Joes’ Bar is an old brick building with a vintage Coors Beer sign over the door. The sign probably wasn’t vintage when they put it up. More like it’s been hanging there so long it’s now considered an antique, and therefore, cool. I doubt Joe or—if the placement of the apostrophe is correct—Joes plural care about cool decorations. This bar is a no-nonsense watering hole where the locals go and gripe about tourists, and hope the centuries-old grime covering the building and the sign are enough to keep away any snowbirds.
My theory proves correct when I walk in and the entire bar—ninety percent male—pivots to glare at me. I hunch in my poufy ski coat, hoping I don’t look too much like an outsider invading their local sanctuary. I consider waving to them all, but decide that would prove to th
