My phone rang. I jumped up to answer, more excited than I should have been, probably, but I had just moved to Seattle and getting phone calls was still a rare thing.

Especially on a Friday evening.

“What are you doing?” The voice on the other end belonged to my best friend and one of only two people I knew in town.

“Watching t.v.”

“Get dressed. We’re going to the pub?”

“Where?” I asked but he had already hung up.

Half an hour later we were met at the door by a young woman with a pleasant Irish lilt to her voice, and whether it was fake or genuine I could not say.

She led us through a dark corridor and seated us at a small table near a stage. Menus came and were ordered from; beers with exotic names came and were drunk. We were joined by others, men and women my friend knew from work, and our table turned into a party rather quickly.

Soon, the house band took the stage, performing a set list of standard Irish songs. We sang along with Danny Boy and Whisky in the Jar and anything else we knew. We made friends. Phone numbers were exchanged.

And then, suddenly, I was living in Seattle with a crew of friends, a hangout, and a phone that never stopped ringing.