Where’s my effing hat!

Day 24 part deux

Okay, this is a pivotal moment in my life. I freak out when I see my shadow for crying out loud! A marine cut would be an upgrade. What did I say that the stylist would think that ‘this guy wants the worst haircut in his 66 years of life on this earth’. When I get home I pledge to immerse myself in the French language just so this never happens again.

Tomorrow I am going to buy six hats. No seven! Okay, I know it will grow back but CRAP, what was the correlation from what I looked like when I entered the shop vs. when I left. Talk about ‘lost in translation’! Thank God that we weren’t in Transylvania, where I would be left on the sidewalk bleeding to death from a neck wound, ‘numeros deux I would plead’.

Okay so my Madrid fisherman’s hat is workin’ at least a little as a distraction. We went to drown our sorrows and picked a previous watering hole called La Foch. Trendy, hipster, 20-something jammed with bodies on a Tuesday night. Nobody was within 30 years of us, but it was vibrant and fun and we had one of the best seats in the house. It was looking to be a 5 glass day. This was number three already at 6:45 having opened the flood gates at our humble abode three hours previous.

I balked when Carol suggested that we move on, but there are a hundred different hole-in-the-wall establishments within six blocks of here, all with great potential to be a wonderful evening and we scoured most of them and finally decided on Analog. What a fortuitous choice. The wind was blustery, even in the narrow depths of old town so we chose to drink indoors this night.

The decor consisted of picture cover 45 rpm sleeves on one wall (I once had 1500 in my collection) and album covers on the opposing side (I had over 2,000 at one point). It was nirvana for a former disc jockey and big time music enthusiast as myself. It was a multi-sexual establishment and made for fabulous people watching.

After our initial order of two Happy Hour vinos we progressed to some of the two dozen in stock imported beers starting with Taras Bulba, who in real life was a cossack opposed to the Poles and whom a 1962 movie was made; his namesake beer was a suitable homage to the man and legend. I managed to make it last for 20 minutes, a good start.

The next was Cuvee de Trolls, another Belgian brew with orange accents and a 7% alcohol rating, albeit at 25cl instead of the standard 33cl. A good numero deux choice.

The bartender and co-owner was from Northern Ireland. She and her husband had owned the business for seven years and were in the process of moving on in July to a more family-friendly business situation as they had a five year old child. She was close-cropped (but not as close as mine) and had a fabulous rapport with her clientele, most of whom who were regulars, and male. Carol was the only other female attendee in the bar but she managed to blend in in her usual fashion.

We whiled away a couple of hours taking in the ambiance and the eclectic playlist which was superb. Then it was off to home a few blocks away and a late night salad and a final glass of a local cabernet sauvignon before a stint in the blogisphere for myself and another book for Carol to digest.

Stop number five was nearing completion and a week in Avignon was on tap for the morrow. Bring on the heat and the lush rosès of Provence.

Where’s the nearest haberdashery to cover my maligned pate?