THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, October 16, 1994 TAG: 9410160047
SECTION: LOCAL PAGE: B1 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: ELIZABETH SIMPSON
LENGTH: Medium: 67 lines
``So what time do you usually go out?'' I ask the 23-year-old woman.
``Pretty late,'' she says.
I figure 9 p.m. That'll be good, after the kids go to bed.
``Usually not until 11:30 or 12,'' she says.
``At night?'' The question slips out before I can catch it.
``Is that too late?'' she says, casting me a look that's becoming all too familiar. In her eyes, I am old.
I want to say yes, my bedtime is 10. But it's my job, I want to see how this young Spanish woman spends her evenings in the states during her one-year stint as an au pair.
``11:30 is fine,'' I say quickly. ``No problem. I stay up that late all the time.''
Right. Last time I stayed up past midnight I was having a baby. Contractions help keep you awake. But these days I even celebrate New Year's at 10 p.m.
It's amazing how fast you can go from being part of the club crowd to a homebody. I was never exactly a swinging single, but I was out there, OK? All it takes is a trip down the aisle and two children to change your idea of an exciting time. It used to be closing down the bars and stopping at a pancake house on the way home. Now it's watching a video with a bowl of ice cream.
So one recent Friday night at about the time I'm usually drifting into deep-sleep cycle, I'm slapping myself with water so that I can drive to the Oceanfront, instead.
Once there, I gaze around with awe. It's the middle of the night and people are laughing and joking and eating pizza. They're jostling for room on the street, pouring out the doorways of restaurants and clubs. Just the fact that they're upright with their eyes open is a revelation to me.
``Hey,'' yells the bouncer as I head into a popular club. ``Can I see an ID?''
Ha ha, very funny, I think. Either the lights in here are too low, or he's trying to slow my plunge into the crowd. ``The cover charge is $5,'' he adds while I'm fumbling for my driver's license. Thanks, buddy, for reminding me that no lights are that low.
I catch up with my young European friends, thinking I'll blend into the crowd, maybe even supply a tip or two about American night life. It hasn't been that long, right?
Back in my small college town the hot spots were the Blue Note, the Stein Club and Club La Booche. I can still remember going from place to place on weekend nights with my friends. Blues and rock on quarter beer night. Joints so packed you could hardly move. Dancing, laughing and joking until the band went home.
But here I'm looking at my watch every 10 minutes, trying to stifle a yawn, half-wishing I were back home on the sofa. Instead of fitting in with the young au pairs I feel like . . . their mother.
Worst of all, I'm wondering why people do this. Instead of talking with the girls about their social life I'm trying to figure why people shell out $5 just to get in the door of a smoke-filled, noisy club. Is this supposed to be fun?
Yes, I can think back to those days when sunrise meant I had to go home. But I don't really miss those times at all. That was then, this is now. Some ice cream and a good show. A good night's rest and an early morning wake-up call from the kids.
Sounds like a good time to me. by CNB