One of the last sketches I drew sitting at The Pub. “The Pub”. I’ve sat in maybe half a dozen pubs since moving to France two weeks ago. Some even try to say they are “English Pubs.” When they don’t understand what I am saying I want to explain the joke to them, but of course I can’t. But still these are nice pubs, good atmosphere, good beer. One had quite amazing food (you know they used the proper amount of bacon in the salad when you are near-finished and there is nothing left but bacon.) I try them on, want to get a feel for them, find a comfortable fit. But I realize now it isn’t possible. “The Pub” isn’t where the good beer is, or the great food. It is simply where your friends are. And mine are nine hours behind me, asleep when I am awake. I can drink to them, but I sure wish I could still drink with them.