Walk Like Waldo

After dinner, we walked into the smoky, packed Piano Room. I met a few people who had flown in specifically for the walk. Lori was from St. Louis, and this was her third year. Stephanie, from Los Angeles, was in her fifth year. Both used to work with Pete. I also met David, who hailed from Chicago. He did the WW 11 years ago and had recovered sufficiently to do it again. "It's a tough day to get over," he said.

Around 8:15, we crossed the street to the tour's last stop, the Village Lounge. This smoky dive was still packed with WW walkers and bar regulars playing Texas hold 'em. The RAs and I loitered outside and marked off visors. Naturally, by this time, all the other hats were filled with slashes and X's. My visor bore the paltry marks of just three beers and half a Rumplemintz shot. One woman marveled at her 15-beer, 10-shot total.

After nine hours of WW, we turned in our Sharpies and called it a day. On the way out, we spotted a guy pulling his button-up shirt apart, revealing a hairy chest. His blond surfer duder friend got sandwiched by two chicks. Then, a young blond woman sporting the souvenir T-shirt and a red skirt stumbled out of the bar. She was utterly trashed. As her friends helped cart her out, she kicked off her flip-flops and shuffled in bare feet to her husband's waiting car.

My friends and I were also Waldoed out by that point. We made it nearly to the end, though. So we walked back to a friend's nearby car, with the weaker-player badge of courage in hand.