Don’t Get Curried Away

A few of my friends came down from NY this weekend. We went out partying one night at The Clevelander* (which couldn’t be clubbier if it was whacking a baby seal) and my friend Scott proceeded to engage in conversation with a group of Indian women there celebrating a bachelorette party.

The music is loud, of course, so I’m watching him scream into this girl’s ear and her scream into his, but I can’t hear a word they’re saying. All of a sudden, she gets a very confused look on her face. A few minutes later, she kind of drifts away and Scott comes over to me.

Scott: “Well that was awkward.”
Me: “What happened?”
Scott: “I asked here where she was from and she said Al Habama. I asked what part of the country that was in and she kind of looked at me funny and said the south.
Me: “Okay.”
Scott: “So then I’m asking her all these questions about what life is like there and she says she just graduated college and is thinking of moving to Miami. When I told her that must be a pretty far trip, she said it’s only about an hour. That’s what I realized she lived in Alabama, not Al Habama.”

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* It’s worth noting that The Clevelander is the same club these same friends and I were at when I got a girl’s phone number on my social security card back in 2001. It’s nice to know that while my friends and I might grow and change, Miami stays the same.