north beach. photo by Andrew Møøre.
AT SOME POINT IN your drinking career, it will happen. You will walk into a bar amid a strange silence – that awkward period between jukebox tracks where everyone realizes how loud and rowdy they’ve been. And then, catching you completely unawares, Journey will boom through the stereo. But by then my friend, it’s too late.
Such is the case for Nick and I as we stroll into North Beach dive up on Green Street. By the time Steve Perry is belting “livin’ in SOUTH Detroooit!” a woman who is phenomenally drunk wraps her arms around both our necks and croons along, urging us to do likewise. I escape from her talons by excusing myself to the bathroom, and come out to find Nick looking both awe-stricken and sincerely pissed as this chick guzzles half his beer.
Somehow he manages to convince her to resume her spot at the bar stool, but by this point we’re really not feeling the vibe. The bartender tells me as she pours a pint of Newcastle that she saw a guy get his head blown off outside her apartment last night. Sweet. Nick and I look at each other wearily, and I drain my beer.
We’d started the night out with the lofty goal of getting wobbly drunk. But we wanted to kick off our bar hopping on a classy note, and so circled several blocks looking for a spot serving great martinis and chilled atmosphere. We come across a waiter taking a smoke break and ask him what he’d recommend. Perhaps unsurprisingly, he convinces us to come into where he works – Joe Dimaggio’s. Pricey, yes, but it’s exactly what we’ve been looking for: plush leather booths and strong drinks.
A little alcohol swimming in the belly and we decide that we need some proper drinking food. We stumble upon Golden Boy, a place serving life-changing Sicilian pizza with great beers on tap. I bite into steaming slice and look up at the curved aluminum ceiling, and think that this place almost looks like a small airplane hanger.
We hit the Journey dive after Golden Boy, and I finish my drink as we stand up to leave. Buzzing in the cool night air, we fall back onto the tried and true – Vesuvios. There’s just something about the atmosphere of the place, the stained glass windows, the wooden booths, the dark corners. We order a couple pints of Hoegaarden and grab a seat. Our conversation blurs into the din of the bar. Several German men sitting next to us chat loudly. Nick and I talk about the trip, about life. We order another drink. We feel content, we feel a stir of wanderlust, and finally, we’re slurring. Time to head back to the hostel.