St. Paddy's Day in Savannah is legendary and the population swells to three times its normal size. I arrived one week later and the city was clearly recovering from its collective hangover. I have zero idea where the beer swilling Irishmen or their Irish-wanna-be friends relieved themselves during their big fun (want me to guess?) but I found myself walking square after square in search of the golden fleece -- in this case, a toilet.
While I searched, I cursed that sneaky waiter at the outdoor cafe who kept surreptitiously filling my water glass until I had probably unwittingly consumed several gallons of liquid, far in excess of what my tiny bladder would normally accommodate. Come to think of it, he had an Irish lilt to his voice. My suspicion is that he had a personal St. Paddy's Day ax to grind.
Soon I found myself standing in line inside a gourmet market/petrol station waiting for the opportunity to humiliate myself by asking the guy cashiering for the restroom key. Just as my turn finally arrived --and not a moment too soon--a young girl breezed in and said, "Excuse me. Could I please have your restroom key?" And he gave it to her!
I peeled out of line and followed the girl with the restroom key into the store's underbelly. This market was one of those snobbish, upscale places where they sell chocolate candy bars for six bucks a piece. Even the help was able to size me up and with one arch of an eyebrow make me feel I didn't belong there. Well, the joke's on them because their store isn't all that attractive back there in the loo line and the restroom, even though you had to use a key to access it, wasn't any cleaner than the average gas station's.
Beggars can't be choosers though and I was truly grateful that they allowed me to use their facilities, albeit grudgingly. I bought a candy bar on the way out. It was surprisingly tasty.
Maybe you really do get what you pay for.
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