Written September 2008

This is an essay I wrote for my Language 120 class, which automatically renders it boring, but c'est la vie. The premise was a remembered event, something you could reflect on and could form an opinion on where you stand on it now. I wrote on my high school orchestra’s Fine Arts trip to Copenhagen, Denmark, which happened in April of last year. While there, on Senior Night, the parents of the seniors thought it would be fun to go to a bar as it doesn’t really matter what age you are in Denmark, and I’m sure many other people did, too, but me, being the notorious stick-in-the-mud I am, got freaked out.

Note: People’s real names changed. :)

Down the Rabbit Hole

On the bus ride back from the performance at the high school, I talked, laughed, and played air guitar to DragonForce’s “Through the Fire and the Flames” with everyone else, glad to be returning to the lush greenways and renovated edifices of Copenhagen, Denmark. Even though this year’s Fine Arts Tour had been exhilarating, I, notoriously shy, still struggled with the constant hobnobbing and communicating excursion required. After our joint performance, we had intermingled with the Denmark students, for the most part relaying our exotic adventures in their country. All that remained on the agenda for the rest of the evening was to eat dinner with friends and fall asleep in my hotel room. Several rows in front of me, I overheard a group of girls chattering that tonight was Senior Night, a Fine Arts trip tradition where the parents treat the senior players to a night on the town. Their words piqued my ears, but I brushed them away, hoping I was done with socializing for the day.

At the restaurant that evening, our tour guide Nathan stood up and announced that it was, indeed, Senior Night, and that several kids from the high school we had just played at were being bussed into town right now to take us clubbing. Nathan instructed us seniors to head back to the hotel and get changed quickly, if we wanted to be included.

I immediately looked to Lucy across from me and Joseph next to me on what we—they—were going to decide. Those two were my best friends, and wherever they would go, I would follow. Even though I wanted to avoid Senior Night, sure to be filled with awkward conversations and obnoxious joking, as long as I was with one of them, I would be able to endure whatever the evening flung. Neither one gave a set answer on whether they were going or not, despite my strong hints that we should pass on it. In groups of twos and threes, the seniors left the restaurant, and I followed Lucy out near the end of the procession.

Back in our hotel room, while applying her makeup Lucy suggested we might as well go, since it seemed like everyone else was. I conceded silently, as I changed into a more comfortable pair of jeans and a less stuffy shirt.

When we arrived in the hotel entranceway, four boys I recognized from the Denmark high school were waiting for us. They introduced themselves to Lucy and me, the first ones there, and we did the same. As we waited for the other seniors, I picked at a thread in my coat, trying to smile warmly but failing to look keenly interested in going to a bar.

Twenty minutes later, our group of eleven seniors and six accompanying parents had converged in a large, chattering mass in the hotel entrance. As we set out onto the cobbled streets lined by tiny specialty shops, I, hovering next to Joseph, overheard our talkative friend Jack say he couldn’t believe the parents were coming with us; it would be so much more fun without them.

It wouldn’t, I thought. Already nervous about this outing with parental supervision, I feared to imagine what mayhem the trip would descend into without them there. We seniors were a rowdy bunch, perhaps a little too excited by the notion that the parents were sneaking us into a bar for fun.

We arrived at the bar. Jammed into the entrance, we contemplated what was happening as one of the Denmark boys negotiated with the bar owner. Lucy smiled at me, saying I had free pass into the bar because I was eighteen, the Denmark legal drinking age. I fingered my plastic driver’s license for comfort, but my heart was already beating quicker for those who were under eighteen. Looking into the bar, multi-colored beer and cigarette signs lit up the interior, and a long table sat at the back. I could already imagine us seniors packed along that table, laughing and talking loudly while pushing people to go up and make fools of themselves singing karaoke to “Don’t Stop Believing.”

Suddenly, the group shuffled away from the entrance. “We got carded,” Mr. Mangano, one of the parents, explained. “There were too many of us at once.” My heart swelled and clenched simultaneously—maybe I was going to get out of this evening. But I knew we were just going to try again somewhere else.

Through the deserted streets, around gutted buildings, down cramped avenues we trekked, following the Denmark boys’ lead. We stepped over a roadblock reading “Do Not Pass,” and we arrived at our destination. It was a dead end. On the left side was plastered up a bar, dusky and glowing grimily from dirt-encrusted windows. A florescent yellow sign spelling out “21 and over” graced the door. Discussing briefly with the Denmark boys, the parents instructed us seniors to enter the bar one or two at a time, so we wouldn’t get carded again. In groups of twos and threes, my classmates began to disappear down the rabbit hole.

Meanwhile, I was growing upset we were actually going through with this. I hadn’t wanted to go in the first place, and now there was a possibility we could get caught sneaking into a bar when we were underage. I knew I would be the one to get caught; those sorts of things always happen to me. And I couldn’t believe the parents would condone us going into a bar, when they were supposed to be condemning it. I just wanted to go back to the hotel.

