If I were of a poetical turn of mind, I’d wax eloquently about the amber-colored liquid in glass mugs, the sawdust on the floor, and the accent of our server. If I were a masterful, seasoned reporter such as, oh, Jimmy Breslin maybe (well, it certainly wouldn’t have been my first visit to a bar), I’d write a sharp piece on some obscure but fascinating carving found underneath one of the worn tables.
As it is, I’m just a Midwesterner who’d never had a beer until a few weeks ago. A transplant from Ohio turned loose on the big city, who’d never set foot in a bar, and who doesn’t know a single piece of bar etiquette. How does one order? How do you tip? What do you do if a guy starts talking to you?
I was there at the invitation of my National Review coworkers, and they graciously answered these questions. But there were much more important ones I needed to ask. Who are these people sitting here with me? What are they passionate about? What drives them crazy? How did they end up in NYC?
In Ohio, I felt a bit exotic at times. My internships at Interlochen Arts Camp and in Washington, D.C. were wonderful conversation starters back home. But here, I’m actually rather boring. The people I’ve met have traveled and travel frequently. They’ll write more words in a given week than I’ve written in my lifetime, spoken countless times in front of prestigious crowds on subjects I didn’t even know existed, and can argue about obscure (but important!) constitutional issues at the drop of a hat. They are readers, thinkers, and doers who care ardently about important causes.
In my own way, I have been adventurous. The summer I lived in D.C., I spent it cooking meals at home and reading — too afraid to be out exploring on my own. But New York is different. It demands participation. And I was determined to take the plunge. Within three weeks, I’d been to the opera once (Pelléas and Mélisande was four and a half hours long, in case you were wondering) and the Met museum twice (peace, beauty, and marble reign supreme in the Greek and Roman wing, my new favorite reading spot). Nearly three months in, I’ve tried Chinese for the first time, spent many hours (and most of my paycheck) at The Strand, eaten the best strawberry ice cream ever made (looking at you, Ample Hills Creamery), and been to a Juilliard orchestra concert. These experiences are wonderful — however, they are only the beginning.
Yes, I believe I have a voice and opinions. But my voice is weak in many areas and my opinions still need structure to make them eloquent. So instead, I listen. I go to meetings, read articles, and edit pieces. I attend talks on confusing topics, take notes on the podcast conversations, and try to muster up the courage to ask questions. I do this not because I think my ideas are unimportant or don’t deserve a voice, but because I know they require more formation.
So for now I sit quietly, drinking in the sights, sounds, and beer, just learning.
And I’m incredibly grateful for the opportunity.