If Ariane and Froggy had been here, there really would have been a "storming
of some sort" for the pathetic quality of this year's annual Bastille Day run.
As it turned out, this much-anticipated run was all but forgotten by our hares,
Heather and Ewa until the last possible moment. As a result, there would be
no brie baguettes, no cow parades and nothing much at all to celebrate, other
than the fact that Ewa is no longer our Hare Raiser and can no longer screw
up special runs like the Bastille Day hash or the the upcoming 900th run, etc.
The closest we got to anything French was when Heather's gathered the pack at
the start in front of the restaurant, Provence. Then, in perfect French, she
told the us her lame excuse of why the French theme would not be carried out.
In perfect Frog style, Heather then sent the pack off - promising us a short
and boring trail.
Typical. This trail reminded me of the only time I've been to that god-forsaken
city of Paris (and France). When I asked for directions to the cemetery where
Jim Morrison is buried, a young French couple sent me on the metro in the complete
opposite direction. Then, when I asked a Frenchman what time it was (in my best
attempt at French - and at flirting), he replied, "What do I look like, Big
Ben?" Ever since then, I don't trust anything/one French and enjoy the same
distain that Brits have of their neighbors, except when it comes to things like
French fries and Beaujolais Nouveau.
Of course, the trail was long. Not only that, but in a style reminiscent of
my aforementioned trip to Paris, it got longer when I found myself running North
along the West Side Highway following Crofty off-trail as he thought he was
following someone on trail along the running path. Mais non, apparently running
paths are often used by actual runners, who can sometimes be mistaken for hashers
- as in this case. Crofty, John O'Conner, Fludgate, me and others gathered at
14th Street, then when we realized our faux pas we had back South. (Zut!)
It was then that we found ourselves running through the French Quarter of the
World Financial District and Battery Park City. Then down and around Wall Street
and up to the On-in at Puffy's.
The last time we went to Puffy's it was a Sunday in the depths of winter with
only a skeleton crew of runners - and we were really cramped. This time, we
were in the throes of the hordes of people showing up for the summer Wednesday
night (and Bastille Day festivities…), and we were even more cramped. And smelly
(well, at least that's something French, right??!).
Heather and Ewa smiled demurely while dishing out cups of water from a French
slop bucket (yes, a French slop bucket. A bucket where food establishments in
France throw out the scraps to be brought to the local farms to feed the pigs.
Don't ask how I know this, I just know.). Then, when we couldn't get ample supplies
of beer, Ewa blamed it on the bartender who was accused of having the attitude
of a French waiter. (We can just bet that he and Ewa had "words" of some sort.)
But of course, once we got to down-downs, things got better. JMs Peter and Dave
were doing a dialogue, which appeared funny, but which nobody could hear over
the jukebox. Hares were called up…and to be honest, I can't remember another
single down-down - in my own French way of trying to explain myself, I guess
it's just not my forte.
In pure French fashion, we then tossed back the Budweiser and enjoyed some good
NYC-style pizza, then spoke of all things American, such as baseball games,
summer vacations and Ed's recent bbq/waterfight. On-out.