Meltdown Averted

Despite the panic of the morning - and the flight being full, and being assigned a center seat next to a woman with whooping cough - the coast to coast journey was surprisingly smooth. In fact, I am now firmly of the opinion that all trans-Pacific flights to California should be rescheduled for a later departure time. Dinner is served at a more reasonable hour and arrival occurs at the civilized time of 5 am (according to the body clock...noon locally), rather than 3 am, which takes an astounding toll on one's sensibilities.

After a quick tour of my mother's adorable new house (more on that later), my first order of business, of course, was to seek out some proper tacos and cheap beer. Under the wings of my cherished friends, I soon found myself in Carnitas heaven with my hand wrapped around a cold Pacifico. Bliss.

Later that night, under the cover of a deliciously warm October night, we ventured out into the streets of San Jose on bicycles in search of more cheap beer and, eventually, more tacos. (My God, does anything taste better than a taco served after the bars have closed?!) I cannot describe how fun it was to be pedaling through familiar neighborhoods, an insider tourist in my own home town. However, in the bars, it was impossible not to draw constant comparisons between American and Australian culture. As charmed as I am by art deco pubs, there is a durable soft-spot in my heart for good old fashioned dive bars, an institution that is entirely absent from the antipodean landscape. And, so it seems, an institution that is rapidly fading from the urban panorama of California as well.

Like the gritty blue-collar pubs of Sydney, most dive bars are being snatched up by swanky young entrepreneurs who recognize the nostalgia and respect that a new generation of drinkers have for seedy old dumps. While they try to preserve that special something that makes a bar a dive, they also install chic lighting, thumping sound systems, hire cool bartenders with bee-hive hairdos and trendy tattoos, and invariably host hip DJs on weekends, additions that are in direct conflict with the fundamental essence of a true dive.

My Australian friends are invariably uncomprehending of the concept of a 'dive', and I often find myself unable to adequately provide an accurate description. More than just cheap drinks, a cast of local derelicts, and a collection of tacky alcohol-related paraphernalia, a dive bar typically encompasses a blend of familiarity and desperation, of comfort and wretchedness. Regardless of the methodical yuppification of the best dive bars of San Jose, one critical facet endures.

In Australia, spirits are strictly measured by the smallest shot glass in existence. Happy Hour commonly involves a modest discount on one brand of drink and typically lasts ONE hour only, usually between 5-6. At Jack's, happy hour means $3.00 beers, $1 discounts on all other drinks, AND it lasts from 4-9pm. That is five very happy hours for the price of one. And then, from 10-midnight, there was another drink special: 'shots' of Jack Daniels for just $4...only the shots were free-poured into a glass the size of a coffee mug. Furthermore, the 'Jack Girl' (snigger) was on site, distributing stickers, patches, t-shirts and bandanas to anyone who bothered to simply ask for one, with the idea, of course, that one would then purchase a shot of JD. I felt no such obligation, but I absolutely love my new t-shirt!

And then we went to a great German bar hosting Oktoberfest, where I finnagled a free apple strudel and drank a beer bigger than my head.

Bliss.

Then I fell over.

Did that cat follow me from Australia?