I probably don't need to say much more about my Thursday night (or Friday morning, for that matter) than that it involved my drinking Lassie McLeod's custom cocktail [#] at the Egger McLeod happy hour. This, after drinks with the Metbloggers at the Zig Zag and before relocating to the Cha Cha. Along the way, I'm pretty sure that Kelly Clarkson made an appearance on the iPod rotation, necessitating a brief dance party.
A little Friday afternoon recovery napping prepared me for Ethiopian dinner (with Carole, Atri, Rachel, Jon, and Carolyn at Queen Sheeba) and watching Pan's Labyrinth. I liked it, but suspect that I would have enjoyed it more if we'd been sitting somewhere closer than the back row of the balcony and if I hadn't read so many celebratory reviews in advance. In the aftermath, we cheered ourselves up with sweets at Dilettante.
Maarten made his return to the Old World this morning; so the weekend evenings were dedicated to helping him maximize his exposure to a wide variety of drinking establishments. I was relieved that aspirations for a trip to the gun range were set aside in favor of this plan. On Saturday, we went to the Crocodile and decided that wandering around Belltown was a better option than listening to some bands that we hadn't heard of. All of the kitchy decorative goodness, plus time to hang out among the buttoned down (Viceroy), pinball playing (Shorty's), dive bar overflowing (Whiskey, after being turned away from the Nitelite) of Belltown.
Sunday involved a return to the Five Point with Samantha for their fried wedges of macaroni & cheese. As wonderfully delicious as they are, and a worthy last meal selection, I think that consuming them twice in one month (particularly with the follow-up occurring well before midnight) will be enough to last me an entire year. Then to a pleasantly deserted Belltown for a chandelier tour. The Rendezvous smelled oddly of sulfur and Viceroy was pleasantly empty. Perfect for lounging on comfortable couches below the boar's head and hiding from the terribly icy, impervious to scarves and layers, weather outside.
We made gestures at seeking a bus before piling into a taxi and heading home. Though I can hardly blame him for complying with his visa and returning to the ultracharmingness of Amsterdam, I'll certainly miss having Maarten with his appreciation of inexpensive beer and willingness to be dragged along to rock shows (both rare commodities) in town.