Place #3: Not Merlin’s Rest

I suppose you could say that I believe in fate. I suppose you could say that. I must. I mean, every time something seems to work out more perfectly than I had planned it to, I say to myself, “Fate was nice to me today.” And when things go awry and I feel the threat of a storm cloud ruining what Fate had promised to be a good thing, I say… Well. I sort of throw a tantrum. But you want to know something, Reader? This past weekend I can happily say, “Fate was nice to me.”

I had plans to go to Merlin’s Rest, a genuine Irish pub down in Minneapolis. I sent out a massive invite on Facebook, practically (and let’s not ignore the adjective, “pathetically”) begging my friends to join me on this next adventure. After the tenth “Thanks for the invite! But I can’t make it…”, I felt my heart sink a little. I had thought the idea brilliant when I discovered this little, Irishman owned hotspot. I wanted a little exposure to some culture. I wanted to play make-believe, pretend that I had left the borders of Minnesota and found myself in some little Celtic hideaway; like (with a stretch of the imagination) a heel-kick and a skip and a hop away into the Shire. I wanted to order a pint and feel really, really small holding it in my little hands. I wanted to clink mugs with strangers, and puff on a gentleman’s cigar. I wanted to laugh, drink, belch and make merry. I wanted to do an Irish jig in my bare feet and swish around my skirt. I know... My imagination is sometimes nothing more than a guaranteed way to invite disappointment, but it’s these sort of make-believe thoughts that sprout stories, and I make no apologies for my fantasies. Throwing the disappointment aside, I had said in my invite that I would go alone, but when it came right down to it, going alone to a pub in the city just seemed a little ridiculous.

But I didn’t want to stay home either. I called one of my good friends. As Fate would have it, she was at a party that I most definitely did not want to miss out on. She was at a party that I would most definitely want to write about. So I dolled myself up, grabbed my camera, hopped in my car, and set out toward the open fields of Mille Lacs, Minnesota to a little hole-in-the-wall (or rather, middle-of-nowhere) pawn shop called, “The Hairy Mosquito”.

“The Hairy Mosquito” is more than just a pawn shop, and I’ve been there once before. I went with my friend back in the winter, to the same sort of party. It was an experience I shan’t ever forget. But I warn you, Reader. I’m sworn to a certain amount of secrecy, so I’m afraid I’ll be leaving you in a little bit of a lurch, and with a little bit of an empty hole in the plot: a little unresolved. Even my closest friends don’t know about it. But I will do my best to carry you through the experience without giving too much away. It’s a good story, so please: stay tuned. Keep reading…