As in Cuba, geddit? Tonight was my first outing to a bar in Belgium. And everyone's still allowed to smoke. I think it's the first time in years that I've been in a bar and seen the air filled with the familiar haze of cigarette smoke. It's also the first time I've been shown to a table on entering one. Although, this might have been more to do with my confused look when I walked in.
The bar itself was reminiscent of many in Bristol: in a small, narrow, basement, in the shape of a tunnel. A nice change was the number of older people in it. When I say older, I mean over the age of 50, I'm guessing. There was music, as you'd expect, but it wasn't so loud that you couldn't hear yourself think and were able to chat without having to virtually shout. God, what an old git thing to say!
And as usual when getting home from a place smelling of cigarette smoke, there's the familiar feeling of all the clothes you're wearing reeking, your hair, hands and everything else, the soreness I always get in my eyes. And the feeling as if I've just smoked a packet myself. What a lovely habit.