I love the idea of having a pub. My “local.”
A casual, comfortable, decent-brew serving place where maybe even a few people, yes, know your name.
The German tradition. The Irish tradition. Where people gather, drink (but not to too excess) and enjoy each other.
Just so we are clear: I’m not a girl who just likes boys who like beer…
I like beer.
I like boys too but that it is a different blog post.
I can tell countless stories of the Ex ordering a gin and tonic, me a stout, and 9 times out of 10 they would be delivered reversed. Even by the waitress that took our orders.
I wish it wasn’t so very eye-brow raising for a gal (me) to say “I was down at the pub the other night taking to this guy…” Which maybe I do say a mite too often.
But my pint companion could be pushing 70 (usually is actually) or 50 or 21. He’s an interesting person to talk to. A kind face with a ready laugh through which I can see a different life and perspective for a while.
He could easily be a she. But I don’t find a whole lot of solo women in bars. Or, if I do, they often aren’t interested in just chatting with me.
So I talk to Dave the bartender down the street about his family back in Ireland while he sips a (no lie) bud and says that the Guinness over here tastes terrible.
I hear about a couple’s recent trip to Europe, their desire to escape the south even though it means leaving their chickens.
The environmentalist tells me about his agriculture research and his daughter’s love woes.
“Get Down” Brown and I share jibes and life advice in equal measure.
That is what I love about a local and beer: it is a communal experience. A pint is poured to be toasted and shared. Kinda like wine but (for me at least) not headache inducing.
My Local
In New York I had my place where I could sit and watch and taste and just be. Surrounded by people yet alone if I wanted. The game(s) would be on and I could read or talk or just take some time to think.
Comfortable and confident. Sipping something yummy.
I’m still searching for my local in Athens. I’ve found some good prospects including a fantastic coffeeshop that has some decent brews on tap regularly and Rasputin by the bottle where I camp out for the weekend to work. But I haven’t found the right place yet.
I’ll keep looking. I hope you find your place. A place. Be it coffeeshop, bar, or bench outside of a store.
A place to enjoy the scenery. Reflect. Laugh, smile or frown at things you see and hear. And, most importantly, to be able to chat with strangers who part as friends.
To me a good local — a good beer — means finding new friends whose names I might never know but whose stories I never forget.
This is all by way of introducing a new passing fancy: Tales from the Local Corner.
The @write_practice the other day was to write about your surroundings. I was sitting staring at my wall at the time and not inspired so instead of writing something fresh I found the first one in my notes and polished it up a bit. So here is the first in a series.
That probably isn’t a very good tagline or article title. Cheeky and cute if attempting “ironical” but not so much if true.
