You push on the old wooden door but guess that it is much, much heavier than it appears. The door swings open too quickly, and it is obvious that the hinges are well worn through years of use but not abuse. The frigid cold of the night air and blustering snow is held at bay by the warmth emanating from the tavern. As you forge forward into the room and move to close the door, the sight of it all strikes you. In this large open room there must be two dozen people and no two alike. Men, women, and those whom you can not tell if are either. The noise of such a place makes it impossible to discern any conversation except for fleeting snippets of words that make no sense regardless of how you string them together. The music weaving in between the words of conversation providing a sense of continuity to the whole experience. Behind you the 'woomph'-ing sound of the door closing softly is only reassuring.

The smell too is intoxicating, although not altogether pleasant. The smell of a thousand, thousand spilled drops of beer onto wide and old wooden floorboards holding onto the perfume of a tavern full of people. The smell is only rarely truly unpleasant with the occasional hint of sweat mixed into the alcohol. It is as though no one had bathed and that no one really cared about bathing either. The smell is welcoming in a way that reminds you of a hard day spent working in the sun and finally being done and enjoying a break from too much work.

A laugh breaks through the noise. It’s sharp, but not painful. Like a gem, designed to cut but not to pierce. You look around at everyone in the bar, everyone who is sitting and standing but it’s no use. The laugher is hidden among the cacophony, never to be found. Turning, finally, to the bar you study the man standing behind the counter. He’s old now, his back hunched a little through years of work. He cleans the glass in his hands with a rag that looks as though it has done the job for decades. The stubble on his chin is almost white and matching what little hair he has left on his head. His clothing is plain but durable and you like it. It reminds you of simplicity and honesty. Taking it all in with a deep breath designed to calm your nerves, you approach the bar. 

He stops rubbing the glass with the cloth and looks at you. There is no judgement in the barkeeper’s eyes and no sudden movement of his body to indicate he is anything other than the man in charge of this establishment. You inquire about a room and it is then that you truly stare into his eyes and gaze upon his soul. Blue eyes, gone almost grey with age as though being stuck in this bar has bleached the colour out of them over time. They shine bright in the dimness of the bar. The glistening within his eyes is a sign, you are sure, that he is on the verge of tears. Why, you have no idea, but you hope that you are not the cause. 

He shakes his head, no, there is no room left at this inn. You bob your head in response. No, of course there isn’t a room available. It is late and look how full this place is. You knew that it wasn’t likely, but it still hits you hard. You turn to leave the bar, resigned once again to the fate of travelling or sleeping in a less than comfortable place, like last night spent beneath a tree, huddled for warmth and shivering against the blizzard. The barkeeper stops you before you can walk even a step. It isn’t much, but he offers you blankets and pillows for the night, if you wish them. He offers them to you and with them the promise that after the bar closes you can curl up in a corner with all of them. 

He inclines his head and his shoulders sag a bit, apologizing that it is so little that he can offer you. You smile and thank him for his generosity. You accept, of course, and hope that when he says the bar closes, he might mean before the sun rises again. He looks back up at you, appreciating that you have not found him wanting for too little space for every traveller. Regardless of the circumstances of the space in which you may be sleeping, you are grateful to have a place with a roof and walls in which you might be able to rest. The thought of a blanket and a pillow is a foreign one to your mind. It is a comforting thought, which drifted slowly into your mind as if from a deep recess where comfort had gone to die and never be retrieved. 

He reaches out with the mug he had been holding, filling it with beer. As it reaches the top of the mug, you can see that he is well skilled in the pouring of beer, not that you expected any less. He places it in front of you and you look to him as if to say that you didn’t ask for this and, frankly, you don’t think you can afford it right now anyways. He waves you off and says it’s on the house. You smile and thank him. His lips twitch and his cheeks turn a little pink as he smiles a bit and in his eyes you see a flash. It’s as if he recognizes you, but you know that is impossible. He turns to go walk the rest of the bar counter, but you feel sure that something had just passed through his mind. It’s a strange thought, but perhaps he had a child that was your age and you reminded him of them. Or perhaps he was merely fond of people like you. You know that you stick out like a sore thumb in taverns like this. 

You wrap your hands around the mug of beer. Mug might have been a good descriptor for someone with massive hands, but in yours, this is clearly a stein of beer. How much was sloshing inside its round walls, you couldn’t know, but you guessed that it was a lot more than you would get at any tavern or pub in a true city. It takes both hands to tightly grasp around the now frosting walls and the handle. The cold of the beer reminds you of the frigid nights you have been spending outside. The whistle of the winter wind through the trees on the side of the mountains sending shivers down your back every night. 

It wasn’t that the nights were actually scary or that you were afraid of the forests, but it was the isolation as you sat in the cold under the bending branches of a tree covered in snow while the trunk pressed upon your shoulders. The cold world and being unable to sleep for days was your normal for so long. The memory of the nights for the last week sends a shiver down your spine. You slowly lift the stein to your lips with your arms shaking a little under the weight. You are sure that if you tried to hold it with only one hand you would certainly drop it. 

The cold beer flowing past your lips and slowly filling your mouth, until you take a deep gulp. This is your first taste of something other than melted snow in days and your first taste of beer in weeks. It’s glorious, even if it’s not a good beer. In a small town like this, beer of this kind is likely the only kind any of them have ever known. Despite all that you have been through and all that you may yet encounter, the warmth in this space is something divine. This place, so loud, smelly, stuffy and hot, feels nice. It feels like home.