There is something beautiful – and in no way melancholic, despite itself – about being alone, in a bar, in a foreign country (because yes, it is foreign, even if the flags fly the same and the words sound the same), drinking and listening to to not only the Irish country songs on the speakers but the conversation of the sitters, the locals with Domino’s pizza boxes piled high and pints of Guinness, Jamieson, flutes (they’re not glasses) of wine.