"An alcoholic is someone you don't like who drinks as much as you do."
--Dylan Thomas

No, I'm joking. My trip to White Horse was probably one of the best experiences on this list.

I headed down to White Horse in the evening, which in New York is about five o'clock. It was full dark by the time I even hit Hudson.

I wasn't familiar with this part of Greenwich Village, so it was a little bit daunting, but eventually, I saw the unmistakable lights.

I walked closer, excited to be somewhere where I could sit down and do some live writing again. 4 Patchin Place and The Algonquin had been fun and educational, but it wasn't the same as being able to work under the influence of centuries of artistic talent.

When I got close enough to see the windows, though, I also saw this:


…Well, that put a dampener on my evening.

But I walked in anyway, undeterred. This was a literary and historical landmark. Surely, they didn't expect people over 25 to be the only ones interested in books?

Sure enough, when I asked the head waitress, she nodded and let me in. I smiled at her gratefully before taking out my camera and snapping pictures, zeroing in on the Dylan Thomas posters all over the walls. That was all there was, on practically every single wall. Dylan Thomas, Dylan Thomas, and more Dylan Thomas.

Hey, I thought a bit indignantly. Where are the O'Neill posters? The cummings posters? Kerouac?

Taverns have a long history of literary patronage, and the White Horse in particular was situated smack dab in the middle of art country, so many writers have been there to either hang out with their buddies or sit down to do their work. However, despite the cadre of other successful writers who went to White Horse, I suppose Dylan Thomas was the one who made them really famous since this was his favorite place, and he was famous.

But even so, I still think the other guys deserve at least a little bit of recognition, too.


Since the White Horse has such an extensive patron list with so many writers from such dramatically different periods in time, both temporal and literary, that I don't want to focus specifically on any of them. Suffice to say that a lot of people who were good at what they did also drank a lot. Maybe it's only possible to write a masterpiece after knocking a few back. Maybe if some writers today hadn't substituted caffeine for alcohol, we'd have the next Great American Novel.

I'm sure the walls of this place have seen some pretty interesting things, though. Supposedly, in the men's bathroom, someone once scrawled "JACK GO HOME!" on the wall in an effort to remind Jack Kerouac to, well, go home. But I'm not a guy, so I have no idea if that's been washed out and painted over or if it's still there.

The White Horse has three rooms: the first is the main bar and the second and third are more like cafés, where they serve food as well as beer. Like any drinking establishment, it was darkly lit and sort of dingy-looking. I was surprised when my pictures came back with maroon walls—it was impossible to tell in the near-blackness. The atmosphere, though, was warm and friendly. This was somewhere people came to unwind with their friends.

As I settled down in a corner booth, back to the window, I wondered how anyone could see to write in here. I'm sitting under two lights, one actually over the table, one just over the edge. Christmas lights line the windows behind me, and the street light is pouring in illumination from outside. And still, it's pretty hard to see anything, and that was with modern technology. I couldn't imagine trying to write by candles or even early electric light. Not in here, and not at night.

The space was low-ceilinged and cozy, rooms packed with tables that were almost side by side. The wall partitions made the tavern seem smaller, more intimate, and the booth partitions provided a barrier from the distant murmur of conversation.


Ever since I'd gotten my laptop, I've found it hard to write in longhand. I like editing as I go, deleting and rewriting constantly, over and over again until I'm either too sick of rereading it to rewrite it one more time or actually happy with what I have. In longhand, this means I end up scratching out pages of words, cutting sentences in half by blocks at a time until I can't even remember where I started from. So understably, I think, the journal is not really my best friend.

But the dimness of the White Horse made it the ideal place for brooding in longhand. It's not a great study space, obviously, but for deep considerations and overhearing conversations, it's not altogether a bad place to go.

I wasn't able to get as full of as an experience as I liked. The tavern still doesn't take credit cards, only cash. The food menu is fairly basic—burgers, sandwiches, fries, hot dogs—but it's also pretty cheap. They have a long list of beers, to be expected, and some ciders as well. Most people don't go to get work done, but it's possible to do so. Otherwise, bring some friends and drink up.

As long as you're over 25.





Note: I know I've been starting each entry with quotes from actual works by the writers, but this one seemed too appropriate to pass up. I mean, a tavern is basically a café with even worse lighting and alcohol on the menu. To writers, anyway.

Directions:

567 Hudson St.
New York, NY 10014
1 train to Christopher St./Sheridan Sq.
B, D, F, V or A, C, E trains to W. 4th St.