Happy hours.

There are few things more awkwardly self-revealing than being in the middle of a slow moving pub by yourself, waiting for someone or something to show up.

It’s small, the kind of place where there’s a pretty good chance that everyone really does know your name, and tabs run high and so do emotions and when you show up as an outsider to a place like that you can feel it, a distinct change in the atmosphere as though you’ve just entered a foreign country where you hardly know the language at all.

And there’s a lot to talk about, what with Super Bowls and Super Tuesdays in the air, and everyone agrees or disagrees about plays and politics, but it doesn’t matter to them because they all know each other and what they’re there for and playoff or primary, every day is a big day for New Yorkers.

You can tell easily enough, those who have been there for hours, whose day didn’t include (from 9-5) being trapped behind office doors and bright and blinding computer screens. They are trapped in different ways, perhaps. Their lives...well, you never do know, do you?

It’s in a place like that (where better?) that you can sit by yourself and drink your $3 pint special (from 5 to 7) and think long and hard about who you really are in those ten minutes you have to yourself (the only ten minutes of your whole day it would seem) before someone or something shows up. And if you’re like the guy next to me who had two too many two or so hours ago, you’re sitting there with your mouth open and eyes closed probably dreaming of a time when things made more sense.

Because when you suddenly find yourself in a foreign country right smack in the middle of your hometown, you may find yourself questioning what exactly you’re waiting for and why - and the answers to those kinds of questions never do seem to be there looking up at you from the bottom of your glass when you’re ready to go home.