Going to an experience pub

It’s an experience pub, she said. I was wondering what an “experience pub” could be but I didn’t ask. I just followed through the narrow London alleyways looking for the sky. It was cold, very cold for me. And the stars were hiding. Only a dark, timid sky was covering us from the cold. No clouds. The air smelled of frost and booze. We were approaching the pub. "The Duke" was its name, a very appropriate name for a pub.

Opening the door you could hear the subtle noise of talking, laughing, drinking, glasses being hit on the till. It was like every pub: the same but unique. It was a 1930s building, without any major restoration done; pld London at its best.  Olive green walls and sweet yellow light.  We sat by the door. A small round dark table and different chairs we managed to beg from other tables. At least there was available seating for everyone. Once we all had chairs and golden liquid in our pints, the smokers decided that it was time to go out. And I was going to be left alone. I didn’t want that, so I followed them, having to face again the chilly air.

They had their backs against the wall, sending the swirling smoke up, in the starless sky. The smell of tobacco got in my nostrils and my lungs— so familiar and annoying at the same time, reminding me of the outings of my early teen years, when it was still allowed to smoke indoors, and we all used to end up going home smelling like cigarettes and shame. We were all there, friends from all over the world who met in the most populous and exciting metropolis of the world: forget New York, this is London, a friendly stranger who will welcome anyone— or at least that’s what I’ve been told.

Of course, we never wondered why we were able to be friends in spite of our differences, which were many, mind you. We were chatting like we used to, drinking beer, taking in the cold without thinking about it, until the most peculiar old man approached us. 

A real Englishman with a tweed suit, round glasses and an imperial moustache came to stand by us. He was looking at us for a while, thinking maybe, and then he asked one of my friends for a lighter. He started talking to her with a condescending look in his face. “I am sorry, my dear, but I can’t understand very well what you’re saying,” he said looking perplexed by her dark skin, dark eyes and dark hair. She was dumfounded. “Where are you from?” he went on asking. “India”, she replied. “Oh, that’s adorable”, he said without even blinking. “And you are friends with her?” he asked pointing at my clearly British friend, with blazing blue eyes and blond hair. “Yes” they answered in unison, defying this outrageous dialogue’s cause of existence. “Well, you ladies know best”, he went on astonishing them for good.

In less than a minute, the image of the welcoming city with the open-minded inhabitants and the eye for progress was destroyed. In its place we saw the unforgivable colonialist past, with its patriarchal and nonsensical ideology. Now I get it, I mused as we went inside ranting… I know what an experience pub is.