On Christmas Eve, instead of being wrapped in tinsel and festive cheer, I was cozied up in a café corner. Three hours of journaling had left me feeling like my love life was more tragic than a Shakespeare play. Exhausted, I left the café with every intention of heading straight home to my beloved give-up pants and sleeping like there’s no tomorrow. Suddenly, a neon sign flashing “Philosophy Bar” caught my eye.
- Booze and existentialism, really? I talked to myself, amused.
Despite the allure, my brain screamed: “It’s Christmas Eve, you’ll look as desperate as a cat video on a dog lover’s feed!”
So, I walked past but couldn’t resist snapping a photo – just in case.
Fifteen minutes later, I found myself at that bar, surrounded by Christmas jazz and dim lighting, with a book titled “How Psychology Works.” How did I end up here? Well, it was actually a mental tango:
- It looks civilized. Why not give it a try?
- No, I’ll just look pathetic. I’ve had enough of that.
- Only I can define my worth. I do things for me, not for social norms. Woman up!
- But am I really that confident? Why set myself up for potential humiliation?
- It’s a challenge. Remember, my theme this year is ‘Antifragile’. I won’t break from this.
Then there was a moment of hesitation.
- If it’s awful, I can always leave. What’s there to lose?
- Okay, fine.
I pivoted and made my way back to the bar. Entering, I was greeted by an ambiance of dark green walls, each adorned with philosophical quotes elegantly framed in walnut wood. The Renaissance-style decor blended seamlessly with an impressive collection of books. Philosophy, psychology, history, … – their spines lined the shelves, filling every corner with a promise of intellectual adventure. The staff, their heads crowned with Santa hats, moved with festive energy, adding a touch of whimsy to the sophisticated atmosphere. Glancing around, I realized I wasn’t the only solo voyager on Christmas Eve, a realization that brought an unexpected comfort.
A staff member approached, their inquiry gentle, “Waiting for anyone?” I reply with an equally gentle headshake. As if it’s a familiar code here, he guided me straight to the bar section. It was a front-row seat to the art of mixology, a place where conversations flowed as freely as the drinks. As I approached the bar, I was greeted by T, the bartender, who struck me as someone who had journeyed through life with both wisdom and weight. He had the look of a man who’d seen his share of ups and downs – smart, with an easy, thoughtful smile that seemed to brighten the dimly lit bar. Yet, behind that smile, his eyes told a different story. They held a kind of melancholic depth, like windows reflecting a long, winding road with its fair share of shadows.
T’s appearance was neat, his movements behind the bar precise and practiced, giving off an air of quiet efficiency. There was an understated intelligence about him, evident in the way he handled the bottles and glasses like a scholar arranging his books. His presence was like a quiet note in the symphony of the bustling bar, noticeable yet subtly woven into the background.
As T moved behind the bar with a quiet, efficient grace, his attention to detail was evident in every carefully measured pour and precisely cut garnish. It was during one of these moments of quiet observation that he caught me – not just sniffing my cocktail, but the snacks too.
- It’s not poisonous, I swear to God, he joked.
- Oh, sorry. I’m not inspecting them, just an old habit of mine. Hope it’s not off-putting, I replied.
- Not in the slightest. I used to sniff everything back when I was a chef. It’s tough to eat without savoring the aroma first – feels like part of the experience is missing, he shared, wiping a glass with a thoughtful expression.
- Exactly! I picked up that habit while working in a hotel kitchen. It’s almost involuntary now, I admitted.
- Do you enjoy cooking? T asked.
- Well, not the cooking part per se. I find a certain therapy in the prep work – chopping, washing, peeling, etc. Sounds odd, I know, I confessed with a chuckle.
- Not odd at all. I feel the same. It’s nostalgic, really, makes me miss my chef days, he said, a distant look in his eyes.
- So, why did you leave it behind if you loved it so much? My curiosity was piqued.
He paused, putting down the glass.
- It’s a bit of a long tale, he began, his voice trailing off in thought.
- I’ve got time and ears ready to listen, I leaned in with interest.
T’s life started in Northern Vietnam, under challenging circumstances. “I was just one year old when my dad passed away. Soon after, my mom remarried and left, so my grandparents took care of me,” T began. As he grew, it became harder for his aging grandparents, leading them to send him to a temple. “I was ten, suddenly living in a temple, far from family. It was tough, really tough,” he said, shaking his head at the memory.
