But this was Saint Patrick's weekend. Green was prominent in almost every corner, as well as numerous drunks poisoned with the taste of fun. Though the majority of the celebrators were smiling and pouring out of Irish bars, it wasn't uncommon to see the occasional tears or hear a few rather profane comments.
My friend and I are not avid drinkers- our decision to come the city was not with the intention of getting plastered, I honestly think we were just bored. Saint Patrick's day wasn't even in our heads until we saw green beads dripping from necks, waiting in the streets, and covering buildings as if attempting to transform into paint. And I am pretty sure that we didn't actually anunciate our awareness of the holiday until our waiter told us about the drink specials.
I skipped ahead a few hours; my friend and I somehow managed to get lost in east village, in a very confusing part of town where the roads crisscrossed and the avenues turned into streets. We were looking for a Mexican restaurant on Jane Street, but I had made of the mistake of reading the address incorrectly.
Though I had never been to the restaurant, I tried to assure my friend that we were close- we were, but we were headed in the complete opposite direction. We were looking for 27 Jane Street, when we were supposed to be looking for 57 Jane Street. We found 26 and 28, but we couldn't find 27. It didn't make sense- we combed the sidewalk, peering into windows and scrutinizing the numbers on either side of street. After 15 minutes of aimlessly wandering around, I finally pulled out my phone and, to my utter embarrassment, realized that we were following a pointless path. We laughed, our stomachs growled, and our toes changed their direction.
Yes the food was delicious, yes our waiter was fantastic, and yes the dynamic of the restaurant was adorable; but no, I could not stop thinking of 27 Jane Street, or, um, it's nonexistence. How could a place just not be there? Its neighbors were- and might I add that all the numbers where in the right chronological order. It was something I couldn't, and still can't, accept.
It is experiences like this one that make me excited for what's to come in the future. We don't really know what will happen, and, in a way, that's both extremely terrifying and delightful because maybe it's just me, but I tend to remember the spontaneous instances more than those that were planned, and I seem to enjoy them more too. We should not go into something with an exact idea of what will happen; if we allow ourselves to go with flow, we are thus freeing ourselves. We we are uninfluenced by the notion of standards; if you expect something to happen a certain way and it doesn't, we're only left with doubt or regret or distress-whatever the emotion may be-. I feel as though it is necessary to have impromptu encounters from time to time because the improvised can lead to such wonderful things.