Lest you think this is a gratitude post about bad habits and undesirable behaviour, let me be clear: I am not thankful for this pub. Well, not exactly. I am grateful for this pub, but not for anything it offers me except it’s name. I have never set foot in this pub so I can not speak of being grateful for anything inside. Yet, this pub and I have a special connection. I am thankful for this pub because to me it is the essence of why I love New York City.
I have passed The Irish Pub quite frequently of late as I stagger the last few block to a train station that is far away from my original location but just close enough that I talked myself into walking to it. Usually about the time I reach this pub I’m cursing my job for bringing me into the city. I’m cursing the city for being so damn long and I’m cursing myself for thinking I could walk it… in shoes that seemed comfortable in my six block town but are more like ancient torture devices on 7th Avenue.
When I hit that stage of my walk (Yes, it happens a lot. I don’t learn quickly.) up comes The Irish Pub and it never fails to make me smile. That smile reminds me that despite my blistered dogs, I love this walk. I love this job for bringing me on this walk and I love this damn city. Because nowhere else in the world would a person exist that would have the audacity to name their pub, in a town FULL of Irish pubs, THE Irish Pub.
Only in New York.
I heart you.
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