![]() ![]() But we managed to have a perfect, no-stakes interaction after two years in which many people haven’t taken a chance on anybody.īesides giving me the feeling that I’d flexed a muscle that had atrophied, the interaction was special to me because I’d found a classic “third place” in the suburbs, where I least expected it. They had no reason to expect we would share common ground. Two strangers took a chance on spending an hour with an outsider-a tiny woman of ambiguous age who is sometimes told she resembles the Disney character Spinelli-who was enticed by a simple sign. To me, the ideal hangout has a few components: spontaneity, purposelessness, and a willingness among all parties involved to go wherever the conversation leads them. On the train back to Philadelphia, where I was living at the time, I felt much more euphoric about the unexpected hangout than I did about the supposedly spiritual experience that had preceded it. We talked about the upcoming deer season, and upon learning that I was a new hunter, the two guys showed me a rifle that was kept in another room. The Eagles weren’t playing in the NFL that day, and he was grateful for the additional company. ![]() Though at first the bartender was incredulous that I’d just walked in, he soon rewarded my sense of adventure with a Guinness on the house. Apparently I’d stumbled upon a social club meant for residents of the neighborhood. That’s where I spotted a pool table and a middle-aged guy sitting at the end of a long, mahogany bar, drinking a Bloody Mary by himself. I checked Google Maps to see if I was standing next to a cleverly disguised business-what might pretentiously be referred to in a city as a speakeasy-but nothing popped up, so I peeked inside the house. One of the nondescript stucco houses had a curious sticker on its mailbox reading Mac’s Club. On a Sunday last year, I was walking through a suburban neighborhood in Pennsylvania, heading home from an early-afternoon meditation class. This article was featured in One Story to Read Today, a newsletter in which our editors recommend a single must-read from The Atlantic, Monday through Friday. ![]()
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