Not sure if he’s back on the scene after almost 17 years. Admittedly, I didn’t even take the bus from there during my school days, just approached a sheltered bench in a not-so-casual way to chat with a pretty brunette about to embark on a trip into town. “I wish I had just jumped in a cab,” I can hear her muttering now. Fate plays funny games sometimes.
Since that fateful day, many other places have become special to me, both far away and closer to home. It has something to do with enough luxury.
A lamppost leaning against it while devouring his first kebab. Bellissimo. On a “sidewalk” slab in New York City’s Battery Park, I stood and ate my first jumbo salted pretzel. And, of course, at my local branch of a famous fried chicken specialty store, where I walked through the hallowed gates as a boy and emerged half an hour later as a man. Twenty-five years later, it’s still as sacred to me as a child’s first teddy bear (by the way, I still have a teddy bear. Long live Toastie).
My other half has sacred places for much more traditionally sacred reasons. After all, she’s always been someone with a soul.
For her, the family vacation hangouts of the years are in her heart, along with her former residence, the park where she played as a child, the duck pond she fantasizes about, and the seaside where dreams finally come true. has always held a special place in
When I think of a special place where my longtime dream came true, the one that came to my mind was…
I still remember the seat when I tasted Guinness for the first time. I was five years old and said the taste was nothing more than a faint lick of foam from my father’s fingers.
For months, I was so obsessed with the velvety look of the black liquid he ritually imbibed from a giant pint pot every Sunday lunchtime that I wanted to ditch the pumpkin and try it.
After weeks of being denied a taste, I sat down on the bench next to him, donning my best Big Boy charm, and calmly and politely asked if I could sample his drink. Finally, and much to my surprise, he agreed.
My life changed forever when he dabbed my tongue on a tiny dot of stout. We competed straight.
I suspect my reaction was exactly what he intended – that the memory of the nasty bitterness of my young tongue was seared so deeply into my brain that I would never again be tempted by alcohol of any kind. I hoped I was at least 80 years old.
He was always an optimist, bless him.
Alas, when I grew up a few years later, a taste of “The Black Stuff” was instilled in me, and many pirate parties have been enjoyed on St. Patrick’s Day from 2007 to the present. .
Yet the bench that my father said he finally bowed to my wish (although it was his own dastardly design) remains a more special place, and every gin joint will be rejoicing years later. This was the first time my father used his playfully powerful brains to teach me an important lesson. Since then my father has done so again and again in his 30 years. I was lucky to be guided by his stout hands and sharp wit – giving me plenty of leeway to make my own choices and make mistakes. .
Simply put, the man in front of you is all his fault.
Cheers – go ahead, light the barbecue and fill up the proper glasses!
