Splash Post-Mortem: Of Rude Tourists and Daft Bartenders

Disclaimer: I'm letting the curmudgeon out tonight.

Honestly, I just wanted a low-key night. Note that I wrote "low-key" not invisible. There's a clear difference.

To begin, I started my night out by waiting about 10 minutes to be served by the Cypriot bartender who seemed engrossed by the conversation with some man at the end of the bar. Listen mate, I don't begrudge you trying to get your leg over, but you do realise that your income is kind of dependent on how promptly (if at all) you serve your customers. Speaking for just myself, if I see that you'd rather talk to somebody at the end of the bar than serve somebody, then it's reflected in my tip and--more importantly--my memory. If it was just me, then I'd let it slide, but I saw you do it to several other people. M'dear, you aren't that cute anymore that a simple "oh, I'm so sorry" will suffice. You've lost me for the month of March.

If that wasn't enough, then two tourists from Madrid sat next to me. Now while I use the phrase "sat," it's more like conquered the space. I don't know about you, but my general rule is sit one stool apart from the next person over, if there is enough space. And let me tell you, there was enough space. For some reason, one of them chose the seat next to me and then brought a stool to slide in between for the other. The other one was just pissy the whole entire time. He just sat there glaring and being irritated for no other reason than the fact that I was there. For pete's sake, I was there before you and you didn't have to sit right at that spot at the bar. Hell, you could've sat in a dozen other open spaces, so don't get huffy with me.

Needless to say, it was short night.