Have you ever walked down a snowy street, stopped and looked up the road at the little houses, with their brightly lit up windows? You’re so very tired, there standing on your weary feet, and the panes glimmer like lit fires, comfortable and inviting. And the word home comes to mind. It’s this feeling. A warmth blanketing your bones. Like slipping beneath the sheets after a long day, where you stretch out your legs and smile.  

This is what I meant in my last post. If you haven’t read it; go back. So you can understand the magic of this bar.  

And it is magic. There’s something here that calls out to weary souls and beckons them to come inside, to stay a while. It’s this ancient, ancestral pull, like a string tied around your heart, bringing you to comfort.  

And so you enter. And you sit upon my bar stool, and you choose your cure. And I brew the potion as your feet tap out the melody of liquorice trickles over ice. It’s like a good country song, the way it makes you feel. Like a home cooked meal, or the smell of an old book. Like love. Nostalgia. Old times, when things were simple.  

One of my regulars came in tonight. He came in and sat down at the bar, told me he’d liked my last post. Said it reminded him of a Dutch word; Gezellig. It can’t be translated directly into English, because we have no such word here, and, quite frankly, no such place. But I’m doing the best I can.  

The word means comfort. It means cozy, friendly, relaxing. It means spending time with family. It means togetherness. It means the feeling of seeing a friend of yours, whom you have not seen in ages. Warm colors. Ambiance. Setting is everything, and so are the people. It’s a vibe. A flow. A feeling of warmth and well-being. It’s a vague word. A little abstract, and difficult to grasp. You can’t explain it, but you can feel it.  

And it’s my bar. In the zone of our twilight hours, when we become family. When something beautiful is forged from human connection; when we discover what it means to bare our souls.  

My customer told me to put a beer on his tab. For me. Or whatever cure I choose. And I clock out from my shift, the bar empty save for a few lost souls being found, and sit down upon the stool. Raise the glass to my lips, and soak up the beauty of this life, and the beauty of this moment. I close my eyes. Chuckle as I think upon the strange group of people I’ve collected here behind this bar. Strange, as all the best ones are.  The people who have become a part of me. I collect their stories, and inscribe them there upon my heart, for they are now mine as much as they were theirs.  

Friends, you are welcome here. Strangers, let me read your life. Give me the palm of your hand, and let me trace the grooves that line the flesh. I’ll read to you the great fortunes of your future, and we will celebrate your life.  

It all happens in a bar. Dimly lit, the light glows softly where it kisses the surface of your skin, and glimmers where it plays upon the bottles that line the shelf. 

Gezellig. Home. Come sit a spell, and stay a while.