63b Clerkenwell Rd Islington, London, 2006.
It was after midnight, and me, Christine and Anna were walking from a pub to a club called Turnmills, where some of Christine's San Francisco DJs were having a show called "San Francisco Calling" and we are on the guest list. She has an awesome network of San Franciscan bartenders and DJs. I'm not sure if its a coincidence that we were in London during the DJ event. Either way, we skipped to the head of the line and made our way into the club. The ground floor was a normal looking bar and was deserted, but the thumping below us let us know which way to proceed.
"You look like a cop." Anna told me as we walked in the poorly lit passage way.
"Really? I'm not wearing a uniform." I was wearing a rumpled black suit and tie.
"Like a burned-out detective. . .who may have just gotten divorced or fired or both." She clarified.
"Oh." I said, slightly deflated.
The hallway lead to a stairwell and as we walked down the noise level of the music increased dramatically wih each step. I noticed on the wall to the left a sign as we went down the stairs. I saw the word "WARNING" in giant letters and I turn to read more, I feel my foot step off into nothing. Apparently the sign was warning me about the stairs turning at an abrupt angle and to be careful. They could have placed the sign sooner, I thought as I fell in slow motion to my certain death. I landed on my side at the bottom of the stairs and the odd thing was the only thing I broke was my belt. I felt it snap on my side as the leather split in half. This was unfortunate since I needed the belt to hold my pants up, but fortunate in that my belt somehow took the brunt of the fall and no bones were broken. Laughing, Christine and Anna appeared to be saying something about the fall, but the music was too loud for me to understand them. With my hands in my pockets to keep my pants up, we followed the music deeper into the bowels of the club.
The Turnmills was dark and multi-leveled with multiple rooms. Each room had its own DJ, men and women with serious expressions as they plied their craft. There were 100s of people down there dancing to different styles of music from room to room. From talking to or overhearing them, its obvious that all the security and bartenders were Eastern European. This was a trend of most of my London experience. After being briefly separated, I found Anna and Christine at a side bar talking with the bartender. His name was Tomas, and he was a friendly Czech. Somehow, the girls convinced him to have a shot of Sambuka with us. He looked left and right theatrically and then ducks under the bar to drink it. The only other drinks he had were Corona in little miniature bottles and Red Stripe in skinny cans. Very foreign and very familiar at the same time.
Later, I somehow get landed with a drunken Irishman named Stephen. His friend was interested in Anna and asked me to watch him while they danced. Stephen was wobbly but congenial, so I propped him up against a bar and chatted with him.
"I have a fantastic idea for a karaoke bar." He told me proudly.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. . .it's a karaoke bar that serves crepes. You sing a song, you get a crepe. And its called. . .this is the best part. . .its called Crepaoke." He smiled.
"Ahh. I see." I nod as I wonder if he's talking about those thin little pancakes or something Irish that sounds like "crepes."
On the way out at 7AM there is still a line to get in. Where have these people been all night?? I thought as I looked at their tired faces. We turn back and see that Anna was no longer with us and must still be inside. Christine went to the security guy at the entrance and said, "Hey, we lost our friend can we go back inside to get her?"
The guy shook his head, "Sorry, we have no lost and found."
"What? No, we got separated from our friend. She is still inside."
"Sorry." He looked at her blankly. "No lost and found."
With a confused look on her face Christine turned to me and said, "Anna is on her own." She squinted from the rising sun. "Let's go find breakfast."
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