After three long years of relationshipping, the newf and I finally took our very first, proper vacation together. Up until the end of July, we had only ever done weekends away in cottages or at my grandfather’s place to celebrate his 80th birthday (Talk about a shitshow. I was finding tequila-soaked lemons in strange places for days….).
But I couldn’t.
I loved it. Every little bit of it.
I may have even gotten misty-eyed a few times when the newf was showing me where he used to play as a kid or when the pod of whales (still scary, horrible, shouldn’t-be-alive creatures) swam by as we picnicked on the ocean cliffs. Well played, Newfoundland Tourism. Well played.
And lest we be getting too emotional here on the Rollercoaster, I also got misty in a few other places when we spent the day sea kayaking with the newf’s hot, straight brother.
Yeah. I went there.
(Sorry.)
But out of all the things we saw and did, there was one activity that probably exceeded my expectations a little more than it should have. And that, my dear friends, is the wondrous and dangerous George Street.
Let’s reference Wikipedia for a moment, shall we?
The internationally renowned George Street, located in St. John’s, Newfoundland and Labrador, is a short street populated mainly by bars and pubs…It is believed that George Street has the most pubs and bars per square foot of any street in North America, and is known to have bars that are open later than most others throughout most of Canada. The street does not usually become crowded with pedestrians until later at night, around midnight, and will remain busy until early in the morning, possibly as early as 6 am…
Sweet, merciful Jesus.
So first off, let’s recognize that I had dragged my ass out of bed at sevenish that morning to go sea-kayaking followed by two different hikes before arriving on George Street around midnight.
Add four drinks, four bars, eight rounds of I Gotta Feeling and all of a sudden it’s four in the morning and I’m jumping out of a moving cab to vomit in the middle of foreign suburbs before walking 45 minutes back to the house.
And where was the newf?
We left him on George Street still bouncing around and yelling, “EVERY! SONG! IS! MY! FAVOURITE! SONG!”
Newfoundland alcohol tolerance: 1.
Ben’s alcohol tolerance: -28.