Well, I hadn’t thought it got any better than huge surf and potlucks on the beach. But these people really know how to party and so party they do. The other day our intrepid guides gave us one of their typically mild understatements: “Oh and by the way, tonight we go to a restaurant owned by a friend of ours. Great food, music, and maybe dancing. Let’s go.”
And so off we head in our usual jovial but relatively normal way. Packed in the company van like a group of aging school kids, we obediently and quietly travel to the designated restaurant anticipating good food and good company. We’re not a rowdy bunch (not too much), we’re polite Canadians, we’re all mature and dignified (measured by the number of Margaritas this might not be a completely accurate statement) and we all intend to stay that way. Into the lovely restaurant we go.
Oh boy. The food comes and the margaritas flow. I sound like I’m getting addicted but I want it recorded here that I only had one (and that other half that Jim insisted I have). The music seems to get louder as the evening progresses and even the neighbouring tables get funnier and more friendly. The band (on a big TV behind us) somehow begins to turn into a great imitation of a live concert and soon we are clapping after every song. The Eagles are playing classic rock and the beat is irresistible to baby boomers. Before we know it, Bob and Jane are dancing right there behind the table in the middle of this restaurant! What a couple of crazy kids. We wonder, is this allowed? Will management tell us to cool it?
But before the thought can take root, two more couples are up and everybody is hooting and clapping. I find I can’t resist (those DAMN margaritas) this excitement and poor Jim, my sedate numbers guy, is dragged out of his chair and made to gyrate (oh, the pained expression on his face!) in the middle of the restaurant. The fun builds and pretty soon nobody has to worry about what the other patrons or the management think. It seems the neighbouring tables are all up and dancing with us. In some cases, they’re getting really friendly. I look around and see that even the waiters and waitresses are shaking tambourines, depositing drinks and dancing and crooning out the songs at the top of their lungs too. The owners are on the sideline, clapping and grinning. Tell us to cool it? I don’t think so. The music gets louder, the dance floor (aka, the middle of the restaurant) is full and the whole place is rockin’. Wow, what a party! Are Canadians really allowed to do this?
Well, by the time the concert changes to Roy Orbison (oh my god, how old are we?) and he belts out “Pretty Woman”, we have roused the whole neighborhood and exhausted ourselves. There’s hardly a person in the whole restaurant who has remained seated and we’re all crooning along with Roy at the top of our lungs. The mild statement made earlier by our guides has proven very true and we all are having an enormously good time. Finally, we file out and they herd us somehow back into the van, but it’s not a quiet ride home by any means. The hooting continues until we get to our respective units and finally get inside without getting arrested or annoying the neighbouring RVers too much. It seems we walked a slightly different edge tonight. Oh well.