Home Away From Home

Last night, one of other students asked if anyone wanted to go to the Freedom Bar with him. Not knowing what I was getting myself into, I agreed to go. The "Freedom Bar", on the opposite side of town, was the hive of the countless hippies in town. The moment I walked in, I thought I'd get high just from breathing in the place. The God-awful "music" was blaring and half the bar was stoned. The other half was hammered. Needless to say I was out of there faster than France was out of WWII.

The two people I went with seemed to enjoy it and stuck around. I, however, headed to the Alcate Pub, a desperately needed oasis in this desert that is the 60s. The few Americans in town who had actually bathed within the last month were there watching the Lakers-Sonics game. While I haven't paid any attention to the NBA since the strike, I was willing to take whatever sports I could get.

When I saw the World Cup countdown hanging from the ceiling, I knew I was home. During a commercial, I also discovered a schedule of events that would be televised there. This included, most importantly, the Final Four. My biggest problem with the third world was solved. Go Gators!