Cheers

My younger son and his wife recently returned home from a Florida vacation that they shared with old friends from Texas. They had a great time. His comment was, “I wish they lived next door. We don’t have friends here to just hang out with.” His comment came to mind as I read an article in The Atlantic yesterday by Allie Conti about “third places”—what she labels “physical spaces for serendipitous, non-productive conversations.” Hanging out. A lost art.

People used to find those spaces in their neighborhoods: on their front porches, stoops, in pubs, taverns, beer gardens. Then, the majority of us holed up with immediate family on our decks or patios or gathered around the TV set. I suspect that now, not even that happens. Instead we isolate on our electronic devices content with online conversation, text or other numbing diversions.

My hometown was a working man’s town. Taverns were an important part of the history of that blue collar town and they were more than a place to consume liquor. Each ethnic group, construction trade, union, or neighborhood had a favorite spot where the men gathered after a hard day’s work to have a drink with friends, relax or just “shoot the breeze” before heading home. Later, food was served in most establishments and women joined the clientele — sometimes popping in at lunchtime for a sandwich, other times joining their husbands for a “night on the town.” In 1959 there were 45 “taverns” listed in the city directory and many of them clustered along Main Street vying for the title of “best hot roast beef” or “ham salad sandwich.” Most of these taverns had elaborate wooden back bars, some of which I’m told remain intact today in the remaining taverns. They are beautiful examples of the craftsmanship that built our town and served as a backdrop for good conversation.

During my youth people dropped by our house on a regular basis. There was no calling ahead or scheduling a visit. If you showed up and it wasn’t an opportune time, no big deal, you went to the next house on the list of places where you were welcome. There was always a long list. I seldom remember an evening at home when someone didn’t come by. We were all richer for the time spent together.

I remember when COVID restrictions were just starting to lift and I felt comfortable resuming a somewhat normal routine. I was almost giddy exchanging small talk with the clerk in the grocery, the librarians in my little branch library in the village, the people I met on my walks. There was a built-up hunger to connect. There’s science behind that need that explains why a FaceTime call just doesn’t cut it. Our bodies release oxytocin—a feel good hormone—when we are face to face. We crave it.

I suspect my son felt the contrast from a week of hanging out with friends when he returned home to working online and sharing his home with his daughter who lives with her phone in her hand, a son who loves his video games and a wife who is best friends with Google and Amazon. An hour at the gym where everyone wears ear buds doesn’t cut it, nor does dropping in to Starbucks where patrons sip their lattes without looking up from their phones.

I’m doing an old person’s lament again for the good old days when people dropped by or gathered around the bar wanting nothing more than just the pleasure of each other’s company. If you’re in the neighborhood, stop in!