The fact that most of the crowd surrounding the bar—and scattered about the tables to Adrian’s left and right—wore lanyards displaying mostly respectable college affiliations did nothing for Adrian’s mood. The many faces he recognized belonged to scholarly circles he dutifully avoided. Part of the reason he’d traded his own blazer for one of his cycling jerseys for the short bike ride over from the conference hall was to inhibit the sort of unavoidable collegiate camaraderie that might easily be interpreted as a brief moment of mutual respect. Adrian suffered fools rarely, and the fact that this lot held advanced degrees from fine universities around the Northeast only made them a slightly better breed of fool.

But again, Adrian was there by his own misguided choice. Eyes still lowered, he lifted his glass, revealing a kitschy coaster emblazoned with the Bunker Hill Monument, one of the area’s most familiar, if overly phallic, tourist attractions, then took a sip from his wine, letting the warmth of the second-tier alcohol—if not the taste—cushion his distress. At least the bar itself had history; it was no accident the historical society had thrown its after-party at one of the oldest taverns in the country, certainly one of the most famous Revolutionary-era watering holes in a state littered with eighteenth-century tourist traps. From the signs imbedded on doorposts and chiseled into sidewalks all over Massachusetts, it often seemed that the Founding Fathers had spent as much of their time touring pubs, restaurants, and charming inns as they had planning their war with the British. But at least the Warren Tavern in Charlestown was one of the handful of authentic stomping grounds of famous names like Washington, Franklin, and Revere—which almost made Adrian forgive the kielbasa, if not the Fenway egg rolls. And though the place had been “restored” more than once, it still looked much as it had 240-odd years earlier, when it had first opened its doors in 1780. Mostly oaken tables, glass steins hanging from fixtures above the bar, Revolutionary paraphernalia along the walls. If Adrian could have only traveled back in time along with the decor—and away from the noisy, self-inflated crowd of blowhards who shared his academic occupation, if not his refined sensibilities—he could have forgiven the bland vintage currently swirling past his tongue.

But the fixed chronological nature of his misery was only made all the more evident, as a new burst of laughter emerged from the area of the bar; then Adrian heard a voice rise above the rest, and his ears reddened in tune with his hair.