After wandering the streets of Dublin till the wee hours, I stumbled into The Temple Bar and ordered a Guinness. The place was nearly deserted but the old school wooden bar, double arches overhead and winding staircase to a mysterious upper level hooked me so I lingered. The Guinness came foaming at the bit and I sipped letting the roasted barley calm my nerves and give me hope. My fatigue gave me pause to ponder the meaning of my life and the dark stout revived the extinguishing lights of wanderlust dimming within.
It was in these exhausted moments of reflection that a strange character strode in from the dark street. He wore a heavy Hemingway beard with a cap that had the word Roadster scrawled on the bill. He took a seat at the bar a few chairs beside mine and ordered a drink. As he waited, he turned to me. He sensed my immigrant status and it piqued his interest. “Where you from?” he asked.
“The States,” I said wondering where this admission might lead.
“Ah, the States,” he said as if he were reading his lines for the big screen. Then he smiled and drank half the glass of beer without a pause.
“You a local?” I asked.
“Oh yeah. Local through and through.”
“I like your hat,” I said wondering if there might be a hidden story lurking somewhere beneath the word Roadster.
He smiled at that question and pointed outside the window. “The roadster is out yonder tethered to a hitching post. Care to see it?” He winked and wondered if I understood.
“Sure,” I said having no clue to the meaning of ‘out yonder tethered to the hitching post’.”
With that little encouragement this provocateur led me on a fascinating tour of his wild blue roadster parked down the street, a mean machine fit for any back street racing challenge. And from that episode in this little bar came the story I wrote called The Roadster (in my book entitled: Teatime in Old Havana.)
(P.S. Has anyone been to this pub or met an interesting character at a mysterious bar)?