Commentary, Opinion

OAP: A chronicle of a day at the happiest place on Earth

The scene is set: The year is 2017, the location not Three Bares Park because the McGill construction bug has fled from McTavish to infiltrate the rest of campus, and Open Air Pub (OAP) is in full swing. You are wearing your best attempt at a summer outfit. If you are male this means a button up shirt with some sort of pattern on it (think little flamingos or beach balls, maybe gorillas holding bananas, or even sailboats if you are from a coastal New England suburb), along with a ‘dad’ hat. If you are female you are wearing an Urban Outfitters sundress.

Aside: If you are not aware what I’m referring to, please google image search, “Urban Outfitters sundress.”

A conversation begins with a couple of people you were friends with in “rez.” The first tells you about how they spent the summer travelling because they “just needed a break.” This includes a few weekends in Dubai, maybe some time in France, but enough weeks in New York to sufficiently appreciate patio season and all the Instagrams of comically large cocktail glasses (see: fishbowls) that one newsfeed can handle. Resentment builds inside of you, but instead of verbally berating them out of jealousy you sip your Smirnoff sangria and smile politely.

Aside: Smirnoff sangria is gender neutral because f*ck gender roles, we’re at McGill.

The other guy in your small gathering spent his summer tree-planting in B.C.. This included enough solo hikes (or as he likes to call them, “adventures”) to change his perspective on sustainability, as well as give him a chance to embark on his mission of “self-love.” The sun in B.C. must have also impaired his vision, because he has started wearing horn-rimmed glasses.

Now that your sangria is polished off, you need access to more alcohol. Unfortunately, the beer line looks worse than the line to get into Leacock 132 for 10:30 a.m. CHEM110 on September 5. There is only one solution to this dilemma: Sneak into the middle of the line under a flimsy rope (if it can be called that). For a sober human, this task is quite straight-forward. When intoxicated at 3:30 p.m., however, it is Mission Impossible. Like a drunk Tom Cruise, you succeed with elegance and style, the only downside being a few icy glares thrown your way. However, these glares do not phase you; the beer line is a dog-eat-dog world, and those dogs just got eaten.  

Aside: Those were the only dogs eaten that day, as evidenced by the BBQ staff’s failed efforts to hawk uneaten hotdogs all day.

After you have succeeded in your beer mission, you lock eyes with another acquaintance. This time it is your roommate’s ex-girlfriend. The last time you saw her, it was 8 a.m. and you had just finished taking your morning bathroom visit in only your underwear. This image plays in your head as the conversation commences.

“Hey, long time no see,” she says unironically, despite the fact that this phrase is usually reserved for ironic use when you see someone the morning after a party. You comment on how tanned she looks. Precisely four more lines of pleasantries are exchanged before it seems socially acceptable for the conversation to end. As you turn to leave, you mention, “we should definitely hang out more this year.”

Aside: You’ll never hang out more this year.

Once you retire from that draining conversation, you move to a patch of grass that has a sufficient amount of dirt to completely cover your butt when you sit down on it, ruining the intended chill-yet-quirky appeal of your tiny lobster-print shorts. This is disappointing, considering the dirt has already made your off-white low-top Converse virtually unwearable for the rest of the semester.

Now that you are settled and balancing your plastic Gerts (‘till it hurts) cup in a ground divot big enough to hold it, you are free to relax and enjoy all that OAP has to offer.

As the sun begins to set, you lounge around talking with your friends about where you’re going to head after [see: Boustan or Gerts (‘till it hurts)]. You begin to realize that no matter how long the line for a porta-potty is, or how disappointing your burnt hockey puck of a hamburger was, this is the happiest you’re going to be for the next four months, so you better f*cking enjoy it.

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One Comment

  1. chuckled aloud a few times. great little piece!

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