He glanced at me briefly before continuing. “Life there... let’s just say it wasn’t easy. I felt alone, like nobody got me. I made some bad choices, got into stuff I’m not proud of. Felt like the bad seed.”
I chimed in, “Sounds rough, but hey, everyone’s got their past. And just so you know, I’m not here to judge.”
T smiled weakly. “Thanks. High school was better for a while. Good friends, good grades. But then, after the first term in college, depression hit me again, and everything just fell apart.”
He was pulled away momentarily to serve another customer. When T returned, he picked up where he left off.
“It was like all the color drained out of my life. I thought I’d beaten depression, but it came back, worse than before. I dropped out of college, ended up on the streets, got involved with gangs...”
His story hit close to home. “What was going through your mind back then?” I asked.
“I just felt lost, and lonely, even in a city full of people,” T replied, a note of sincerity in his voice.
He brightened a bit as he talked about the turnaround in his life. “Then this social enterprise found me, gave me a home, a new family. That’s where I started cooking. Started at their restaurant, then moved to the Intercontinental Resort to challenge myself.”
Surprised, I asked, “The K restaurant? I did some research on social enterprises there in 2019.”
“Yeah, that’s the one. How’d you know?” T asked, a bit surprised.
“I might’ve talked to you back then and didn’t even realize,” I said, amazed at the coincidence.
“What a small world, right?” T laughed, as we moved on to talk about mutual acquaintances and shared experiences.
“I’m still kinda hesitant to meet the guy who founded the enterprise. I feel like I owe him a lot but haven’t been able to give back enough,” T shared, a hint of regret in his voice. “He even offered to sponsor me for a work-study program in Australia, said he saw potential in me. But, I turned it down.”
“Why’d you do that?” I asked, intrigued.
“Well, looking back, I feel pretty silly for passing up such a chance. But back then, I was crazy about this girl and didn’t want to do the long-distance thing. Thought it wasn’t worth the risk. Young and foolish, you know? Put love first. Ironically, we split up not long after,” he explained with a half-smile.
“Yikes, that’s rough,” I sympathized.
“Yeah, it was tough. But luckily, I had a great bunch of friends and colleagues around me, so I didn’t spiral down again. Once I moved past that, I needed a change. Quit the Intercontinental, took a bartending course, and ended up here. Spending my days with philosophy books and nights behind the bar. It’s not a bad life.”
“Wow, that’s quite a journey you’ve had!” I exclaimed.
“I hope I’m not boring you with all this. I don’t usually open up like this, but tonight, I don’t know, it felt right to share,” T said, looking slightly apologetic.
“Maybe it’s the Christmas. And at Christmas, you tell the truth,” I joked, recalling a line from Love Actually.
He chuckled. “Could be, though I’m not really into the whole Christmas thing.”
“If you could advise your younger self something, what would it be?” My interview mode was on and I was curious to hear his perspective.
T paused, thinking, while I sipped my cocktail, now diluted with melted ice. I glanced at my watch – it was already midnight.
“Just do it,” he finally said.
“What?” I choked.
“That would be my advice. Just do it. I spent too much time worrying about what could go wrong, not chasing what I wanted. I overthought every decision. But now I realize we can’t predict everything. No amount of data guarantees the future. You’ve got to take action, trust your instincts. That’s the only way to move forward, wherever you’re heading.”
“That’s pretty profound,” I admitted, impressed.
“Well, this is the Philosophy Bar. Expect deep thoughts,” he said with a grin.
I promised him to come back for another round of philosophical discussions on another day. Then, I headed home, my mind swirling with the unexpected wisdom found in a chance encounter.
In life, we often stumble upon our ‘Philosophy Bar’ moments – unexpected junctures where we encounter wisdom in the most unconventional settings. These moments don’t come with grand announcements; they’re the chance meetings, the spontaneous decisions to enter an unknown place, the unexpected conversations with strangers. The lesson here is not just about being open to new experiences, but about recognizing that sometimes, the most profound insights and changes in our lives come from the most unanticipated sources. It’s about understanding that every place, every person, and every experience has the potential to be your ‘Philosophy Bar’ – a source of unexpected wisdom and reflection. T’ story shows me that it’s not always the well-planned, carefully curated experiences that shape us, but often the random, unplanned ones that we stumble upon – if only we’re open to them.
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