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So, I’m scrolling through the internet, as one does, and I come across a story about a new cocktail bar. And it’s not just any bar. It’s an “immersive experience” in a historic 1920s bank that changes its entire theme—its entire identity—every nine months. The first stop on this world tour? Havana.
Give me a break.
The place is called “Long Weekend,” which is already a red flag. It sounds less like a bar and more like a three-day sale at a mattress store. They’ve got nine custom rum blends, a gallery for Cuban artists, and live Cuban music. Every nine months, they’ll press a button, swap out the art, change the playlist, and pretend to be somewhere else. Tokyo? Paris? A Martian colony? Who knows.
And people will flock to it. They’ll take their pictures for Instagram against the carefully curated backdrop, sip their $22 mojitos, and feel like they’ve traveled. They’ll talk about the "authenticity" of the experience, completely oblivious to the irony. This isn't a bar; it's a content-generation machine disguised as a bar. It's the Epcot Center of cocktail lounges, where "culture" is something you consume for two hours before moving on to the next exhibit. But is it a bar, or is it just a nine-month-long pop-up with a liquor license? Where's the soul in a place that completely reinvents itself before the barstools even get worn in?
The Quest for Manufactured Authenticity
Let's be real. "Long Weekend" is the logical endpoint of our obsession with "experiences" over, well, just things. We don’t want to just drink a cocktail; we want a narrative to go with it. We need a story to tell our friends, a photo to post, a feeling that we’re part of something exclusive and fleeting. Future Bars, the group behind this, knows this. They’re smart. They’ve built their empire on speakeasies and themed joints. They’re not selling drinks; they’re selling a temporary identity.
And I get it, to a point. Who doesn't want to escape? But this feels different. It feels cynical. The beverage director talks about scouring catalogs for "intriguing rums at mixable price points." It sounds less like a passion project and more like an inventory management strategy. They even have a "Keyholder Club" where members get a safe deposit box in the old bank vault. It’s a perfect metaphor: they’re literally locking away a manufactured sense of belonging and selling you the key.
This is a bad idea. No, 'bad' doesn't cover it—this is a symptom of a cultural sickness. We've become so desperate for something real that we're willing to pay a premium for a high-quality fake. It’s the same impulse that makes people buy pre-ripped jeans. We want the aesthetic of a life well-lived without the inconvenience of actually living it. What happens when the Havana theme gets old? Do they just toss the culture in a dumpster and order a new one from Amazon? It's all just so... temporary.
A Sticky Floor and a Wall of Ghosts
Then I read about another place. A dive bar in West Des Moines, Iowa, called "Work in Progress." It's located underneath a concert venue, the Val Air Ballroom. It’s probably dark, smells a little like stale beer and regret, and the floor is definitely sticky. There ain’t no theme. There’s no "beverage director." It’s just a bar.
But it has something "Long Weekend" will never have: a history written by the people who pass through it.
Bands that play upstairs at the Val Air come down to this bar to hang out after their shows. And the staff, instead of hiring a social media manager, just takes a Polaroid picture. They stick these photos on the wall. A whole wall of them, just hanging there next to the bar. Faded, candid, uncurated moments. A grainy shot of a guitarist from some indie band laughing with a bartender. A lead singer looking exhausted but happy, holding a cheap beer. Each Polaroid is a tiny, analog ghost, a record of a real moment that happened in that real place.
That wall of photos is more "immersive" than any nine-month-long Cuban theme park could ever be. You can’t buy that. You can’t design it in a marketing meeting. It has to be earned, night after night, beer after beer, conversation after conversation. That kind of character only comes with time, with consistency, with being the same reliable, unglamorous place for anyone who walks through the door. It’s the opposite of a "long weekend"—it’s a long life.
So what are we really looking for when we go out? Are we looking for a meticulously crafted set piece, or are we looking for a place where a real, unpredictable moment might actually happen? A place that might be a little rough around the edges but feels, for lack of a better word, honest. I just don't know anymore, and honestly... it's a little depressing to think about. Maybe I'm just old and yelling at clouds. Then again, maybe I'm the only one who sees the emperor is wearing a brand-new, theme-appropriate, and offcourse, very expensive, set of clothes.
Just Pour Me a Damn Beer
At the end of the day, one of these places is a backdrop, and the other is a story. One is a transaction, and the other is a community, however fleeting. One is built to be forgotten and replaced in nine months, and the other is built to be remembered. I know which one I'd rather be in. The world doesn't need more pop-up fantasies; it needs more places with sticky floors and walls full of ghosts.