I go out there.
I write about what I find.

There is something to be said about a nervous waiter. Though what that might be eludes me at the present moment, as he – a young man, above 6ft, with a slight stutter in his step and exhaustion in his eyes – towers over my shoulder. In his mind, I am sure he has already explained both the menu and taken our order. But in mine, a menu is desired and an order is a distant dream. I have been in suburban London for eight days now, and this afternoon, I am donning a redcoat once again, in the back garden of my fourth British pub.

Over the next few months, Grace and I are, primarily, housesitting. That means we are lucky enough to be forced to travel through this country at the pace of someone who had to walk to their next destination. One house here, in western London, for two weeks. One east, for another two. And others, such as Jackie's, we'll spend in more remote regions.

That has given me an opportunity, even in my first week, to see things far more interesting than any palace or clock.

Life on this side of the pond is peculiar. In relation to back home, and contrary to what others would have me believe, I do not see much in common between America and Britain beyond common-law and drinking water. And even the latter is less common here. While you could (quite easily) call those relatively important similarities, the boots-on-the-ground view I have today sees beyond such trivialities.

Put plainly, the heat in London has been brutal (above 90º), but there is rarely air conditioning; the sidewalks are busy, yet they are astonishingly quiet; and the trains and buses are both on time, and every time, clean.

That, my friend, is difference. One for worse, one of personal preference, and one for better. But there is one thing I have been given here, that no American city has ever given me, that I would wish to bring with on my distant flight home.

America certainly does not like third place. In fact, you could easily say we have an obsession with avoiding second place. As for first place, we resent not occupying it. But the places I am speaking of are far more important than medals in the Olympics: they are physical realms.

In 1989, American sociologist Ray Oldenburg (of course, the expert on most every topic is American) first made note of three places: the first place is home; the second place is work; and the third place . . . well, Ray was the unfortunate sap who found that America doesn't have them.

Due to lack of adequate American reference, Ray's book, The Great Good Place, lays out what qualities make a third place:

They are open and inviting: You don't need an invitation or appointment, and you can come and go as you please. They must be comfortable and informal: You feel that you belong there, or at least feel as though you don't not. They are convenient: It's close enough to visit often, ideally right in your own neighborhood. They must be unpretentious: Everyone is on the same level, there's nothing fancy or fragile, and it's not expensive. There are regulars: And often there's a host who greets people as they arrive. Conversation is the main activity: Discussion, debate, and gossip are part of the mix. Laughter is frequent: The mood is light-hearted and playful. Joking and witty banter are encouraged.

That is an elaborate way to say, a third place is actually just a British pub.

America, for all I have seen in 43 states and years on the road, has no such thing. We are burdened with Blackrock's strip malls and what's left of rotting, decrepit, actual malls – which themselves used to be a sort of third place. We have bars, but they exist for the depressed to watch their sports bet, which was placed with a credit card, deteriorate before their eyes. We have coffee shops, but have I ever visited one to do anything more than bum wifi and stare at this very screen? Hardly.

Though that was not always so! Oldenburg makes the case, actually, that one of the most important components of the Revolutionary War was the tavern. There, a young British subject in the American Colony would escape into community and conversation – which, because of its social distance in comparison to home or work, allowed for an expanding of both the social circle and the mind.

But here, between the flaws which I am certain this country has but I have not yet spent enough time to uncover, is something beautiful... Yes, in these suburban neighborhoods, the time of the year and the length of the days – sunset is well after 9pm, and the UK sits far more north than I ever realized – gives flowers plenty of time to bloom even into the end of July. Yes, the road between the shops is often closed to cars and lined with people sitting at tables outside cafes and shops. Yes, the fish and chips are astonishing... But more notably, within 2 minutes of our house, sits a pub.

It is near 200 years old, surrounded on both street-facing sides by extensive seating arrangements, including benches, with umbrellas and warmers and a massive bucket of cotton – not polyester – blankets to choose from for when the conversation inevitably continues as the sun inevitably sets.

That is on the south side.

On the north, a 6.5 minute walk away, sits one other.

And in that other, there is a waiter standing over my shoulder.

I would like to order the steak burger, with a side of chips (fries), and a pint.

Grace would like the same.

But we are waiting on this man to overcome his exhaustion for a sentence or two, or perhaps to disrupt his nerves with a stutter that breaks my train of thought. And until that moment, when he does either or a mixture of both, I will continue to look around the courtyard where we sit, which is filled with a couple in their 30s, enjoying dinner with wine; with a family at the far end, eight to a table with kids running around; with four middle aged friends, in-between a story and great laughter; with my wife and me observing all of them, and wondering about our future: both big: should we make a trip to Iceland or Greece or Ireland – or all of the aforementioned while we're here – and small: eating out today, means eating in tomorrow . . . so what should we make?

Thus, in the middle of a warm evening moment such as this, which nears its retirement as I can just begin to sense the gentleman about to part his lips and muster the courage to engage with us, is exactly the moment a pub like this exists to hold – both for us, and for all others who have come through that front door in the last 175 years.