Don’t Stop, Believ–” so many times before there’s a piano-mutiny.
At this point in the festivities, it was probably around 1 or 2am. My sister has a tradition within our MDW tradition of wearing a pair of unflattering boxer briefs and jogging around unsuspecting spectators. It makes them uncomfortable and it makes us laugh. This time, she decided to steal a pair from Bear’s suitcase and keep them as her own. She came down with them on and they looked deliciously disgusting, as expected. She did her requisite jog (with a soft J) and then decided to just keep them on for the rest of the evening. Wearing only tiny boxer briefs is hilarious in the wee hours of the drunken morning, but not so much when the sun comes up and normal humans start their days. Which is what happened. Somewhere in all the underwear-confusion, I think I robbed the same cradle again. But he started it. Again. Since there are still several hours of events to discuss, I’ll have to save “Saturday and a half” for another post.