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Working in a downtown Halifax bar, directly across from the city’s primary performance venue, warrants its share of invigorating, stress-fueled moments. Before the lights of the Metro Centre go down and a performance begins, the bar heats up as hundreds of hungry show-goers compete for a table. During the first week of July, the Royal Nova Scotia International Tattoo resumes its annual slot in Halifax’s summer schedule, and the bar becomes the unofficial city zoo. Participants, tourists and adventurers seek refuge under the dim lighting with the common goal: food, drink and a darn good time. And oh, what a darn good time it is…until, unfortunately, I turn into the zoo’s official clumsy monkey and threaten calamity in my wake. In the midst of a chaotic dinner rush, a barrage of condiments explodes over my uniform and migrates deep within the crevices of my apron. For the first time I’m thankful for our maroon colored shirts…ketchup is easily camouflaged. Before I can tend to the mess, a beer, precariously balanced on the edge of my tray, tips one degree too far and lands on a patron’s cream-colored shorts. Lovely.
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On the opening day of Tattoo, the atmosphere at the bar is like waiting for the relatives to arrive. The house is clean, the cupboards are stocked and the coffee is brewing. A nervous tension percolates the air—do we have enough beer, enough chairs, enough cutleries for all? Everyone is in their cleanest dirty shirts and ready for action….and suddenly, they’re here! It’s eleven-thirty on the dot and a crowd is swelling at the door, rapping on the windows, hungry for burgers, thirsty for beer, excited to be here! I want to hide in the storage room, but I do not. I courageously watch from a far, as our bartender, brave soul, unlocks the door and then leaps behind the bar for cover. As the crowd surges forward, I plaster on a smile and cry “Let the festivities begin!”
The week starts as a blur of new faces, quickly turning familiar. Two gentlemen sit at the bar every afternoon, prior to donning their marching band garb, joking with staff and relaxing before the show. During one crazy evening they spot me having, uh, difficulties opening a bottle of wine, and offer friendly advice on how not to look like an idiot while using a corkscrew. Unfortunately these words of wisdom come slightly after the fact and I’m already muttering profanities at the bottle (highly ridiculous, yet thoroughly therapeutic). One man tries to convince me, using strategic charm, that a triple shot of gin in one glass is, in fact, legal to serve in Canada…but I’m not so easily beguiled. Another gent tries to persuade our bartender to let him take his bottle of beer across the street to drink, and is astounded to hear of our stringent liquor laws. Geez— triple shots? Drinking in public? Who knew Canadians, in all our beer-guzzling glory, were so deprived of a good time.
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As the week unfolds, families begin to appear in droves and I find myself giving one small child after another the same apologetic spiel: “No sweetie (put that salt shaker down kid), we don’t have root beer or orange pop (or anything that doesn’t go with vodka, rye or gin)…but we do have, uh… gingerale?” Their puppy dog eyes and quivering pouts threaten mini disasters on par with spilled beer….but unlike the former, I’ve no experience with spilled tears. Thankfully, in a flash of good fortune, I remember about Shirley Temples…no kiddie can resist a grenadine-infused, cherry-garnished, cocktail-like beverage. For the rest of the week, Shirley Temples become my number one selling point: “Off to see Tattoo with the family in tow? Three thirsty kidlets with an aversion to Pepsi? No Problem! Relax, and let Shirley Temple make it a joyful experience!”
Along with highlighting some of my clumsier antics, the Tattoo also reminds me of my failure to master German, Dutch or French on any level. Suddenly, I’m wishing I had a more extensive grasp on language, as people begin speaking in undetectable tongues and my tried-and-true method of “hand gestures” proves faulty. A good looking fellow from France also has me wishing I knew more French than just “puis-je aller à la toilette?” Unfortunately, this line is truly unsuitable in most situations, and highly unimpressive. Fortunately, I manage to sputter out a fairly coherent “merci”, and no major disasters ensue.
Finally after a long, yet exciting week, the Royal Nova Scotia International Tattoo closes its curtains for another year. As I lean my weary self against the bar, surveying the aftermath of “food, drink and a darn good time”, I contemplate the last seven days. I’ve managed to evade attempted liquor deception, language barriers and child trauma. Smiling to myself, I slip away to make a Shirley Temple—disaster has once again been avoided, and this server girl needs some refreshment.
Find out more about the Royal Nova Scotia International Tatoo here.
Copyright © 2009 Jessica Alley
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