Diary of a Plebeian

Last night, I was privileged enough to be invited to spend the evening celebrating a stranger’s birthday. I was reminded of balloons, cheeky hip hop songs, and bottles of the cheapest wine or champagne toasting to honor the lucky person. Eating out at a restaurant was appropriate, and after a 30 minute metro ride we arrived at the place. Wait, could this be it? I walked in thanking God that I had worn closed toed shoes and a fancy shirt. And to think, minutes before I was worried I would be overdressed.

I was seated in a black leather chair at a long dinner table lined with unfamiliar faces and glasses of white wine. I was immediately poured a glass, which I cautiously sipped while admiring the minimalist silver and white décor of the restaurant. I felt like they should have charged me to get in the door. I could not remember the last time I had been placed in such a fancy setting, the cheap wine and dirty songs seeming entirely appropriate to me for celebrating a birthday. What an adventure though, to be placed in a circle I don’t normally get to visit with friends who could offer me new opinions and things to talk about. I was sorely disappointed on that front, however. Somewhere between the discussion on why So-and-so’s family was banned from Such-and-such country club in Hollywood and the plans for renting a villa on the coast of Italy for spring break, I realized that I just didn’t belong in that circle. Perhaps it was the fact that I knew no one, or the fact that I seemed to be the only one worrying about the cost of my leg of lamb or the six bottles of wine provided for the dinner, but something made me stand out. Of course there were conversations about sports, college housing, Spanish racism, and other things of a worthwhile nature, but it scared me to be in the presence of seven college males whose financial security was great enough to provide them the freedom to later order a VIP table and two bottles of Grey Goose at a club, as was their tradition every weekend.

I felt (perhaps needlessly) uncomfortable listening to these things, and yet I realized that if I were in their monetary position I would probably be doing the same thing. Who I am to judge them then, barely having met them for the first time? It is prejudice, is it not, to judge someone based on the amount of money that they have, whether it be too much or too little? The entire night I spent with them, from the restaurant to the club and home again, I spent assuaging all of the judgments and preconceptions that swirled around in my mind about kids like this. The phrase I used previously to describe their kind was, “Those kids who come here only to frolic about Europe and play with Daddy’s money.” While parts of my stereotype seemed to fit (honestly, a villa in Italy for spring break while the rest of us are staying in hostels?), I used my experience last night to try and open my mind to a different lifestyle from mine. That is the whole point of being abroad: to experience new ways of life and keep an open mind to the things one sees and hears.

I left the club that morning (yes, it was 5:30am when we left) chuckling to myself over the whole thing. The VIP area in the club – empty the whole night. The two bottles of Grey Goose – undrunk. The leg of lamb and six bottles of wine – possibly one of the best dinners I’ve ever had. And the kids who were playing with Daddy’s money – walking with me in the rain to catch the metro instead of a paying for a cab. I have officially opened up to the kids whom I previously thought brainless, careless, bottomless pits of cash. They’re not half bad if you get to spend some time with them. Don’t assume too much though. I would still one hundred percent rather celebrate my birthday with cheap bottles of liquor, a pizza and some Mickey Avalon.