So, I’m here at the An Beal Bocht in the Bronx on a late Friday afternoon and it is quite happening. A great buzz of conversation and mix of people. Kind of like professors (from Manhattan College), older students (24 is the age limit allowed here), workmen, computer geeks (like me) and the neighborhooders. An eclectic group. I am pleasantly surprised.
So, I arrive and sit at the bar rather than my usual pick of tables as they are full. I have my regular cup of coffee and do my computer work. Everyone is to themselves or conversing and doing their thing and I am left alone for the most part to do mine. It’s nice.
After a little while, and since now it is after five o’clock, I order my first alcoholic beverage. Something I have never done here at the An Beal Bocht and rarely anywhere in the afternoon. I order, what else from an Irish bar, a beer. I try the bartender’s recommendation Blue Moon. It tastes good and even better once it trickles through my body.
The bartender, who’s accent is right off the Irish Mary ship from Dublin (pun) is a sweet girl and up until now we have basically only said our hellos. Today though, she made a point which kind of binds my thinking lately of where I am going to (or not going) to live. She comes past me and says, “ya know, ah wanted ta tell ya the last time ya wa here, ya remind me of Faith Hill when ya hair is down”. “Well, thank you I say, of course! Then she pauses and says, again with her thick but very sweet Irish accent, “but ya ain’t gonna be findin’ no Tim McGraw in the Bronx.”
We laugh together with a mutual understanding of the territory that surrounds us and an understanding only woman who don’t settle get.