On a recent trip to Tampa, Florida, things went smoothly. There were no missed connections at the airports, no particularly bizarre encounters, and my eternal quest for dart venues was actually quite successful.

I didn't expect much from the Tampa public transportation system and wasn't disappointed. There was a streetcar that ran from where I was staying downtown to Ybor City (apparently THE place for Tampa nightlife). That appeared to be the only reasonable destination for someone using public transportation, but the posted streetcar hours of operation didn't seem conducive to participating in the nighttime festivities. I generally eschewed the streetcar in favor of a two-mile walk to Ybor City, but I wouldn't rate Tampa as very pedestrian friendly,

Ybor City was hopping on a Saturday night. One bar advertised "beer pong." I guess I dated myself when I envisioned something related to that old (original?) video game. Actually, it involved bouncing a ping pong ball across a table and into a cup of beer, thereby requiring your opponent to drink said beer.

Ahhh, the crazy kids today! There is one thing I never understood about such drinking games: Why is your opponent rewarded with a drink when you are the one that successfully completed the challenge (in this case getting the ball in the cup)?

In my experience, good dart bars usually aren't found in such hip entertainment districts. I was quite surprised to stumble upon a bar near the end of the main strip with four dimly lit dart boards. I can't remember the name of the place, but it was something unusual like "It's a Dirty Shame." It had a good atmosphere—not too crowded, not too touristy, and dark with a little bit of an edge. With a Newcastle pint and darts in hand, I was a happy camper.

Ybor City on a Sunday night was very quiet. It seemed that over half the places (including my newly discovered dart bar) weren't even open for business. I finally stopped at the Tampa Bay Brewing Company to grab a bite to eat. The local brews were good, but I was more impressed to discover a real dart board set up behind the beer vats.

One evening, I drove out to Brandon for a tournament at an Irish pub called O'Tooles. I had discovered the place through some pre-trip research. The turnout was sparse. Some of the locals indicated that they usually draw about ten darters—we had six after a couple of significant others were pressed into service.

It turned out to be a good number because they only had two boards that were shoehorned into a pretty tight space. It would have been a bit cramped to play two matches at once. There is absolutely nothing worthwhile to write about my darts that night. I didn't get blown out, but I just didn't take advantage of opportunities when they were presented to me. After the tournament, I found enough pickup games to last into the wee hours. I can't complain about that.

Overall, Tampa is just a typical American city (with palm trees). I'd give it a gold star for dart friendliness, but without a car it ain't so easy to get around.