A friend from college came into town this weekend (hurrah!) bringing friends from her high school with her (boo!).

I met her Friday night at the Soho Grand and found a veritable entourage of midwestern girls drinking in the lounge. Though most, like my friend, were barely distinguishable from your average New Yorker, two of the girls were unabashed tourists who had their hearts set on “taking this town by storm.” (Seriously, they said that.)

I settled in and ordered a martini. The midwest girls were clearly drunk and I wasn’t going to listen to their accents sober.

As I was engaged in a discussion with College about why, exactly, she should move to New York (I miss her) a man appeared at my elbow and crouched down between our chairs.

“Excuse me ladies, I hope I’m not interrupting. No private conversation? Good. Me and my friends over there were thinking about getting out of here and hitting up Bungalow 8. You want to go to Bungalow 8?”

Our faces were expressionless, College’s because she had no idea what Bungalow 8 was, mine because I was trying hard not to laugh.

“Are you girls from here?”

“She is,” College volunteered, helpfully pointing at me.

“Well then. You know what I’m talking about.” He nodded up and down slowly while maintaining meaningful eye contact with me. “You know. Bungalow 8.”

“Um, I think we sort of have plans. I’m so sorry,” College told him sweetly.

Just then I heard one of the two midwest girls yell (YELL) “She’s got a fiance.”

“Show him the bling! Show him the bling!” yelled the other.

Clearly embarassed, College called “He just wants us to come to Bungalow 8.”

“What’s Bungala A?”

“Yeah,” chimed in Midwest 2. “What’s Bungala A?”

It felt like the entire lounge was staring at us.

“What’s Bungala A?!”

“Did you show him your bling?”

“Does he want to buy us shots?”

We left soon thereafter.

I will not bore you with the details of how Midwest 1 and Midwest 2 tried to flag down every cab with a passenger and every cab that was off-duty, screaming at them when they wouldn’t stop. Even after I clearly explained the rules to them, even after I told them to just let me get the cabs.

Eventually we all found taxis and headed uptown to a bar the Midwests had heard about.

When the cab arrived at 31st and Park, College and I got out to find the two women giggling and looking mildly embarassed.

“What’s up?” College asked.

“I just called the cab driver Osama bin Laden.”

“Are you serious?”

“Well he was wearing a toupee. You know a toupee.”

“You mean a turban?”

“Yeah, you know, a babushka.”

We filed into the bar. It was crowded and sweaty and typical, but the music wasn't bad and the bartender seemed to like me.

A half hour after arriving, it occurred to me that I hadn't really seen the Midwests since entering the bar. I got worried. I mean, they weren't my favorite people, but I was beginning to feel responsible for them. Responsibility was a strange emotion and I wasn't sure I liked it, but it remained nonetheless.

“College, where did Midwest 1 and 2 go?"

“Ummmm…” She pointed through the crowd to the dance floor. And by dance floor, I mean the one that Midwest 1 and 2 had created by beginning to dance. Being rather short and rather large women, they had, of course, found the tallest, skinniest guy in the place and proceeded to sandwich him between them.

“Oh yeah!” called one.

“Break it down!” The other responded.

Of course they were fine, they were indestructible.

An hour later the group decided it was time to return to their hotel. I hugged College good-bye and pretended not to hear Midwest 2 say to a guy outside the bar, “You’re pretty cute. Are you gay?”

College called me the next morning to tell me that Midwest 1 and 2 had not actually returned to the hotel, but, upon getting into their cab, asked the driver where a good place to party was. They took him up on his suggestion and proceeded to stay out until five in the morning, whereupon they stumbled back to the hotel and fell asleep in the bathroom. Midwest 1 on the floor, Midwest 2 in the bathtub.

Who says Manhattan girls are crazy?