It is sunny, but hardly warm in the shade. We decide to go inside the Bulldog Pub after months at its outdoor terrace. As we are sipping our drinks and puffing at our cigar, I look around the familiar place. Everything is kind of new after so many months. “Sparta,” I read a sign on a paneled wall. My beloved is confused: “What?” I point at the sign, but cannot read what is written just beneath the name of the Greek city of world renown. “Special Artois,” she says. It must be a beer of choice. I keep looking around, and I find a sign on another wall: “Stella Artois.” The Belgian beer’s name is everywhere around. I grow quiet. After a while, my beloved breaks the silence: “What’s brewing in your mind?” “Ah,” I sigh despondently, “it is amazing what this civilization of ours has ended up doing with glorious names of the past!” She remains quiet. After so many years together, she must be tired of my diatribes. “Sparta,” I shake my head and sigh again. Luckily for both of us, an incredibly fat man walks into the pub, and we turn our gaze toward his drooping belly.