On Sunday, a sober buddy of mine and I rolled up to a warm late afternoon sun spot. It’s new. Third Place Lounge here in Kansas City. The football game was on so it was quiet, exactly how I like to go out and enjoy my weekend. We’ve learned that football games are the perfect time to go to Trader Joe’s, go to Whole Foods, go to Home Depot, go to Target. Anywhere that is normally humming with bodies starts to get a little easier during a game. I’m getting more comfortable with the long pause after someone asks me what I did for the game. I’m just a queer who doesn’t watch football.
It was Third Place Lounge’s grand opening weekend. When I walked in and found my friend sipping a really sexy looking drink at the bar, I felt at home. The way the Western Auto sign winked at the back of my head when I ordered was cute. The building is tucked into a hill I often precariously park on to eat really good crepes in really good company at Seven Swans.
The bartender pushed a zero ABV menu across the bar at me. And it was equal in length to their alcoholic cocktail menu. For the first time in a while, it took more than 10 seconds to review my non-alcoholic options and make up my mind.
“I’ll take the Nogroni No Problems.”
We went and settled on a vintage sofa that had held so many sunken butts, just like ours. I envisioned bringing my laptop and cranking out some work here, being in the company of others who were looking for somewhere outside of home to feel at home in. The sofa faced a building-length window where over the course of our time there, held offerings of birds building sky shapes and building’s we’d never taken the time to notice including one that appeared to have a whole-ass oak tree growing off the fifteenth floor.
Thanks to #sportsball, there weren’t many other customers, and that was more than fine. Because the space was so new to me—its shapes, its art, its sound, its light—it took a while to take it all in and finally realize there were swings hanging from the ceiling. My friend and I had reached a breathing point in our conversation, catching up about our hearts. My Nogroni was bitter in the best way, all I wanted in a mocktail, not just juice. The ice cubes clinked at the bottom of my heavy glass. They sang little songs of good job, good job, keep going, keep going.
“I’m gonna go take a minute on the swings.”
The quiet let me play. It invited me into a space that seemed to say “take me, be mine.” I watched as the projector screen changed shape as I pushed my feet off the floor and moved the swing back and forth, back and forth, my back to the Western Auto sign. I don’t have kids (for now, at least), and appreciate when there are spaces designed for play for all ages of people. The checkered rug underneath me could have been a rug or could have been the woodchips under my swingset from growing up that got soft when it rained, letting me run barefoot across them, soggy and cool.
Back on the couch, a cute new face came into view and introduced themselves. It was the owner, Amanda. She explained her vision for the Lounge; a place where people could come and spend time outside of home and work that encouraged socialization without the pressure to just drink it all down.
Her roots are in Kansas City, her roots are in hospitality. And as she shared with us, she wanted to do hospitality “my way.”
Her way feels good. She went on to share that the Third Place Lounge doesn’t have wifi and doesn’t really have outlets for guests. A place that encourages human to human (or human to book or craft or one of the many games on the shelves) interactions. My earlier daydreams of remote working were squashed, but that was okay. It made sense. I was with her. Fuck wifi. Let’s do real life.
Only that far into the conversation did I realize how well my body had let go. How now 591 days of sobriety guided me into a knowing of myself that things are going to be okay. And the celebratory sensation of letting my guard down that only a space as intentionally inclusive of folks who don’t drink alcohol could be. And also if we listen to the numbers, 9-5=4 and 4-1=3 so being 591 days sober is a sign to be at the Third Place. The numbers don’t lie.
This has been a long road. I’ve written about what it’s like to be sober in work environments. And shared what motivated me to get sober. But it’s something else to have a space not consider my needs an after thought, and instead a core design consideration.
Especially on the heels of Fountainhaus closing its doors tragically and unexpectedly (what’s with all the good queer spaces living little short lives), I can’t wait for all the comfort and knowing and safety I’m going to build in this new space where it’s okay to just be me.
Who wants to come have a drink with me?
Thank you for folks who reached out this week and shared what’s offering them solace and solvent through the energetic tar the universe is serving. Your suggestions alone made me feel like you were right there with me.
We’re watching the new True Detective and the season of Survivor that took place in China and the new season of Love on the Spectrum. I started The Idiot by Elif Batuman. I’m listening to this playlist I made when I drove around in the snow in Utah a few weeks back, it’s a mix of easy listening weird queer songs and ABBA which… tracks.
The year is already getting rather strumming with travel and events and games and birthdays and dinners and being alive. Being alive is cool.
Love yall and hope you’re finding some sun (Kansas City, wow do these beams feel so fucking good).