Photo courtesy of Konrad LaPrade
Juniors Ivan Heitmann and Jon Gibbons chill out in the phosphorescent atmosphere in Windsor.
Windsor, baby. Separated from Detroit by a tunnel, a string of tollbooths and tired border agents, the allure of this town is, of course, that its drinking age is 19. Along with that there's the duty-free store and the awesome, eclectic, hopping nightlife.
You'll need a hotel within walking distance, of course, which isn't cheap, but $150 Canadian divided by seventh people isn't bad. Leave the sleeping bags in the room, brush your teeth, fix your makeup, then hit the streets.
“Which direction?” — “I think there's some cool places this way.”
We found some place called “English Pub,” a great, low-key way to start the night. Newcastle, Guinness, Bass, Harp's on tap and amazing Hot Toddy's; a fireplace, plenty of empty tables, and a bar tended by a lone, pretty girl ready and helpful. After enjoying our brew, we asked her where to find the blues club.
A few blocks away, a staircase winds down to a basement bar called “The Aardvark,” a sultry place with a live band wailing Hendrix's “Red House.” The walls are covered with carved initials, Sharpie, and graffiti, but in a cool way. A couple arcade games sit in the back. The bar serves us rum and coke, fuzzy navels and a blue rain. Another drink, another smoke, and we're on our way across the street, to:
Milk. Milk looks like the alter ego of a coffee shop. Walk in at about 11:00 a.m., and I bet they serve espresso. Walk in on Friday night and lights are down, music is up and the coffee shop has turned into something out of A Clockwork Orange . Weird paintings hang on the walls, glowing plastic chairs squat on a dais. Every corner is bright with some modernist colored lamp.
“Is this the Velvet Underground?” — “Um, no, this is... who is this? The Strokes.” “Whoa, they have Absinth. Why is it illegal in the U.S.?” — “It has Thujone oil from Wormwood, which is a mild hallucinogenic.”
I'll take one. The server pours a shot, places a slotted spoon across the glass, sets a sugar cube on top, and sets in on fire. A minute later she pours ice water over the concoction. “Enjoy. If you have to puke, the bathroom's back there.” Actually, it doesn't taste bad at all—kind of like bad gin. Just as I drain the last drops and sugar crystals from the tumblers, I notice that I'm smiling bigger than I thought my mouth could go. The colored lights are even wilder, and I really, really want to dance.
“Go around the corner, through the door, up the stairs: The Loop.” We do, and find a huge cement dance floor, but after two glasses of water the place doesn't seem so hot anymore. Back downstairs to talk to the bouncers, we see a poster for “Disco and Funk, Sunday Night.” I'll have to come back for that one sometime. The bouncers explain that Fridays aren't the best at the Loop, and we should head over to Wullet Street.
“Where's that? We're Americans.” — “Yeah, we guessed. Go a block that way.”
Oh, Ouellette! In the “Treehouse” we find more live music, this time a couple young guys on a guitar and bongo. We order tequila with salt and lime all around, then Sex on the Beach and a $2 gin and tonic. The bongo guy tells me that the place to be tonight is “The Voodoo.”
Another block down Ouellette, we find the line to get into the Voodoo. This is definitely the place to be. Twenty minutes later, we're inside, where the dance floor is packed and both bars are busy.
A waitress with more metal in her face than in her coin pocket meanders around selling kool-aid shots in fluorescent colored plastic flutes. Too much sugar.
Oh, man, too much sugar. I'm ready for bed.
I find my friends, then my hotel, then the elevator, then my shoelaces, then my cot.
“It's time to get up, it's 10:30, we have to check out in a half hour.”
I need some coffee.