The sudden closing of one of Seattle’s most beloved bars has landed like a punch to the chest. I wasn’t able to be there for the final night (forces beyond my control saw to that) and I’ve been lost in memory, turning over the moments, big and small, that made that place feel like a second home. I was lucky enough to be there on opening night. Just two doors down from Rumba, on that little stretch of Pike Street, a handful of bars carved out their own shared world—a neighborhood within a neighborhood. We passed the same crumpled bills between our tills, night after night. We traded regulars like stories, sent fried chicken sliders and DTOs down the block, and received boomerangs of bright and beautiful cocktails in return. If it was the best Singapore Sling in Seattle, you knew exactly where it came from: Foreign National. There was a kind of daily poetry to the exchange—they brought us fresh coconut water for our punches, we let them use our crushed ice machine. I always felt like we got the better end of that deal. But more than that, it meant their crew became a near-daily presence and became part of the rhythm of our days and nights. And that team… they were something else. Thoughtful, creative, deeply hospitable, and full of passion for their bar. The kind of crew that made a bar feel not just well-run, but loved. Every interaction, every visit, was a reminder that you were in very good hands. I even had the honor of guest bartending behind that tiny, exquisite bar. There’s so much I could say—so many memories waiting their turn—but for now, I’m still sorting through the ache of it all. Foreign National, you were magic. And you’ll be missed more than words can say.