Wish I had a Dobby...

This post welcomes Harry Potter fans.
Tonight I had an experience that was a first of many sorts.

Humiliation. I'm used to that after dropping a box of tampons only to have it absently kicked by my friend across the mall area of my high school before I even realized the box wasn't underneath my arm anymore. Whoops, that was mine...? A story which was denied for three years on my part. But that is truly irrelevant.

I was going to a lounge, assigned by a company to review. Twas a test, and I will eventually get in...Tomorrow. I finally felt a speckle of what it must have been like during prohibition. There was an address in the East Village, an unlocked gate, but totally blacked out blinds. No light at all, surrounded by a bustling street of restaurants and bars galore. I was confused (as I normally am) as to if the joint was even open. I stood outside for ten minutes. Waiting. Crazy, because clearly the place was just making me wait for a password or some shit hidden on a lamp post across the street. Duh. Creeping down steps, not sure what the hell I was doing, I hesitantly knocked on the glass door to a place that looked as abandoned as the house in Home Alone 2: Lost in New York. I'm sure there was a camera watching me from inside as I tapped awkwardly and desperately trying to get an assignment done. The name, which I am choosing not to reveal, yet, says a lot about this place.

A speakeasy. It’s as hidden as the Ministry of Magic. Now, one must enter through a telephone booth, connected to another joint, which happened to be a dingy hot dog eatery. As people dressed to the nines entered the smelly doorway to the right of where I stood, I was looking severely lost and figured, "What the hell there has to be something THROUGH there. Please?"

Do you know in Order of the Phoenix, when the director changed J.K. Rowling’s entrance to the Ministry to a classic London telephone booth? Harry and Mr. Weasley sink into the streets of London on a deserted street into what would be a muggle government building. Bustling with business wizards and extremely intelligent owls, there entry was custom. And mine would be too, if I was reaching my prime eighty years ago.

An older woman, who knew what was going on, accompanied me on my food venture, but I refused to believe there was something beyond what appeared to be an old souvenir telephone booth. I get it. You have to go IN the smelly place, but why? My thoughts were flying in a matter of seconds as people behind me pressured by dignity. Where am I? Do I pick up the phone? Is this wall REALLY going to open? (Cause that would be super cool if it did!) What do I say? What if it doesn’t and I’m standing in a telephone booth in a hot dog place? I was so flustered I didn’t read any of the signage in the booth. Instead, my body halfway in the booth, clearly divided, I barely picked up the phone, hung it right back up, and rolled my eyes to my companion. As the eyes were curving over to the left and my torso was out the “door”, something behind me opened! I diverted my attention back to the now opened wall. I could barely see anything what with the black walls, black couches, dim yellow lights, and the hostess’ black dress.

I was engrossed in multiple opinions of why I was here, and it completely showed on my face, as I turned in aghast to this girl. Completely shocked. And if you know me, face #327 came to life tonight. I really wish I had a Dobby to take a candid of my face, realizing I had just found the key to the underground. The secret service, FBI headquarters, the Chamber of Secrets! I secretly wished the reservationist had a wizards robe on, because that just would’ve been amazing. This may sound ridiculous, but for about two minutes I couldn’t believe I just encountered what my beloved childhood fiction star was accustomed to in his daily routine. Cara, are you reading this? This was my alloted ten minutes.

If anything, it was a fabulous laugh. I’ll be dining and reporting shortly.