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After going out for Happy Hour — the locally sanctioned way to socialize here — I arrived at a bar called Recessions, which, of course, is located in a basement. The bar area could be found down a flight of steps that resembled the stairwell of some abandoned Hyatt, and through an archway, leading into a dimly lit room with a pool table in the middle. Men in button-downs and slacks drank from oversized beer mugs, and women unfastened their blazers. There was velvet, or possibly velour, up on some of the walls, like wallpaper. I didn’t want to stay too long.