The lure of the perfect bar, like that of the perfect writing cafe, keeps me searching through the city streets. A place for rowdy celebrations with friends, knocking back drinks while sharing gossip and laughter, or for sitting not saying much at all, with book, glass and lover close at hand. A space that is good for reading yet never too bright, both cool in summer and soothing in winter, when dogs stretch lazily by the fire and the humans sleep off their Sunday lunches.
My dream is to find the bar where I will be so well-loved that when I go, this happens:
I know their favourite songs. I want to reopen and play each of the songs in their honour.
Maybe one day I will find it – like those who have left behind memories of their songs in Iwate – or maybe I won’t ever be so fortunate. It is possible that my perfect bar only exists in my head. Perhaps the answer will be to open one myself, to stand behind the counter playing my favourite songs and hope that others enjoy the atmosphere enough to share it with me briefly.
Until the day I get there, at least I can enjoy the search.