I must say I hit a few nice balls and could understand why people enjoy this game. Still not sure I'm willing to admit it's a real sport though. I believe I was better than Ed at driving the ball even though he had played before. On the other hand, he probably disagrees with that analysis, and I was using a driver mostly while he used a 7 iron. I'm still convinced I'm a natural, despite having terrible spatial awareness. Then it was on to the batting cages for an attempt to demonstrate our abilities at America's favourite pastime. As with the golf, those abilities were severely limited.
Now for the embarrassing part. Left on our own in a bar while the rest of my family goes to a recital, we have two tasks presented to us. One is to pass the time, the other is to get dinner. We succeeded in one of the tasks. In a bar Ed began talking to someone who claimed to have known someone from Pavement, one of Ed's favourite bands. So we put off getting dinner in order to accommodate his fascination, but kept drinking. After a certain amount of Budweiser the dinner no longer seemed important while the continued consumption of beer seemed a brilliant idea.
This part is mostly not remembered by me or Ed but it sure sounded amusing as I was told it the next day. Apparently when our family returned from their recital I went "Oh no! This is embarrassing. Drunk with my family". Then they very kindly paid our bar tab for us, but told us to take care of the tip. We asked what a fair tip was, the barmaid said "whatever's fair". I tried to explain that in England the bartenders never really get a tip "would you find that fair?". No. Then Ed emptied his wallet and thrust over all his money, adding "you're very beautiful". She kindly returned most of it, probably keeping a 20 or something like that. Following that, as we were leaving apparently I turned to my relatives and said "I think we need to pay the bill". On the way home, Ed leaned out of the window and casually threw up outside. With plenty spilling back onto my uncle's car.
Three in the morning and as a punishment for my sins, or as a logical consequence of consuming a lot of liquid, I have to use the toilet. The house is very dark so on my return I'm not entirely sure which room Ed and I are staying in, but I'm fairly sure it's the one I found. Then with a last minute epiphany I decide to double check, "Ed?" I whisper out. "Jen?" comes the reply in a southern accent (American southern). I back out carefully knowing that I had nearly climbed into bed with my relatives which would have probably caused some surprise in a best case scenario.
It was also on this day, probably spurred on by liquid courage, that I decided to buy my uncle's old car that he was selling. Yes dear reader, three Greyhound bus journeys and we were already sick of it.
