Cosmopolitans

December 31st, 1999. We were jolted awake by the relentless ringing of our doorbell. One of our best friends stood at the door, already buzzing with the energy of a man who had made a decision.

Get ready. I've rented a car. We're driving into the desert.

We were living in Silicon Valley at the time, and he was convinced, genuinely, completely convinced, that Y2K was real, imminent, and that Silicon Valley would be ground zero. 

Don't pack much, he said. One change of clothes, a toothbrush. We drive into the desert, find somewhere to stay, and if we survive the night, we go to Vegas and buy whatever we need.

And so we went, in a Jaguar, because that's what he'd rented, and if the world was ending, we were going out in style.

We landed, eventually, in a small town in Death Valley. And I use the word "town" generously. It had one intersection. One shop that served simultaneously as a general store, post office, and petrol station. A motel, a diner, and a bar, all strung along a single main drag. The streets were quiet in a way that had texture to it.

We all agreed that it was giving off strong Deliverance vibes.

By the time we'd negotiated our rooms and checked in, it was well past eight. We were not, under any circumstances, spending New Year's Eve in a motel room. We went to the diner.

The diner was empty save for one waitress, who made it immediately clear that our arrival was an inconvenience. She had plans to close up early and get herself to the bar, where the band was playing and the entire town would be ringing in the new year.

We had no better options. So, after dinner we agreed to join her at the bar.

The bar had swinging saloon doors. Of course it did. That was exactly the kind of bar it was. Inside: sticky floors, dim light, and every seat occupied by someone who looked like they had been sitting in it for thirty years. The room smelled of stale beer. The band was setting up. 

In we walked. Two guys and a girl, dressed in our best Banana Republic semi-casual, stepping through those swinging doors into a room that went, almost imperceptibly, quiet.

They looked at us. We looked at them.

Every instinct said: turn around. Leave. Go back to the motel.

We stayed.

We walked up to the bar, which was, to its credit, remarkably well stocked. When the bartender asked what I wanted, I didn't hesitate.

A Cosmopolitan.

This was the absolute height of Sex and the City. Cosmos were the drink. I ordered with full confidence.

A what? he said.

A Cosmo. A Cosmopolitan.

Don't have that.

I looked at the shelves behind him. Do you have vodka, cranberry juice, Cointreau, and lime?

Got vodka, cranberry juice, and lime. He said.

I pointed to a square bottle at the back of the shelf. That's Cointreau.

Oh, he said.

You mix them together, I said. That's a Cosmo.

He considered this. Then he took a red Solo cup, free-poured vodka, Cointreau, cranberry juice, dropped in a slice of lime, stuck a stir stick in it, and slid it across the bar.

It was, without question, the worst Cosmopolitan I have ever had in my life.

It didn't matter in the slightest.

We made friends. We found out who was feuding with whom, who was sleeping with whom, and were solemnly introduced to the man all the women had the hots for, who was, I can confirm, not my type. The band played. The room got warmer. We danced, We laughed. Midnight came, and we were still standing.

We drove to Las Vegas the next morning. Checked into the Venetian. I ordered a Cosmopolitan.

It was excellent.

All was well with the world.