Bolsheviks take a field trip!

Last weekend, my dear friend (purely a platonic relationship, which is an important detail to know for later) and I embarked on a short road trip to visit my sister, who is a student at the University known as Georgetown. While it was on our agenda to visit some cultural sites, it was obviously more important to hit up some Georgetown parties. Well, my friends, mission accomplished.

Stocked with Ron Batron (some rum my other sister had so graciously brought back for me from Guatemala), some vodka and of course, some Everclear, drinking was not to be a problem on Friday night. Adding to our liquor, my sister’s friend came to dinner with two twelve packs of not bud light, natty light or some other cheap beer, but instead with Corona Extra and Sierra Nevada. “So, this is what it’s like to drink real beer,” one of my new friends pointed out. Right he was and delicious it was. As the evening went on and the drinks were drank, my sister’s apartment started getting quite fun, complete with drinking games, a dance party and plenty of laughter all around. However, as fun as the apartment festivities were, we all agreed it was time to go out and find a legit party. Parties we would find, but legit they were not.

One often finds them self in a classic weekend dilemma: which party should I go to?! As different texts from different people made us aware of different parties around Georgetown, we had to make a final decision, at least for which would be the first party we attend. We decided to hit up a theater party. Not a good idea. Now, the campus at Georgetown is extremely small, especially when compared to UNC. I’ve heard on numerous occasions students complaining about their long treks from their dorm to the cafeteria. Now, I’ve probably seen the entire campus in the three years my sister has been a student at Georgetown and I am quite certain that no trek can take more than a mere 3 minutes, perhaps 5 if there’s some construction detours. However, once you leave the University gates, walks can expand to, eh, perhaps even 15 minutes. Granted, this is still nothing compared to Chapel Hill, but in the cold rain, it can be a bit of a nuisance. So, my point is, at Georgetown, this was a long walk for a party that ended up being less than thrilling. When at first arriving, my new Georgetown friend Alex and I walked downstairs to the keg. I grabbed the nearest solo cup, cleanliness not being a concern at this point, and started to fill my cup, but then a scary man showed up. His long, rather greasy hair was the first indicator of bad things to come, but when he began asking who we knew there, things got bad. I found out 2 years ago at Georgetown that the performers of art really don’t appreciate people showing up to their parties of they didn’t actually see the performance. Bullshit. I spouted out the name of the kid who told us about the party and it seemed to work. I thought I was safe. And then he asked for 5 bucks. Now, as I’ve explained before, I’m not cool with paying at parties of people who I don’t know. I mean, I do realize that the cost of alcohol does add up and it is very helpful to get come contributions, but my sister had just hyped up the fact that parties never charge for drinks here, so I was rather disappointed, that’s all. Not to mention, this was Georgetown, dammit. I’m fully aware that most of these students spend more on their name brand handbags than I spend a year at UNC. They can afford to provide a public school student with some booze. Well, they obviously weren’t keen on doing that and whereas I usually find ways around paying for drinks, I realized there was no getting out of it here (we’d later find at least 2 other people checking your hands for the indicator that you’d paid for your cup already). To make it worse (or better?), I hadn’t even brought cash with me, but luckily Alex, in his chivalrous ways, paid for my cup. Thank you Alex!

Somewhat frightened of the other party goers, the group of us spent most of the party in the laundry room. Becoming restless, we decided to leave, so we took advantage of their liquor cabinet and headed out to the next party, but not without making some new friends first. As I left the theater party, I noticed a group of guys standing in the doorway next door. So, I decided to walk on over and as I neared closer, I smelt something special. “I smell marijuana coming out of your house,” I loudly exclaimed. Their laughter told me I was correct, so I began a delightful conversation with them and even found that one of them was a Tar Heel (just a fan, I think, but I was excited). Anyway, we talked for about 15 minutes and then left to go on our merry way. The next party was even more disastrous as well as more blurry. I really can’t recall much more than the fact that there were like five people there and it was really awkward. So, we decided to leave. This is where things get frightening children and I will warn you that if you have ever thought about not drinking, you may want to stop reading this now, as this could severely aid in a poor decision to indeed stop drinking. I was just about to enter the sidewalk when I hear a screech from behind me. That’s when I saw her, my poor sister, ass on the ground and struggling to get back up. In an excessively drunken stupor, she had fallen and hit her head on bushes, the house- we’re not quite sure. Point is her head was bleeding a good amount and the concerned sister that I am, I got pretty nervous. Realizing the cut was not nearly deep enough to require medical attention (i.e. GERMS), we hauled my sisters ass back to the apartment, an endeavor that took a good half hour in the rain. We thought we were safe when once we got back, but my sister’s night was not over yet. We were just tucking her into bed when I heard a faint whisper. “I’m going to throw up Ethel.” As I rushed to get a bowl, the disturbing sound of her throw up hitting the ground struck my ears. It appeared I was too late. I was worried to let her go to sleep, still slightly paranoid that she had a concussion or that she’d possibly choke on her own barf, but eventually I had to give into her requests to let her go to bed, and off to sleep she went. The next morning, needless to say, she was feeling less than well.

