An Irishman is born with the ability in whatever city he is in to locate the nearest pub. Boundless charm, good looks, and impeccable taste would be enough for any to be born with, but this of all the genetic benefits of being born Irish one stands above all. No matter how great or small the grasp of local custom, language, or geography, an Irishman walks out and it calls out to him like the North Star shining on the manger of the baby Jesus. Wherever that Irish pub lies, Irishmen are drawn like Muslims to Mecca in holy reverence for the Way, the Truth, and the Pint.

And it was upon this great gift I relied after a hard day’s rocking to cross the canal and home in with frightening precision on Mollie’s, purportedly the finest Irish pub in St. Petersburg. Like most bars in St. Petersburg, it was a basement establishment tucked away underneath some prime retail frontage in a street well off the path from Nevsky Prospect. Without even a sign to indicate what it beheld, a Guinness coaster in front of the establishment belied what lied within. A heavy door, Jameson mirrors, and a long oak bar established the firm’s legitimacy, though certainly not Irish by the strictest definition of the term. Fairly put, it lacked the stake that New England could lay claim to the Platonic form of Irishness, however after a year and a half suffering in the poor excuse for public house that passes in California I was pleased indeed.

Much like every time I go to Kansas, gasps, whispers, and thinly-veiled derision followed my entry. However, quite unlike Kansas, Russians are not at all ashamed to stare, making for an uncomfortable walk through the reserved tables to a seat at the bar. For a moment I was worried that I was unwelcome, but fortunately this gift passes both ways.

At the moment I sat, the jukebox played “The KKK Took My Baby Away.” After I had order my pint, it followed with “Personal Jesus” covered by the Man in Black. A few pints and a steak later, my gratitude for the pub’s warm embrace was boundless.

On the walk home I had wondered if it was the man drawn to the beer like a siren, or the beer – like a loyal sweetheart – drawn to the man.

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