Years ago, at night's end, I locked a drunk French tourist in the bar, by mistake. He awakened under a table on the balcony, perfumed with vomit, a fragrance found in bars. Only the bar's ghosts were with him.
It was an amazing experience. People laughed, they sang, they drank, and then they laughed some more. Nobody yelled, threatened, menaced. Few of us spoke the same language, but all seemed to understand the other.
We may only be halfway through September, but already October beckons, along with thoughts of the beery excesses of Oktoberfest. With that in mind, I took myself to a local tavern -- in the interest of research, mind you! I