It's freaking cold. It makes me want to vomit because my stomach cringes so hard. I feel bad for dragging my friend Omar along because 1. I lied and said this wouldn't take long, 2. I said it'd be fun, and 3. I might have promised food. Also, he's sporting shorts and an anaemic hoodie. I'm tucked inside an pea coat and jeans. He'll later catch pneumonia. I'll feel even worse and bring him a get well card.
I notice Qua across the street, a 25+ trendy new "lounge" with a shark tank. This place has a freaking shark tank. Please come pay too much for our cocktails. This breeding ground for cougars and sugar daddies is nestled in between Oil Can Harry's and Rain [2 of Austin's notorious gay bars]. I think this is funny and laugh. But Omar's busy squeezing the last bits of warmth out of his hoodie.
I'm irritated by Qua. I begin to get caught up in the ostentation, the shark tank, the waterfall, the 4 years between me and a martini that could buy me a fancy dinner. I check the studio blog. A fellow blogger mistook being checked-out as falling prey to an uncomfortable indoor people-watcher. Ryan, Halcyon is a mixed crowd. Sitting on the curb, I laugh more. After I read Josh Jow's blog, I stop laughing because I'm moved.
Another valet shows up for work, looking like the male version of The Bride from Kill Bill. Yet I doubt he has the ability to massacre 88 members of an asian gang with his valeting abilities. I realize I know this assassin. I met him at a What-A-Burger a few months back. He hit on my friend. I guess the large piece of pepper stuck in his teeth was a deal breaker.
I tell him why I'm sitting on a piece of limestone with my computer and an article in-hand that is beyond me. But he's distracted by my constituent's obvious malaise. Is he ok? Thankfully he can't remember my name either and we re-introduce ourselves. One of those awkward moments I thrive on.
Qua vexes me. I feel like I've been discriminated against because of my age. 25 isn't the new drinking age, is it? I take note of the vaguely interesting front patio, open to the street. There's a pretty cool quasai-inglenook with a glass table for a fireplace [your cocktails, duh]. I've decided that the waterfall outside is actually the fountain of youth. That's why this place is reserved for "old" people. A river runs thru the lounge, covered with glass. How neat, right? Tomorrow I'll come to terms with my bitterness. The architecture of this place isn't so terrible. I'm actually intrigued. This weird age rule, like something out of Harry Potter [he should have used a bouncer instead of an age line, right??], creates this weird public/private dichotomy. This "lounge", a very public type of space, isn't actually public. Yet it's so inviting! I can see the entire space, from the street thru to the bathrooms. The first 3rd of the space is this awkward indoor/outdoor patio, using Art Nouveau openings to say it's special from the street, yet I want to sit in there and watch the city. Alas, the club's headmaster doesn't see fit that I, nor my young cohorts, enter.
What an odd moment that exists here. This tense moment. A bar that's a haven for homosexuals next to a lounge that's a haven for 2o-somethings next to another gay haven next to another Austin hot spot. All of these places seek to distinguish themselves from other public places by common interest, making them less public. Yet their similar desire to be set apart brings them back together. And they line up. Why is this so intriguing? I am moved beyond my distaste for Qua because I stumbled upon this intense awkwardness. And I love it. I imagine the lines to get into the respective establishments becoming mixed. A sense of social vertigo. I can't wait to dance to some Britney. Who's that? My best girlfriend! ....is this the line for Qua...?
My brain starts to hurt. I found architecture that deals with social interactions and what's ok in society and what's expected. Intrigued, but I'll file this moment and save it for a waisted conversation with my friends when we've had too much to drink. I haven't heard from Omar in awhile and I'm concerned.
I turn and can't find him. I remember Cedar Street's heating lamps. It's not much of a stretch to say that he's curled up like a small, hairy kitten beneath his new best friend. In the early dusk, my eyes catch several strands of stunning blue lights, wrapped around the courtyard's trees. This place, that my back had been lusting after for the last 45 minutes, is enchanting. Stairs lead me down, below street level. I feel safe, protected from the tension and realities of society across the street, like I entered a womb. Ivy vines dominate the west wall, chairs and tables speckle the cobblestone floor, and to the north is a stage that seems as appropriate as the wrinkles on my grandmother's face. The east wall is another bar that overlooks the courtyard. Despite some of the criticisms I've encountered, the Cedar Street courtyard before me is enchanting. And despite it's very public location, I feel like I discovered a piece of an oasis that's a forgotten memory. It must be the trees and the cobblestones and the setback from 4th street and the mesmerizing blue lights and how it's nestled into the land. This place is special to me at this moment. Pan's Labrynth enters my mind. But the magic exists here in the courtyard's ability to remove me from the cold terrain of the city, pulling me into it's bosom, but not fairy tale magic. Then I remember that this is a business, and the magic is gone. I'm pulled back to reality from my dreams of a mythical place where anything can happen. I still want to catch a show here. Maybe the Spazzmatics still play here, at least I hope.
I snap a polaroid before I lure Omar away from his temporary home beneath the heat lamps. We're late for volleyball try-outs. I hope he thaws before we get to the gym. Something in the low exposure of the film captures how I felt about that courtyard. We grab a cab and hurry to the Rec. These polaroids are a neat momento.
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