As much as it brought me to questions about my own judgment, as in why did I over enjoy the Martinique rhum the musician brought by, and thoughts, insights of the Chekhovian of life, or on other days the Dostoevskian, or the Dickensian, what-have-you, I was always left with good thoughts, small nuggets of inspirations that came with the brief encounters with fine people at the bar.  As with other things, it was a matter of opening one's eyes and seeing the good material of life before you.