Beyond the front of the cavernous space, there aren’t any windows, so the light is always the same inside, and you begin to tell time by the seconds ticking down on the game clock. Those go faster or slower depending on what kind of offense Georgia is playing against and how ticky-tack the officiating crew is. But it’s always on a completely different timeline than any of the millions of people just outside the bar’s door, who are somehow unaware that Something Important is happening. There are only two things you can do after leaving the Georgia bar: go get another ill-advised drink down the block and then maybe some Taco Bell, or go home and watch someone else’s football until you fall asleep on the couch. You’ll always be surprised that there’s another football game on so late. You’ll never remember that it’s not two in the morning.

The people inside the Georgia bar don’t look like the people in my Brooklyn neighborhood or my media industry social circle. They look like southerners, which is something I didn’t really know was possible until I left the South, because in the South, they just look like people. The men are taller and broader, on average, than the people around me in New York, and their jeans are cut a little differently. The women are blonder and curvier, and certainly more proficient with a curling iron. Everyone is well-scrubbed and employed-looking, like they have health insurance good enough that they aren’t afraid to try using it. There aren’t a lot of visible tattoos except for mine, all of which are themed around the state in some way.