The man with the swept Don Johnson mullet, is smoking and gesticulating wildly. He and his business companion are enjoying Ceylon tea by the can, and and a hot pot of spicy bacon. Later in the washroom, he has no trouble continuing to smoke, since a small ashtray is riveted to the wall between the urinals. He grins and blows smoke into the air above the two of us.
I beat a hasty retreat.
Back in the bar proper, I lament to find that the singer doesn't know "Tiny Dancer," but he's happy to oblige me "Hey Jude."
The patrons of "Bros." sway along with the refrain of "Naaa-na-na-nana-na," and the sad looking domestic couple to the left continue to fill the awkward silence between them with the faint clink of a soju bottle.
It's my boss' anniversary as he sits and drinks with myself and two other teachers, but hey, he sent his wife a text message earlier in the day.
Just another Friday night. Just another request for "Hotel California."
A Canadian writer teaches English and finds out what it's like to be a foreigner.