I felt like I was at the Russian Front yesterday--on a hot summer day in the trenches. At 4 PM I was rescued by the Italian fascists (of all people) and Mrs. S-F whereupon we sort refuge in the cool, lavish, Hapsburg parlor of D-Bar. War? What war? How can you even think of it when you are basking in the warm glow of gute Freunde und glückliche Zeiten.
The change of pace was like seeing Mickey Mouse on acid, but it worked.
After ten drinks or so, Leopoldo got a taste of my nights: we rushed home, quickly changed, and ran out, this time to a new German restaurant on Lincoln Road, which was eerily looking like Unter der Linden. So, on the suggestion that we bounce off to the new club, Himmler's Hideaway, I put a halt to our German vacation...
...and suggested we return to something decidedly American: bowling. We didn't actually bowl--that wouldn't be very stately--but it was where Edison Farrow was holding his weekly martini party and that was good enough for us. I find bowling fun to watch; it has a way of bringing laughter and excitement together, of forgetting the world in general. I like anything like that.
It makes you act foolish, too; who wouldn't want to pose with the living bowling pin? (The microphone was a bit of a mystery, though; we couldn't figure out if there was a song coming up or not. Perhaps there was the official Bowling Song.) We both commented that Mr. Pin's shoes did not match the outfit (fatigue green sneakers), but it was too minor a worry to fret about as the entire place filled with Edison's well-heeled crowd. None of them seemed to bowling, but they sure were drinking.
That's the most popular sport on South Beach, and one we are very good at.