By midnight every Saturday, downtown San Diego turns into one magical frat party. Girls spilling out of their dresses, and guys spilling onto their dresses, as the lovely scent of beer wafts through the air.
"I didn't realize the fashion these days is to wear a dress shorter than your underwear," Mr. A said as a gaggle of coeds tottered in front of us.
"That's not the fashion these days. Some looks are timeless," I answered.
We wandered towards Lulu, a corner of chill tranquility, only to find a velvet rope blocking the door. That was a first. It's a hookah lounge, and the kind of place that doesn't need a bouncer because, paradoxically, it's too classy for downtown.Waited ten seconds. No one came. Waited five. No one was watching. So Mr. A lifted the rope, and we were in.
There was a single empty table. I rushed over to claim it, and he went to order drinks. Seconds later, a waiter swooped over to inform me the table was reserved. There was a couple outside, he said, waiting. He disappeared and returned with the couple. I got up and started walking away as they approached, but I thought I'd try something first. I turned to the girl.
"Would it be okay if we shared your table?"
"Oh, you can have it," she said, cozying up to her friends at the table next to the reserved one. "We're sitting here."
So apparently they hadn't reserved it, and no one was claiming that table but me. Before this exeriment I would have respectfully walked away, without a question. Instead, I was drinking Pinot Noir and smiling at Mr. A through hookah smoke from across the table.
Gained: A table on a crowded Saturday night
