I was at the site of the original Guinness pub, in Ireland somewhere, as if that were a thing. The place where the very brew was born. It was deceptively modest on the outside, just a plain old corner building with stucco walls. Its name was written on the outside in the original characters, not even Irish but something ancient and runic, indecipherable. I went in. It was what you might expect: a big song and dance about where you were and why it mattered. Like the Tardis, it was bigger on the inside. Tourists circulated from the bar section to the meat pie section to the elaborate, expanded downstairs with a full French bakery. Still the warped floors betrayed centuries of wear and I marveled at the cost and effort it must take to keep it up.