Pastel-colored flowers painted on a delicate porcelain teacup that sits atop its companion saucer made of equal fragility.  Alongside the dainty duo lies a single, untarnished silver spoon.  The spoon rests next to a napkin that has been starched and bleached within an inch of its life so that it can, for all intents and purposes, appear new and unsullied.  And for good measure, it has been artfully transformed into a swan with the more stubborn stains discreetly hidden beneath a carefully folded wing.  The numbered tables are round, each draped with a meticulously embroidered white cloth where, at the center, a candle nestles snuggly inside an ornate and polished silver candlestick.  The candle brings life to each table as the flickering pulse of its flame melts the unscented wax beneath it.   Tiered silver trays filled with tea cakes and finger-sized sandwiches are displayed on each table and available for the taking by the stylishly-dressed, well-groomed and, by all appearances, refined patrons.  The otherwise modest room is paradoxical as the candle-lit tables radiate warmth and intimacy against the backdrop of garishly overstated and bold floral-papered walls that are stacked high with the fragile china and fragrant tea.  Exotic teas that are served by the uniformed and white-gloved baristas who feverishly conjure and steep the hot, aromatic elixirs into liquid perfection.  The enchanting shoppe is serene, seemingly under a celestial spell that is summoned by hushed and polite conversations, soft string music, and the muffled clinking sound of stirring silver spoons submerged inside their teacups.  The gentle sounds work in harmony with the fragrant, hot tea to create a hypnotic atmosphere that illustrates a façade of peace and tranquility. However, when viewed at a closer range, it is revealed to be not much more than an exclusive meeting place that is as pretentious as the clientele who frequent it.    Oops.    Maybe that is unfair and sounds a bit harsh.  But as Samuel Langhorne Clemens, otherwise known as Mark Twain, pointed out with tongue in cheek, “There are no people who are quite so vulgar as the over-refined.”  We are agreed, unfair or not.  It is generally the over-refined who come in droves to these quaint, yet gilded, little tea shoppes where the more highbrowed among us feel right at home.  That being said, there are usually two or more sides to any story worth telling.  Stories that examine glaring societal disparities where we regularly speak in contradictions as we endeavor to build, not break down, impenetrable walls and further deepen, rather than connect, unbridgeable chasms amidst pervasive opposition, righteousness and futile misunderstandings.  And at its root is the familiar anger that we have become conditioned to expect, but not necessarily accept unconditionally.  It is no surprise that the proverbial ‘twain’ in these all-too-common stories never get a chance to meet, and even if they do meet, it is under the strain of already bitter circumstances.  Notwithstanding the fact that ‘never’ is a very long time.  The quaint little tea shoppe is located on a corner of a busy and bustling Main Street.  In the spirit of competition, just down the street on the opposite corner sits another type of establishment that appears to happily lack the refinement of its long-standing and, in this case, hubristic rival.  And that is the bar.   The bar, as you can well imagine, looks and sounds a little different than the tea shoppe.  Even from a distance.  Differences that become more obvious and unambiguous as you begin to stroll along the sidewalk away from the tea shoppe and towards the bar.  Your ignited senses become heightened as you are seduced by the faint rhythm of a drumbeat’s vibrations.  Like a slow-rising crescendo, beckoning you towards it, the sound becomes more intense the closer you get.   Before you know it, the music quickly seeps into the pores of your body until it makes direct contact with your soul.  In your periphery, you vaguely notice the passersby who are watching you shake and shimmy down the street as you have now given over the controls of your body to the music which is, incidentally, leading you directly to the bar.  And then you reach your destination and find yourself standing at its entrance door.  Forming binoculars with your hands, you put your face to the glass door and peek inside.    Yes.    This place looks and sounds more like it.   Without further ado, you swing open the door and are pulled into the uninhibited and welcoming embrace of the bar whose cadenced pulse can be felt beneath your feet.  Once inside, the music borders on deafening and is in strong competition with the wall-to-wall people who can be seen yelling at each other in order to be heard. Plus, it doesn’t hurt that the spirits served here have the ability to break down those otherwise indestructible barriers, loosening lips and hips as singing and dancing is a well-known side effect of the specialized and made-to-order elixirs.  Sweet, complex and bitter concoctions made from distilled and fermented fruits now being mixed, shaken and stirred by the bartenders who energetically serve them to the throng of fully-galvanized revelers in different sized and shaped glasses.  Proving that the size or shape of the glass doesn’t matter, what matters is what is inside. Like a flame to a candle, the longer the imbibers stay at the bar, the more convivial and festive they become.  A taste of the forbidden fruit, as it were, leaves you wanting more not less, therefore, you plant your feet to the floor that is now sticky from fallen drinks until the last round is called just before closing time.  While you are admittedly tired, you are not ready to leave just yet.  This was fun.  The kind of fun that makes you momentarily pause with your half-full glass suspended in midair as you consider whether or not this level of fun tips the scale and leans heavily into the land of the …