An Irish Pub

In Rotterdam, I stand behind the bar. 

The Guinness pours the same. The weight of the glass sits right in my hand. Irish names slow down in foreign mouths, said carefully, as if they matter more here. When someone hears where I’m from, their shoulders drop, like they’ve been holding something all day. 

Christmas lights hang a little crooked, not quite festive, but sincere. Rain follows everyone inside. Coats pile up by the door. The windows fog over, and fora few hours, the outside world can’t get in. 

I pull pints for people who miss something. For people who don’t have to explain what that something is. There are quiet nods across the bar, shared looks, small jokes that land without effort. The pub hums gently but not loud, not quiet, just alive enough to hold us all in place. 

There is comfort in the routine: wiping the counter, changing the keg, listening more than speaking. Everyone here is from somewhere else, but no one feels like a stranger. 

At Christmas, I cross the water and change places. 

Back home, I’m the one leaning on the bar. Ordering without thinking. Laughing before the story ends. The floor sticks the same. The glasses clink the same. My body remembers this room before my mind does. 

Friends return like nothing paused. New stories sit beside old ones. We talk over each other, fill in gaps, pretend time hasn’t passed because for tonight, it hasn’t. The chaos is warm, familiar and kind. 

I realise then why the Irish pub works anywhere. It doesn’t try to replace home. It carries it. 

Whether I’m pouring or being poured for, whether I’m here or across the water, there is something steady and secure about this place.

12.01.2026