the pub

I realized today that, upon describing my weekend's activities, nearly half of them revolved around "the pub."  I was shocked.

Having grown up in the Midwest, we don't really have pubs, but if we did, nice girls wouldn't go there.  I like to think of myself as a nice girl, so it stands to reason I wouldn't be likely to frequent pubs.  It turns out I am.

When I lived in England, I'd gotten relatively used to the whole pub thing, as well as over the idea that I shouldn't be caught dead in one.  Goodness, they're not bars.

I was afraid they'd be a bit closer to what I'd call a saloon -- a grimy, Wild West ordeal with dingy lighting and scruffy, potbellied men smoking, drinking and dear knows what else.  There's actually an establishment of that description in my home town, and I am thankful to report that I have only been inside once, on a very deliberate mission to the restroom with a very dear friend who had to change before playing volleyball just outside it.  (Perhaps this is why I'd never taken up volleyball until I moved to the beach.  The facilities aren't amazing, but it's broad daylight and everyone's sandy and you just feel that much safer.  Sand I trust.  Grime I don't.)

And in England I actually spent quite a lot of time in pubs.  Not my first time, as a student -- I wasn't one of those junior-year-abroad types (anyway, it was my sophomore year) -- we were allowed to go, but I wouldn't say it was highly encouraged.

When I moved back, though, I moved in with a couple whose grown son took it upon himself to acquaint me with every pub in the area, generally via bicycle.  At the time I was quite a connoisseur of north London pubs (well, within a 2 mile radius of Enfield Town), despite not drinking at all.  J20 was my beverage of choice -- a fruit juice that fortunately came in many flavors.  Seeing as we sometimes trekked to upwards of three pubs a night, it was nice to be able to mix things up a bit.  Coke or lemon squash if I wanted to really go wild.  (I'm not sure to this day if they actually had Lemon, Lime and Bitters or if my companion was so gallant as to not even tempt me with it.  If they did, I remained utterly ignorant of it.)

While in England, I entertained the idea of writing a coffeetable book -- one side of the page would feature a photo of a pub's sign, and the other a history of the pub.  It fit with the atmosphere somehow.  I saw the pubs as fairly cozy escapes at the end of the day -- homey and quaint.  Sure, there might sometimes be a little ruckus or rumpus -- a disturbance, if you will -- but rarely was such the case.  You could bring your parents and feel fairly certain no one would be embarrassed.

Then I moved to Australia.

I spent a lot of time when I first got here trying to figure out if Australia was more like England or more like America.  On first glance, I thought England.  There was the history, the linguistics, the fact that their accent didn't sound like mine.  Then I thought America.  There was the size, the bleak history with the lands' native occupants, the 1700-something birthday.  Then I realized, good gracious, it's really it's own country and quite different from both.

And all the Australians breathed a sigh of relief.

If you stop an Australian on the street and demand to know if their country is more like England or more like America, I imagine you'd get shudders either way.  England is a fierce competitor in terms of sports, and they're a bit annoyed that they're getting so overrun with pasty Poms.  But politically and culturally they're a far cry from America, and are none too thrilled to swing that way either.  It's a bit of a toss up, really.

Enter the Australian pub.

It's the hub of daily life.  It's where everybody goes after work, to kick back and relax with a beer and either relive or revile the day.

It's a tougher crowd from the well-behaved Brits.  The Australians drink a bit more, smoke a bit more and talk a bit louder.  They're brasher, but more open.  More aggressive, but more honest.  You're not likely to get hurt in a pub, but you are likely to make a few new friends, whether you want to or not.  And everyone's on a level playing field -- professionals and tradesmen skull their beers together and commiserate over whatever's worth commiserating over.

Granted, pubs do divide somewhat along various class-ish lines, but by and large there's a lot less of that.  Everybody's everybody down at the pub.

Enter Kim at an Australian pub.

This is really a scene that anyone who knows me probably can't help stifling a small chortle over.  I tend to err on the side of prim and proper, don't drink, don't smoke and don't swear.  I hardly fit.

But that's just it -- you don't have to.  Everyone's welcome, and it doesn't matter if you sit with your legs crossed and sip coke with lemon and no ice.  Sure, it took a little for everyone to realize I actually was happy like that -- but once they did, no one had any qualms.

I don't think they'd let me drink now if I wanted to.