May 18, 2006
Hung over in Hotlanta
Loving libations on a recent free trip, but not the hangovers.

Jill Brooks
INtake columnist

Last spring I volunteered to get bumped from my flight and miserably hang around LaGuardia Airport in New York all day in exchange for a free travel voucher.

I felt it only fair that I receive this flight after shredding my sails in the scattered winds of a long-distance relationship.

I held this voucher for one year; I do not like being rushed.

After sifting through restrictions, blackout dates and no direct flights whatsoever, I finally booked a flight to Atlanta. I was worn out already and I hadn't packed.

Atlanta is a cosmopolitan city where you'll find sweet tea, pot liquor and local accents that just fell off the turnip truck.

The word "Atlanta," to a native, has seven syllables.

Day one: hung over.

Like a bad recurring dream, I arrived in Atlanta after a nefarious episode involving Cinco de Mayo, two 40-ounce margaritas and a nap on the bathroom floor the night before my trip.

I stayed with my best guy friend and we rotated dinner plans with his friends, my aunt and uncle and a former college roommate.

We met my suburbanite aunt and uncle at their hip downtown retreat within minutes of my landing.

We were offered glad tidings and a killer bottle of Chateauneuf du Pape.

I love animals and oh, prickly hair of the dog, I certainly cannot deny you.

We ate dinner at a railroad-loading-dock-turned-swanky-restaurant called Two Urban Licks.

It was full of southern charm, slow cooking and sleepy waiters.

Wine (this is a column about wine) was served in carafes and "thieves," which apparently robbed you of your next day.

Like fools we ordered several of the latter.

Day two: more hung over.

As if my head wasn't exploding enough, my friend and I ate too-spicy Indian food then sat slackjawed at an underground Mexican restaurant listening to his buddy "DJ" two hours of Prince songs from his iPod.

Day three: Ibid.

My college roommate was busy carting her kids around all day, so my friend and I did reconnaissance work in her neighborhood before meeting later for dinner.

With map in hand, we scoured Buckhead until we found her chalet on a hill.

"So that's what hard work will get you," I said, as we secretly coasted down her street.

At dinner, her husband mentioned their house.

My friend and I smiled at each other, danced our eyebrows a couple of times and kept eating.

I love traveling, but nothing is worse than a hung-over day four, heading home.