A Night Down the Pub in Dublin by the Numbers
So I go down the pub. I choose one near my apartment, a quiet one. I sit at the bar. My legs dangle from the stool and I look silly, but stay where I am because I feel too conspicuous sitting at a table on my own. The barman – tall, aproned, mustachioed – asks what I want. My glass of Guinness arrives and it’s delicious – frosty, bitter, and thick.