Moonshine Tonic With My Best Friend At A Tacky Club In Croatia

I am drinking a gin and tonic at a “club” in Croatia — not really a oontz-oontz-oontz club, but an outdoor cafe they’ve transformed into a music venue to host one “famous” pop star and two back-up dancers. They’re wearing Temu. I am smack-dab in the middle of definitely-not-Western-Europe at its prime, and it is exquisite. It’s also the first time in a long, long time that I’ve gone out for a proper moms’ night out with my best friend.

I spend a month in Croatia every summer to visit my family. Wipe your psyche of champagne and glam resorts: I’ve never been to King’s Landing, and the local kids think my house is haunted. Waiters judge if you try to use Apple Pay.

And I have always loved it. My summers here are excellent because they are, by my usual New York standards, impossibly carefree — it doesn’t matter that bills need to be paid or that there are emails to answer. Life here is on island time. People are never not on siesta. And every summer, the calmness of it jolts me alive and reminds me that life is for enjoying. My job is not that hard. I’m lucky to be alive. I come back home refreshed every fall.

God, we were both so awkward. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d done this. I wondered what my son was up to.

But this summer was different. It was, in fact, Very Stressful. It was the first time I’ve been to the motherland as a mother, with a 17-month-old in tow, one who enjoys peeling caulking out of the shower and climbing up the cement stairs of our dilapidated three-story home, one that is older than Jesus Christ himself.

This summer, I missed the modern amenities that make life easier. I missed my Dyson. I missed my Munchkin diaper pail. I missed Ms. Rachel on a flatscreen.

So by the end of this hot, humid August, I was desperate for a break. And one was coming: my best friend was in town for a wedding, and without her kids. I daydreamed about what it would be like: Wine spritzers at noon, hanging out on the balcony, like study abroad with a little more money and slightly better clothes. Grandma would watch the baby for a few days so I could take a real vacation.

This daydream shattered before she stepped off the plane.

The boiler broke and flooded the bathroom. Call plumber. My son went on hunger strike. Beg, plead, offer fruit pouch, feel like a terrible mother. I messed something up at work. Call client, fix, stew in my own inadequacy.

My best friend arrived, but the vacation I imagined did not. More things broke. More fires needed to be put out. Grandma watched my son for a few days, but by day four, I missed him, and we cut the babysitting short. (I am always desperate for a break until I actually get one. This is common according to the “hot mom” Reddit threads I’ve trolled past midnight of every sleep regression.)

There was, however, one piece of the fantasy left: a concert. A mom’s night out where I would not worry about the fact that my son had exclusively eaten fruit pouches for two weeks straight.

It didn’t matter that I’m a mom: here, I was still a teenager. This gave me goosebumps.

We shuffled ourselves into the “club” and tried to find the reserved table that someone, in some group of friends somewhere, told us we could join them at. The table didn’t exist. We squeezed ourselves into the most inconvenient corner of the space, in front of where the servers exit, and didn’t know what to do with our hands. God, we were both so awkward. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d done this. I wondered what my son was up to. Let’s order that gin, baby.

Consume gin. Consume two gin. Switch to wine because the gin did its job and tasted so bad that I couldn’t have another sip. (I found out later it wasn’t actually gin. It was moonshine with extra herbs. This makes a lot of sense.)

The pop star was fantastic. There was a group of teenagers clustered to her right, recording, and she asked if they were making a TikTok. They said yes, and she brought one of them onstage. I could not stop looking at them — they couldn’t be more than 16 — and thought about the times I went out like that with my best friend and a large group, all of us in the exact same stage of life. Just babies, really, and now I have my own baby at home.

Fifteen years later, here we were, still going out together, awkward and dancing like we hadn’t aged a day. It didn’t matter that I’m a mom: here, I was still a teenager. This gave me goosebumps.

The singer finished, and a DJ took over. They played our hyperfixation song of the summer, a Balkan classic by two middle-aged rappers in Adidas tracksuits, probably, with the same beat they use in all of their songs. Those three minutes of jumping up and down became the highlight of my summer. I looked at my phone and saw that hours had gone by. My husband texted. The baby is asleep, have fun. I replied that I was.

Someone asked if we wanted to go to an after-party at the beach; we did.

I thought about the times I went out like that with my best friend and a large group, all of us in the exact same stage of life. Just babies, really, and now I have my own baby at home.

Bonfires were going. We each ordered another glass of wine. My sandals sank into the sand with every step, and I looked at my phone again. No new texts from my husband, which meant he was probably asleep.

I was jealous. My eyes were beginning to feel heavy, but I didn’t want to be the one to call it quits. Then I realized my best friend had been trying to lock eyes with me: “I need to go home.” Thank God.

We said our goodbyes to friends and headed back to the haunted house together, the one with the broken boiler and the potential mold problem and the creepy attic and my husband and son sleeping peacefully in our bedroom. I opened a box of cookies and ate one before falling asleep. It was all that was left in the fridge. That, and fruit pouches.

The next morning, my son was cranky. The sunshine hurt. I texted my best friend that my head was pounding. “Same,” she said. It felt delicious to bond over shared misery. I’d missed it.