The sound of the pipes and drums swelled thru the glass and asphalt leading my ears along 33rd Street all the way to the front of my destination for the night. You see, April 6th was Tartan Day and this weekend is chock full of Scottish merriment.
I had never heard of this holiday before but it sure seems to be a big deal for those of Scottish descent. That is if the scene of kilts flowing to and fro out on the street was any indication. The fact that this was only officially declared in the US as of 1998 is likely the reason for its obscurity to me.
The date commemorates the signing of the Declaration of Arbroath in 1320. This affirmation of Scottish independence was the model for America’s own foray into liberty. Resolution 155 originally proposed by Trent Lott declaring this day a holiday was also meant to honor the monumental achievements and invaluable contributions made by Scottish Americans in many aspects of life.
Whatever the historical rhetoric may be, this was a night of boisterous celebration at the pub-on-steroids called Stout (133 W. 33rd, NYC). Cobblestone underfoot, brick walls all around and tons of seating ranging from the barstools to cozy tables upstairs. This was juxtaposed by music blaring thru numerous scattered speakers and sports visuals on large screen TVs adorning the walls of this cavernous space. Loud people full of joy and beer found themselves separated from better judgment, dancing on the large bar and hanging on to the Scottish flags to keep their balance.
Aside from this celebration of men in plaid skirts, I was here to see some of the friends who traveled with me to Ireland last April (the whole Scotland thing is just an odd coincidence). I met up with Sean, Jeanne, John, Patricia, Deborah, Steve and Shannon for a long-needed stroll down memory lane. New photos were circulating and reminiscence kept us laughing.
We ate some decent enough bar food up on the mezzanine then went back down to the bar. To my horror they were serving their beer in plastic cups. Plastic cups!! I really hate that. Especially when you have a bar priding itself on having more than twenty world-class brews on tap. It would be like a gourmet French restaurant using paper plates. Save the plastic for the amateur Budweiser college kegger.
My very good friend Nelson who I’ve known for centuries showed up to add one more bit to the celebration. It’s a thing he calls ‘Nelson Eve’ since it is the night before his birthday. Each year since I’ve known him I would announce my taunting little mantra, “You are still exactly five months older than me!” We had a couple more beers and moved on to another, much more quiet party in the East Village.
A couple of his friends who I never met before named Ross and Rebecca greeted us with tasty vegetarian treats and hospitality. The apartment was humming with friendly conversations of music and cats, touching briefly on The DeVinci Code (a book which I’ve yet to read) and the unfortunate historical fate of Mary Magdalene. I was made to feel very welcome and was given a care package of veggies, hummus, flatbread and more.
I was filled with the delightful anticipation of my future snack as I walked the cool-spring, late-night streets of NYC. The momentum of my walking was not deterred by the train ride that felt faster than usual. This was a good thing because I avoided having to fight thru the throngs of messy, annoying drunks vying for cabs. It’s just not worth it. So I simply continued my walking in Hoboken until I arrived home.
See Also:
Stout, NYC
National Tartan Day USA
2005 Irish Road Trip and Pub Tour
