A crazy night 4 1/2 years ago

I visited my best friend Dana in NYC for Memorial Day Weekend in 2004. This was written by Dana's friend, Carly after our Sunday night out. Dana just resent it to me the other day. Seems like a lifetime ago, but so much fun!

June 1, 2004

I have to write about my weekend – well, not so much my weekend as just Sunday night – simply to record it if nothing else. And I have to do it now before it escapes too much from my memory and I lack the energy or creativity or both or neither to get it all out on paper. This isn't a forced writing so much as I don't know where to begin, though I guess the most appropriate place to begin would be the beginning.

Picture Sunday night. Picture a holiday evening. Picture the West Village on a clear, I-guess-you-could-call-it-summer day. Four cute girls (three blonds, one brunette / three Arizonians, one Californian / three "New Yorkers", one not / Dana, Lisa, Vanessa and me) meet at a family owned Italian restaurant called Piccolo Angelo where the owner remembers Dana and makes a fuss at "the pretty girls." We're seated almost immediately as the fourth member of our party appears. We stuff our faces with home made garlic bread, the kind where the oils drip off the bread. We happily look on as the owner shows us where his restaurant has appeared in magazines. I look out the door in time to notice David Schwimer checking out the menu before walking away in sweaty work out gear. We polish off two bottles of wine. The girls notice Eric Stoltz as he passes the restaurant staring in straight at us. Too bad I don't know who the heck he is. None of the movies they excitedly shout out even ring a bell.

We step out of the restaurant and walk toward the site of Carrie Bradshaw's house on Perry Street in the city. Then we stroll past Sarah Jessica Parker's *real* house. I, of course, play tour guide. I, of course, shouldn't admit that I know where all of this is.

The next stop is Tortilla Flats, a Mexican restaurant with streamers handing from the ceiling every night of the week. Two sailors in from Fleet Week stand to give us their seats. We hurriedly get through our too-strong-not-to-make-a-face margaritas because we have somewhere else to be. We're on a schedule. We wave the bartender, who's on crack, good-bye, give the sailors their seats and leave the bar before we've even been inside for twenty minutes. We hop in the cab, realizing almost immediately that we're going a mere two blocks. Slightly embarrassed, we quickly pay and walk up to the Spice Market ready to go. We're meeting up with Jamie and her boy that's flown in from Miami to sweep her off her feet. Spice Market is everything we've read about. In the heart of the meat packing district, the cobblestone roads make you feel like you've exited New York, yet represent the true meat packing district that has become *the* place to be seen. We make a stop at the bar before Jamie enters and we're ushered into a private room with dramatic lighting and sheer curtains.

Next stop? Suede. We need some dancing so it's the place to be. We get in inside and dance the night away….right next to Olympian Dominic Dawes. She's there and we're practically dancing with her. I feel all my gymnast roots coming back. Maybe we should tumble together. I feel a push…the dance floor is crowded…so I "accidentally" push back just to let the girl know I'm there. Next thing you know, I'm grabbed by both arms as the girl is in my face and screaming, "I'm trying to work here! I'm getting you kicked out." Now, I didn't do this on purpose, but I just didn't acknowledge that she was speaking. I think it made her more mad. I just looked toward the other girls, smiled and kept boogying. Next thing you know, a 9 feet tall African American wearing XXXXXL comes to escort me and my friends out. Whoops. Guess I should've just said I was "sorry." Nah…getting kicked out of a posh club is just so much cooler. Oh man, what a night.

We hop in a cab, determined to keep dancing, and get to Plan B while I complain against my new arch nemesis and chain smoke the whole way there. (I don't smoke. And it was a short ride. So there.) We dance and then decide it's just about time to go home…we've done so much tonight it doesn't seem possible. I have trouble remembering the many places we've briefly stopped at. Outside of Plan B we meet some people who want to keep the night going. They mention going to Club PM, which is a place we thought about going earlier in the evening, so we hope in cabs…back down the meat packing district and stand in line. Long story short: private party, cover charge we weren't willing to pay, cabs, home.

I got home around 2:30 in the morning after talking on the phone with Erin during the ride home. As I paid the cabbie, he yelled to me, "You have a phone addiction." Shocked, I stood staring until it had totally registered. I don't need that grief at the end of the night. Luckily, it was more than enough to get Erin and I laughing as she took care of me and "walked me home."

I then slept in until noon.

Aww…the memories.

I'll never be taken (out of a club) twice,

*Carly Bradshaw*