. . .
The bus into downtown arrived in 9 minutes, precisely on time. Three CHF, and we were comfortably in our seats, talking and laughing all the way, each internally excited to see what the night was all about, our eagerness exacerbated by the cessation of the rain. Also, we were hungry as hell.
After arriving just outside the train station in Bâle, each of us virgins to what appears to be yet another inexplicably beautiful European city, we begin to question the likelihood of finding an open restaurant at the ungodly hour of midnight-something. More typical than not for a country that not only doesn’t quite believe in Happy Hour, but seems to shut down at 6 or 7 pm. Like its neighbors.
After several unsuccessful attempts at finding fuel for our mitochondria, we are however, excited to see that we’ve wondered into the downtown area. Site of the festivities and the sole reason I came in the first place.
With each block and each subsequent turn to the next, we see the number of people increasing, indicating that we were headed in the right direction. What was more apparent was the architecture. Clearly European and uniquely Swiss. A mix of new and old, the former tastefully structured to compliment the history of our surroundings, it was clear that we were in the right place. A happy place.
Too content and in the moment of it all, we almost forgot about our hunger pangs. As chance would happen, we stroll by two happenin’ restaurants. One Lebanese, the other, who the fu*k knows what. We were hungry and none of us have ever tried Lebanese food.
We walk in, a melting pot of people acknowledging us, not giving us a second look. Two Americans, one Japanese. Hungry. And warmly welcomed by one fine-ass Lebanese women. Confident. Tall. Beautifully built. Eager to share her culinary culture with three oblivious foreigners. Also, she was sexy as hell. Accentuated by the fact that she speaks not a word of English. Or French. Which made ordering difficult for three morons who don’t read, speak or write German or Lebanese.
But we’re smart. Wise, you might say. Or not. But with confidence, I order a Coke, and for dinner, I think I’ll have the lamb with Humus and rice. Not long after our order, she approaches the table and rattles off some crazy-ass jibber-jabber, the gist of it being that she was out of rice and would I like fries or a salad. If there was any sexual innuendo included in her monologue, I could not tell, but after I ordered a second Coke, and she poured it for me, I knew it was on.
. . .
The bus into downtown arrived in 9 minutes, precisely on time. Three CHF, and we were comfortably in our seats, talking and laughing all the way, each internally excited to see what the night was all about, our eagerness exacerbated by the cessation of the rain. Also, we were hungry as hell.
After arriving just outside the train station in Bâle, each of us virgins to what appears to be yet another inexplicably beautiful European city, we begin to question the likelihood of finding an open restaurant at the ungodly hour of midnight-something. More typical than not for a country that not only doesn’t quite believe in Happy Hour, but seems to shut down at 6 or 7 pm. Like its neighbors.
After several unsuccessful attempts at finding fuel for our mitochondria, we are however, excited to see that we’ve wondered into the downtown area. Site of the festivities and the sole reason I came in the first place.
With each block and each subsequent turn to the next, we see the number of people increasing, indicating that we were headed in the right direction. What was more apparent was the architecture. Clearly European and uniquely Swiss. A mix of new and old, the former tastefully structured to compliment the history of our surroundings, it was clear that we were in the right place. A happy place.
Too content and in the moment of it all, we almost forgot about our hunger pangs. As chance would happen, we stroll by two happenin’ restaurants. One Lebanese, the other, who the fu*k knows what. We were hungry and none of us have ever tried Lebanese food.
We walk in, a melting pot of people acknowledging us, not giving us a second look. Two Americans, one Japanese. Hungry. And warmly welcomed by one fine-ass Lebanese women. Confident. Tall. Beautifully built. Eager to share her culinary culture with three oblivious foreigners. Also, she was sexy as hell. Accentuated by the fact that she speaks not a word of English. Or French. Which made ordering difficult for three morons who don’t read, speak or write German or Lebanese.
But we’re smart. Wise, you might say. Or not. But with confidence, I order a Coke, and for dinner, I think I’ll have the lamb with Humus and rice. Not long after our order, she approaches the table and rattles off some crazy-ass jibber-jabber, the gist of it being that she was out of rice and would I like fries or a salad. If there was any sexual innuendo included in her monologue, I could not tell, but after I ordered a second Coke, and she poured it for me, I knew it was on.
. . .
