It's People That Frame Your Stay

by Brian Connaughton (Ireland)

A leap into the unknown USA

Looking out the window of the hotel, I’m worried. I’ve never seen this much snow before, yet, a blizzard rages just outside and people don’t seem to notice. First night in Minneapolis, here comes the cold. Donning a jacket so cumbersome I break a sweat just getting it on, I’m immediately glad of it once I step outside. Googling the nearest bar, I find the location and turn to face it’s direction. Against the wind of course. My cheeks blush instantly against the abrasive gusts that rush past me. Gloves and hat absent, I’ve made a rookie mistake. I wonder how obvious it is to everyone I pass that I’m not from around here? No point in dwelling on that, onwards I tell myself, salvation waits just three blocks away. The skyline sits away to the left. Downtown. It’s concentrated peaks look like an assortment of ill-fitted sticks lassoed together and pointed skywards., but their lights against the night sky make them elegant. Lost in the distant view, my body trudges on robotically until, after a gentle nudge from my phone, I look down to check my location and here I am. Morrissey’s Irish Pub. An Irish bar. I hadn’t noticed when searching, just wanting the closest place to me. Relieved of the warmth of the place I sit at the bar and order a drink. The large glazed window to my left still displaying natures harshest moods in full, I begin to wonder if I’ve made a huge mistake with my holiday choice. Why did I try so desperately to see somewhere different, now having to endure this? Maybe this is why people always go to the same old places, maybe this is what waits beyond the road less travelled. The bartender notices my accent and we chat briefly about what brought me to Minneapolis. He seems just as surprised as I am. But he’s friendly, the bar is warm and my mood has lifted slightly. I notice an elderly man take a seat at the corner of the bar to my left. Curious, I do some eavesdropping as he and the bartender talk and find out that he’s from here originally, but lives in New York and plans on returning in the morning. Says his name is Mark. Soon after, a young girls sits beside him, quietly orders a drink and takes off her scarf and hat. Looking around the room I take in the rustic décor until I hear a strange noise. The girl is crying at the bar. In a single act of heroism, Mark looks at the girl and asks her “what’s wrong?”. Still incognito, I overhear her tell him that today she had to put down her fourteen year old dog. Mark, with a finesse not unlike a Film Noir protagonist, consoled the girl and even managed to get a few laughs. A triumph. The weather is only getting worse, but the bar still gets busier. These people are resilient. And thirsty apparently. I chat a little with some regulars and find myself getting more and more comfortable . As the girl eventually closes her tab, she’s handed her card and with a soft “Stay Warm”, she leaves the bar wrapped up tightly and smiling. “Stay Warm”. A well meant and appropriate farewell, I decide to adopt it for the length of my stay. When the bartender returns to Mark, he looks at him teary-eyed. “You know, I buried my Mother today. But she didn’t need to know that. She had enough going on. I just listened to her. Heck, I even got her to laugh, did you see?” He smiles through blurry eyes and gritted teeth. Dumbfounded, the bartender does what anyone would and shakes the man’s hand solemnly. Imbibed with liquid courage, I still manage to fight the urge to do the same, and maintain my cover. Walking back to the hotel, ‘Whiskey Jacket’ on, carefully navigating the patches between snow and ice, I relish the thought of being able to spend the next two weeks in the tundra. Tomorrow I’m going downtown to see that elegant skyline up-close, but not before I buy a hat and some gloves.