I burst into tears. Separating myself from my classmates, I tried to hide my face and put a stopper on my crying. I didn’t want them to see how childish I was acting, how upset I was over something that was meant to be fun.

Lucy hurried over to me. “It’s okay,” she said, rubbing my arms. “Ohhh, it’s really okay.” She hugged me. I looked pleadingly to Joseph, too, but the line was already pushing him inside, and he disappeared.

In a few minutes, only Lucy, Lucy’s mom Mrs. Turner, Mrs. Mangano, one of the Denmark boys, and I remained. Mrs. Mangano was trying to comfort me. I wondered what the Denmark boy thought of me, crying at his hospitality.

“It doesn’t matter all that much,” he explained in a kind tone. “In Denmark, they don’t really check that closely—people go in all the time who are underaged. It’s more of a formality than anything. We only didn’t go in the other one because there were so many of us at once.”

“See? It’s no big deal,” Mrs. Mangano said, rubbing my shoulders. She then disappeared down the rabbit hole, too.

A few moments more, my tears had dried, and I was reasonably sure the red blotches had disappeared from my face. “Do you want to go in?” Lucy asked.

I nodded.

“Okay. Follow me, and you’ll be fine.”

With my back unnaturally straight, I trailed her through the entrance. I was struck by how she walked—clunking, wide strides, as if she knew exactly where she was going, as if she belonged. Gray and green lights, cigarette smoke, people in white shirts, wine glasses hanging by their stems from the ceiling flashed by; I tried to look straight ahead but not too straight ahead, lest I appear suspicious.

I reached the back room in one piece. In a brief moment of panic, I searched for Lucy, having lost her in my promenade. I spotted my classmates congregating around a few tables in the far corner of the small room. But before I could seek out Lucy or Joseph, the Manganos appeared.

Sitting me down on a high chair, Mr. Mangano, in his Indiana Jones-style hat, explained to me again how the bars in Denmark, and in fact all of Europe, aren’t strict about the age limit like in the United States. “It really just doesn’t matter!” he insisted, trying to get me to smile. I forced one onto my face and tried to nod enthusiastically.

Then Mrs. Mangano took over. She took me by the shoulders, looked me straight in the eye, and asked, “Are you okay?” I responded with a vigorous nod, and she continued to comfort me. I didn’t want to be rude, but I wanted them to leave me alone. They were drawing attention to me.

“Now we’ve got some ginger ale for you—” Mrs. Mangano finally said, and Mr. Mangano handed me a plastic glass of said ginger ale. “And you can just sit here, and if you ever start to feel uncomfortable, just tell one of us, and you can leave.” They retreated to the booth on the other side of the room where the other parents sat.

I sat there on that high, uncomfortable chair in the middle of the bar, one leg hanging off of my seat, taking a small sip of ginger ale, as a formality. American rock music blared from the speakers, and a silver-plated disco ball spun placidly around on its axis. The miniature karaoke stage remained vacant. I saw Mrs. Turner and the Denmark boy—I guessed they must have made it in okay.

Joseph approached me. I was so glad to see him after losing sight of him for those few long minutes. He took me by the arm and spoke directly in my ear so I could better hear him.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” I nodded.

He held out his arms, and I gladly accepted his hug. That hug meant acceptance and understanding; that hug was about a thousand times more comforting than any words could be.

-x-

Eventually five of us moped around two small tables, not really having a great time: Lucy, Joseph, Jack, Matt Burns, and I. Lucy finally asked the parents if we could leave, and Mrs. Turner agreed to take us. On our way out, I asked Taylor, playing non-alcoholic drinking games with the other seniors and the Denmark boys, if she would tell the boys thank you; she said she would.

The night was cold but clear, and I was warm in my winter jacket, although I still hurriedly stuffed my hands into my pockets. Our group started off along the cobbled street, gradually pulling apart as we walked along. Joseph and Matt fell behind, discussing darkly, and as Lucy had pulled ahead with Jack jogging to catch up to her, I fell into stride with Mrs. Turner.

Mrs. Turner did not make any mention of my earlier reaction, but I brought it up myself, wanting to explain my actions to someone. She agreed she wasn’t one much for social scenes, either, and then recounted a previous Fine Arts trip, the one to Budapest, where the parents for that Senior Night had taken the kids to a dance club. The parents had looked down at the stage from the balcony, and a woman was dancing topless in the center of the club. The parents had quickly shepherded the seniors out after that.

When we got back to our room, I explained to Lucy how I felt. I wanted to tell her that I felt as though someone should say something, that someone should indicate to the parents that it was wrong to encourage this sort of activity without a reasonable explanation. But through me telling her, I was also trying to insist to someone that I wasn’t prudish, that I didn’t administer to the rules all the time like I did.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “I’m sure people understood.”

xxx

The end! That’s all the (original) writing I have for now, but I do love to hear critique, if anyone who chances upon this story has some. Thanks for reading. :)