The Down Under

The bar reeks of piss and vomit.  The lights are almost non-existent and I strongly suspect that they are covered in long since banned smoke stains.  The music has just started, it is that all too familiar blend of techno house and top ten pop. It assaults my ears, but I will admit that I am all about that bass.  Tonight's drink special is ten dollar jugs of beer, the waitress doesn't even offer me a glass with my purchase.  I do not complain. The booth we have selected looks into the bathroom door, there is a needle exchange beside the sink.  This bar is not for the faint of heart.  This bar is not a place for a first date.  This bar is quickly becoming one of my favorites.  

The first thing you'll notice at The Down Under, aside from the putrid smell, is the creative murals that decorate the walls. Spray paint frescoes from unknown and drunker Michelangelos. The art is beautiful but it really serves one purpose. The art covers up an unknown number of farewells and statements of love.  People meet people when they travel.  This may come as a surprise. Every square inch of that bar, the tables, the seats the walls, the rafters, anything that didn't have amazing graffiti, was covered in names.   Paul and Jen 2010, Steve Matt and Nico rock on 2008, Sven Karl Ingrid (Gothic runes I cannot translate), you get the gist. This bar, this health inspectors nightmare, has seen countless relationships form and disband.  I sat there staring in awe, the names and languages spanned the globe.  How many lives were forever changed in that bar, how many lives can trace their roots there... 

How many people remember that last night, those final goodbyes.  I wonder what spirit they were received in. Did they try to tear the roof off in one final testament to the invincibility of youth? Did cooler, more somber heads prevail? I know this, they have painted over hundreds of names on those walls, but paint cant cover those memories.  Paint cant hide what happened to so many people down here.  

Fresh paint was also needed after we were there.  Fun fact, Danishmen do not like being called German.  They like it even less when they are called German by Germans. Do you remember how I said the booth overlooked the bathrooms. Imagine sitting there peacefully only to witness the mens room door swing open and you newly acquired, soon to leave the country danish friend is throwing a full beer into the face of a lippy kraut. I don't have to imagine it, I watched it.  It was magic. The German stood there blinking like mad, he didn't know what to do.  The Danishman just giggled and like so many before, since and will, he left that bar for the final time. Thankfully he left it with all his teeth and a killer story.