All That Jazz

Some time ago, who knows when, I went out with a few of the other members from the program for a night of drinks and music. Thursdays are the new Fridays for us since most of our classes end on Thursday. 

First there was dinner. You can’t do what we were planning on doing on an empty stomach. A few people went home after that, as is always the case and surprisingly, I was not one of them.

For once, I was in the mood to go out, especially since the plan was to go to the Florence Jazz Club, an underground jazz club where they ply you with alcohol. Themed to look a bit like a dive bar, but is completely up to code, the Florence Jazz Club is, for me, an excuse to drink a vodka cranberry and listen to live music.  

We’d camped out at a table in the back and refused to get up since a table at a nightclub that was this packed is like prime real estate and when people crowded in front of us, obscuring our view of the band, we stood up on the benches to dance, earning us a bunch of strange looks. 

I gotta tell you, a lot of that music wasn’t actually jazz. We all sang along to “Mustang Sally” but that is not a jazz song. Do I wish there was more actual jazz music? Yes.

There’s no follow up to that thought. I just wish there was more jazz music. 

People were getting hit on, going outside for smoke breaks, and dressing revealingly. In other words, it was a proper night out when you’re in your twenties. I’ve been told by adults in their 40s and 50s that it’s moments like this that they miss: getting put into a cab, a little, or very, intoxicated, their eardrums pounding after a night out with friends and being hit on whilst dressed to be hit on. And all that jazz. 

We ended the night by walking down the street and calling taxis from the Virgin Rock Pub. It was the middle of the night. Music was still pounding in my ears. I hit my pillow that night already practically unconscious, but still thinking about how I enjoy the reckless abandon, the lack of responsibilites, and the quick turnaround hangover recovery when you’re under the age of 25. 

And all that jazz.

The Tragic Queen,

Raquel

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