The first thing I noticed when I walked into the White Horse Trading Company in Post Alley last night was this hat. The White Horse is the sort of bar that, when you find it, you call all of your friends all over the country to tell them that you’ve found another place to take them when they come visit. It is tiny and cozy and friendly, and it is patronized by people who wear fantastic hats.

If you spend any time at all down in the Market, you’ve probably seen this man. He makes balloon animals and is sometimes wearing clown makeup, and he always has a friendly word or a long-winded story for anyone who’s willing to stop and chat.

I walked into the bar and ordered my drink, and then sat down in the sinfully comfortable leather chair behind him. The girl behind the bar and all the regular patrons seemed to know him well and enjoy his company, and he kept mostly to himself, breaking his silence only to tell an occasional story. And to make bird calls. Without any preamble at all a bird sound would come from the vicinity of his stool, and everyone in the room would start and look at him. He imitated wild turkeys and songbirds and each time would announce just what sort of bird it was that he had been imitating. Every time he did so I lost the train of my conversation, lost in fits of giggles because his back was to me and I couldn’t see how he was doing it.

That man and his place at the bar are just two reasons that I love this town.