So How Much Wine Did I Really Drink Saturday Night?
Saturday night, I was putting on my pajamas and prepared to settle down for an early night and get up early for a volksmarch. Just as I climbed into bed, the phone rang, making me almost jump out of my skin. Turned out to be my coworker Fred, who was inviting me out with his Italian friend for pizza & vino. What the heck I figured, and quickly changed back into my clothes and met up with them.
Little backhistory: after a horrendous soju incident in June 2004, I swore a solemn oath to refrain from alchohol for at least a year. And I did, in fact, for over a year. Never even touched a sip of it. This definitely cut into my social life in Germany, as fun usually required beer and Schnapps.
So in Italy, I decided to gradually build myself up to where I could drink maybe half a glass of wine at dinner or other such place, in order to be sociable (and not always stuck being the designated driver). And for the first 2 or so weeks in Italy, I was doing well.
So much for the best laid plans of mice and men.
The wine just kept flowing and flowing, and possibly beer and Jack Daniels as well. I have no idea what happened after the second carafe of wine, but the last thing I remember was hanging out with at least 4 Italian guys, one in particular named Lorenzo. I woke up the following morning with a rather fierce headache and found some cocktail napkins on the kitchen table. The handwriting was mine but very messy (drinking and writing, never a good idea). Apparently I had been taking notes on common Italian phrases. The best one of all was this:
VAFFANCULO = FUCK OFF