The next day was spent primarily eating and also preparing ourselves for the highly anticipated triathlon initiation party. My sister, who is on the triathlon party, had told me all about this special event and it was one I could surely not pass up. Now, she unfortunately had to babysit, but with the help of her friend, we had an in to the party even without her. We (regretfully) prepared for the night with a few too many shots of vodka, but donning spandex running shorts and a tank top, I needed some liquid warmth to face the cold weather. We arrived at the Georgetown gate to find about a dozen people stretching. We then began jogging and as the rest of the people chanted the Georgetown fight song, my friend and I decided to start singing the UNC fight song, of which I knew about one line, which was luckily “Go to hell Duke!” Georgetown students hate Duke too! The light jog soon turned into a full on run to the triathlon house. Now, being that I work out mmm, about once a semester, the run, combined with the liquor, proved hard on my body. I arrived at the house relieved and tired, but my exercising had just started. After playing a round of Never Have I Ever, in which you drink Franzia every time you’ve done something, we prepared ourselves for the epic Beer Mile. Let me explain. In the beer mile, one must chug a beer, run a quarter mile (with hills I might add!), chug another beer, run another quarter mile, etc… until you’ve ran a mile and chugged four beers. Originally, I had planned to skip out on this part. I wasn’t, after all, even joining the tri team. However, feeling ambitious, I decided to participate in my first ever Beer Mile. I started out strong, feeling pretty good after the first lap. The second one went okay too, but upon completing the second lap and chugging our third beers, every girl except for me began barfing. The sight was horrific, and nervous that I’d face the same unfortunate fate, I decided I’d skip out on the third lap. So, I hid behind the porch and once the girls started coming back, I just chugged a beer right along with them, pretending that I too had just completed my third lap. Then, having had some rest, I joined them for the fourth lap. Successfully deceiving the team, they all praised me for my well done job. Perhaps I really had only done ¾ of a beer mile, but I was still proud of myself. One must take pride in every small achievement and for me, drinking and exercising at the same time (or just exercising at all), is an accomplishment indeed!

Beer Mile completed, the jungle juice (our version of PJ) drinking began and thus so did the kissing. And when I say kissing, I mean pecking between my friend and I; something most of our friends would recognize purely as a friendly gesture that often happens when the two of us get drunk. However, I can see why strangers would misinterpret this and when the team captain walked into the hallway just as my friend laid a small kiss on me, he got the wrong idea, saying that he “knows how it is.” During the remainder of the night, this fellow asked me no less than 5 times if my friend and I were going to “do it.” My persistent “no’s” didn’t work on him. Soon, others began to ask if we had come to the party together and if they didn’t ask, they awkwardly and obviously talked about it as we were dancing. It was uncomfortable and I wondered why they were so curious. I guess Georgetown students don’t get much action.

Ready to leave, obviously so I could share a night of passionate love making with my special friend, we headed off to the infamous Philly P’s, known for their buckets of ranch of which people take generous helpings of for their pizza. Being more of a minimalist myself, I opted to enjoy the delicious pepperoni pizza sans ranch. Let me tell you, it made the walk home, once again in the rain, almost bearable.

And so, the night was over and thus our weekend of partying at Georgetown had come to an end. It was certainly an experience and if anything, I gained some leg muscles. Surely can’t complain about that.

Looking forward to partying with my fellow Bolsheviks again!

Ethel