I live in an apartment where neighbours really don’t talk to – or know - each other. The typical 21st Century snobbery. A real tragedy really because what happens when you run out of salt at 9pm?
By chance we struck a conversation with the Indian fellow who lives below me; a younger outdoorsy fellow with a raggedy Mitsubishi that is always caked in dust of mud every Monday morning.
After a brief conversation we learnt that we both love the outdoors and whisky. After almost six months of planning (we are busy), a plan was hatched to share a whisky at the nearest haunt.
It rained that evening. I arrived early and nursed a Fernet Branca as I waited, staring into the busy courtyard. Outside, music blasted from the nearby bar teeming with a younger crowd.
When he finally showed up he started with 12-year-old Aberlour while I did the 15-year-old Dalwhinnie. He orders his whisky by the single. One rock. He told me about his camping adventures on silent hills in Amboseli and northern Kenya.
For the second round we both settled for the 12-year-old Balvenie. We talked about our neighbours; who knew who. I don’t know anyone personally except my next door neighbour’s elegant cat that sits across on the kitchen windowsill each morning, staring at my son while he prepares his breakfast.
For the third round we wanted a specific Glenmorangie but it was missing. I settled for the same 12-year-old Balvenie while he tried something I don’t recall. He told me about his university days in the UK, and his gruesome MBA about to conclude.
I told him about my early career, working in a medical lab. “Did you know you could write?” he asked, laughing. I said, “you always know but you are scared. Change is scary.” Sierra seems to serve that kind of a drink up; a quick snappy beer, a bite to eat, a conversation that doesn’t get diluted by a long night.
