Motorboat me, I’m Irish (or Close Encounters of the Drunk Kind)

Well, we officially had our first visitor to Boston (unless you count the giant dead spider corpse I found in one of our moving boxes that apparently followed us from Texas).
My longtime friend Misty came up from Ohio to visit us over St. Patrick’s Day.


                                                              (Ain’t she purty?)

And no, no the timing wasn’t coincidental. I mean, sure, she loves me. But her love of beer and day drinking knows no bounds. And let’s be honest, neither does mine. So we were fully prepared for endless shenanigans and a possible trip in the paddy wagon.

It’s an interesting thing to have someone visit you for the first time when you live in a major city. Suddenly you need to be a tour guide. In all the small towns and cities I lived in before, the biggest obstacles were finding a place open past 10 p.m. and what to do after checking out the .03 miles of downtown (head to Taco Bell seemed to be the most popular answer, by the way).

But with Boston, there is never a shortage of things to do or see, especially on St. Patrick’s. In fact, there is too much to do. And it’s pretty much essential you know where you’re going or you can travel in circles for hours. I mean, it’s not like you can just turn right at the giant chicken statue and BOOM, suddenly you’re at grandma’s house (true story, that’s actually how you get to my own grandma’s house in Ohio…when they took it down for a couple of months to restore it, 78 percent of my cousins missed that Thanksgiving).

And even after six weeks of living here, I’m still very much a stranger to the city. I’ve only scratched the surface. Actually, it’s more like I’ve only scratched the surface of Boston’s thumb. So when Misty got here, there was a lot of “I swore it was here” and “Oops, I’m pretty sure we’re in New Hampshire!”

There was also a lot of hitting up of tourist-y spots accidentally, where it took 20 minutes to finally work your way through the crowd to the bar and another 30 to get the bartender’s attention (I find yelling out “Four Miller Lights!” at the top of my lungs and boxing out any girl who weighs less than me the most effective way). Fun for those wacky college kids but significantly less fun for those of us approaching 30.

The good news is I did get hit on by a cute guy. Oh sure, my husband swears he was gay and also hit on him, but I think he was just jealous.

At least the next day we were more prepared. We decided to go check out Salem. Granted we took the long way to get there. And were shocked to find out that Salem is an actual city, not just a recreation of the village where the witch trials took place (they had a Taco Bell, for crying out loud…which is where we headed when everything shut down at 10 p.m.). And most of the museums were closed so we were resigned to check out the cheesy one with mannequins and a dramatic voiceover (complete with an exhibit of the evolution of witches, which consisted of three whole witches…apparently their evolution went from mid-wife to the Wicked Witch of the West to the modern-day Wicca…and that’s it).

But the downtown area and the shops and restaurants were amazing. And I bought some witchcraft books, just in case my husband gets out of line.

All in all, it was a good first trial run and when someone I really want to visit comes, all the kinks should be worked out (just kidding, Misty…there will probably still be some kinks).

2 responses to “Motorboat me, I’m Irish (or Close Encounters of the Drunk Kind)

  1. Sounds like you guys had a blast!

  2. I will right away grab your rss feed as I can’t to find your e-mail subscription link or newsletter service. Do you’ve any?
    Please let me know in order that I could subscribe. Thanks.

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