"That was, by far, the single most random night of 2005," I said, leaning back into an overstuffed armchair covered with crimson velvet. Beth laughed and sipper her coffee as we pieced back together that night and others that would make the list for Top Moments of the Year.

Oddly enough, I realized that most of the memories involved getting lost in some manner. Um. Yes. Anyway, that said:

A side street bar with side street conversation to match - a Hall & Oates video marathon on the television elicited memories and anecdotes from our unexpectedly created group. A French Canadian man attempted to join the conversation with inquiries about Vermont and the offer for substances that we declined with polite straight faces that later melted into laughter. Drinks and conversation seemed to come naturally, although my Driver status relegated me to water. I didn't mind, as I was too busy laughing and chatting.

Montreal streets later formed a maze of one-way roads and impossible turns, which left me near tears asking for directions "back to the States" from seemingly anyone who didn't speak English. Canadian candy was purchased by my commiserating friend as a kindly soul's eyes twinkled with amusement when he pointed me in the right direction - which required me to perform nearly every illegal driving device one could imagine at 2 a.m.

As the utter absurdity of the evening spiraled into surreal lunacy, I laughingly yelled into a phone held up in the backseat. The person on the other end was of absolutely no use to me, and I was as ready to heckle absolutely anyone who wasn't going to get me out of the city. I squealed with delight as I pulled the U-turn needed to get me onto the street on which I could hightail it back to my native land.

Chivalry was dead - I would receive no navigational assistance from the individuals on the other end of the phone receiving a play-by-play of our misadventures - but I didn't need it, dammit. I was one member of a group of independent women who just happened to have extraordinarily questionable navigational skills.

Blame Montreal. That's what I did.
October

I couldn't get from Storrow to Mass Ave. My brother was on the phone, guiding me down a series of streets that also led me toward the blimp that hovered over Fenway.

I knew precisely where I needed to go. I knew right about where I was. But getting from point A to point B was impossible and I was officially pissed off. When he led me onto Commonwealth, I thanked him profusely and bid him goodnight.

Later, I was feeling badly. Kind of. I was spending as much time watching the Red Sox battle the Yankees on television as I watched the bands performing on stage in the crowded lounge. I'd traveled to hear the music, but this distraction couldn't be helped - it was the final regular season weekend in Boston. Yes, life continued outside the green walls of Fenway, but everyone outside seemed intrinsically drawn to the events transpiring within.

Over the din of optimistically cynical baseball voices, I saw the band I'd most looked forward to seeing. When the game had ended with a win, I was able to focus - at least somewhat - on the clever, happy-go-lucky California vibes coming from the stage. I bought two albums for two reasons - the first that I wanted to finally have a collection of their songs on acetate, the second that I felt half-guilty for paying attention to everything around me other than the music.

But I'd known, walking in, that it was to be a night prone for distraction. I'd known as soon as I greeted my friends watching the game through the windows of the pub next door.
October

I wasn't supposed to be able to see Manny's back. The field wasn't supposed to be visible from this screwy angle. The wind wasn't supposed to whip into my face as fiercly as it was, and hot dogs were not supposed to be so incredibly gigantic.

Tom leaned against the railing next to the foul pole along the third base line. He was grinning, seemingly as confounded by the experience as I. For all the times we'd imagined what the view was like up here, as often as we'd stared above the green wall as youngsters and imagined home runs coming straight at us, I don't think either of us actually thought we'd get to see what the angle was like. He was cold. I was cold. But the cold didn't matter. Early season baseball, and the white uniforms of our team glowed beneath the blinding lights. The grass was an eerie green and the sky was just shifting from indigo to black.

He laughed as I pointed toward the scoreboard, where his name was listed among other happy birthday wishes.

He told me this was a great start to his twenty-second year.
April

He was quiet, but witty. If you leaned over to talk to your friend, you might miss the next quick turn of phrase. So we all kept as silent as could be.

When he sang, the voice filled the void where background chatter would typically be. A little husky, the voice complimented the raw lyrics and sound that had pushed $12 ticket prices up to $100 on the street. From my space by the side of the stage, I saw dropped jaws and dazed smiles in the first few rows. One girl, about my age, leaned back against the boyfriend who stood behind her, eyes closed in utter contentment.

The silent electricity in the room built throughout the set, despite the temporary releases of applause after each song. As he finished his set and prepared to say goodnight, Ray Lamontagne bowed. The water he held in a bottle against his chest spilled onto the floor, and he closed his eyes. Seemingly embarrassed, as if that little slipup would turn the crowd against him.

As his bassist patted his back and led him offstage, Ray didn't seem to realize that that humility made the crowd love him all the more.
January

I jumped up from my seat.

"WHAT GAME ARE YOU WATCHING?!? GOD!" I joined a chorus of thousands screaming at black and white-striped dots on the field seemingly miles below.

Dad looked up from the small hand-held television on which he was watching the instant replays. He laughed.

And he thought I'd be bored at a football game.
October

When the alarm goes off at 5 a.m., there's a second in which you want to rethink your plans.

Forget that you'd driven down to New York for this early morning wakeup. Forget that you'd laughed and joked about it with the friends who had come together from here and there.

The one thing that comes to your mind is that which we all say in unison.

"Damn you, Jason."

The July humidity is laced with an early morning city chill, and the sky has not brightened enough to cast the streets with the normal sunlight. The flourescent tinge remains, making concrete glow orange and the bright lights from the plaza look all the more bizarre.

L walks down the walkway by the stage first, then myself, then K. Each feeling intirely conspicuous, aware of the fact that the stage and the cameras are all right there. I realize that I'm trying not to look over at that which I've gone out of my way to be there to see.

Absurd. I turned and grin at the stage, laughing that I'm hearing "Wordplay" live, I'm up before dawn, I'm in New York and this is The Today Show.
July

The phone rang as I prepared to leave.

"What are you doing?"

Nothing in particular. Odd, as it was the one day of the year that historically proved bizarre, random and entertaining.

"Well, I was thinking."

Okay...

"Averi's playing on Killington tonight."

Uh huh...

"And I kind of want to go. I'll drive. You game?"

Pick me up in front of the building.

An hour and a half of laughing and traveling through the darkness. He and I never wind up crossing paths enough, so there's always plenty to catch up on. How we're doing, what we want to do, how life's treating us...

And then we're there, at the small club I swore after last time I wouldn't go back to. But it feels different this time. I'm just there with a friend for a random show I would normally never attend.

It was just the day. Anything and everything happens on the second. Don't question. Just smile, sing along, and above all else, do not think about how tired you'll be the next morning.
February

I walked back into the club, having left a voicemail for Beth to listen to after she left the Montbleau show in Vermont. I walked up a short set of stairs, then walked along the bar to the small collection of chairs and tables against the wall.

The star of the evening sat on a tabletop, positioned directly below a wall light that seemed to almost resemble a headpiece. It would have been fitting, as he looked the part of a master storyteller, a group of smiling listeners forming a ring around him.

He was smiling. He smiled a lot. Everything was new and exciting, it seemed. The focus on positivity was strong, and it carried over to everyone else. They smiled back, they chatted, they welcomed the tales.

As I returned to the group, I paused. A single figure stood between me and the rest of the assemblage, and he was dancing, seemingly oblivious to everything else. Just moving, grooving, doing his thing undisturbed.

I had to stand there for a moment and take in this comfortable rag-tag group. I smiled. This moment just summed the whole evening up just right.
May