Back home, I'm a man of simple pleasures. Perhaps a beer-filled family afternoon that bleeds into the night, or an evening of greasy food, pints, and a movie with some of my favourite people, or just a patio and a pint--these are the things that put a smile on my face, and this was the sort of night I was looking to have to mark the passage of yet another year, to celebrate twenty-nine years and counting beneath my feet.
The plan was as follows: Pizza and wine at my favourite Italian restaurant with a small group of my favourite people, followed by a visit to a nearby DVD room with a drink or two in tow. (For those who don't recall, a DVD room is like your own personal home theatre room.)
During dinner, though, my good friend Rob offered that instead of going to a DVD room, we could catch the Friday night movie night at Thursday Party, a nearby bar. Now Sticky Fingers, another bar frequented by foreigners, actually does have Monday night movie nights, but Thursday Party most definitely doesn't have anything of the sort. It somehow never occurred to me that I've actually been to Thursday Party on Friday nights, probably at least once with Rob, until we were well on our way to the bar. That was when I realized I'd been duped.
I sighed at my own gullibility and accepted my fate. In the end, Rob used my own words against me, citing a recent post I'd written just last week about putting in more effort to enjoy myself and the company I find myself with halfway around the world, and well, I didn't take a lot of convincing after the first birthday drink was put in front of me.
All in all, the night added up to a grand ol' time and many hearty laughs. I guess it goes to show that your friends often know what's best for you, even if you don't. Or perhaps the moral of the story is that I'm a gullible idiot who is far too trusting and I will believe anything you tell me. Either way, thanks for great night, everybody!
Whatever the moral is, though, I do know this for certain: The following afternoon, I found myself waiting for a bus in Andong and listening to "Sailing" by the Strumbellas--a song about choosing to dance under the stars rather than drown in fear--and as the repeated words "I will wait, I will wait, I will wait by the fire" rose to their screaming crescendo, the memory of three stupid drunken Canadians screaming "I'm not your buddy, guy! I'm not your guy, friend!" at the top of their lungs popped into my mind. I couldn't help but smile.
Later that night, I woke up startled from a dream where my friends and family back home didn't recognize me and everything in the world as I knew it was wrong; as if the life I've lived never existed. Suddenly, the words "I will wait, I will wait, I will wait by the fire" rang out from out of nowhere and startled me out of my slumber. I woke up to find that my Kindle had slipped out of my hand and the Strumbellas were still playing on my phone. "Sailing" was ringing out through the phone's tiny little speakers. Another smile crept across my face as I lay there in the dark.
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