Slap-Dappy Hour on Public Transit

Nothing spells MisAdventure like leaving work early on a rainy Friday afternoon to hit up the happy hours that end before 7. Let's trace the path:

I had a very handy Metrocard, with at least a $12.00 balance. I hop on the A train at Fulton street, headed straight for West 4th to a nice little joint called Slane on MacDougal at Bleeker. Arriving minutes before my buddy (around 5:20 p.m.) I ordered one of the $3 apple martinis. Once she arrived, I ordered my 2nd. It's so easy to forget how deadly apple martinis are. Slane was uncrowded, so it was easy to snag a table at the bar. The bartender was friendly and pretty, and the college crowd I expected was sparse. We split a humus platter and took off for our next destination: Mercadity Grove.

Mercadity Grove (7th ave at Grove street) had 1/2 price margaritas and guacamole until 6:30. The place was completely empty except for the two of us. There was no bar area, just an empty dining room, and a whole crew of staff who stared at us disdainfully for only ordering the happy hour special. Good thing for the 2 martinis, 'cause I really didn't care. In hindsight, I should have ordered food. I'm too old to make the same stupid mistakes over again.

Next, we headed over to the East Village (via cab) to meet up with some friends. While waiting for a table, I had a coconut mojito. Amazing! Too bad I was too slap dappy to remember the name of the place. Here, we also thought it was a good idea to order 2 pitchers of sangria (3 more people joined). My buddy started to fall asleep at the table, so I started to head back home.

By now it had started to downpour. I remember the trusty M15 bus back form my days living in the LES, so I hopped on a bus. I get a text message from a new friend, time stamp 10:01 p.m. I managed to lose my Metrocard, so the poor bus driver was patient with me as I picked nickles out of my handbag until I reached the full $2, and then gave me a transfer ticket, which I crumbled in the back pocket my my jeans. "LAST STOP" what? I snapped out of it and scrambled to get off the bus. I was not at the ferry, but I was at the water. I stepped out into the rain, a giant mud puddle enveloping my white toes in flip flops. The bus drove away.

I stared at the East River. I looked to my right: Lights! A Bridge! It must be the Brooklyn Bridge! I' was not so far from the ferry after all. After a long trudge through the rain, my feet slip sliding out with every puddle, I end up at another bridge. What? THIS must be the Brooklyn Bridge then. The last was the Manhattan Bridge. Then came another bridge. That was the Brooklyn Bridge. I did finally make the 12:00 ferry, after a nearly 2 hour trudge down the East River.

I met a woman at the Manhattan Terminal who was drunker than I was, asking me for a quarter. I picked out some more nickels from my bag, and she told me I need to eat my leafy greens, and carrot juice. I was drunk enough that I told her about the Jack LaLanne juicer I bought during an infomercial one dismal Sunday...

It was still too early for the crazy drunk scene on the ferry. I had an uneventful ride home, and decided to catch a bus instead of trudging the 12 minutes home. I hiked enough for one day.