CUBBYHOLE 281 WEST 12TH STREET, NEW YORK, NY OPEN 1994-PRESENT (CUBBY HOLE, PICTURED) “Sixteen years before Edie Windsor sued the U.S. government, in 2010, to claim legal rights as the spouse of her same-sex partner, this clamorous, dime-sized dive in the heart of Greenwich Village opened, becoming not only a beloved lesbian hangout but also, in the words of one longtime patron, ‘both temple and U.N. of the LGBT community.’ What Cubbyhole lacks in size, it makes up for in mirth and unapologetic spunk. An unsuspecting newcomer looking for the bathroom might find herself staring, instead, at the ceiling: a phantasmagoria of tchotchkes, from pinatas to Venetian masks and Chinese paper lanterns, evoking an indiscriminate matrimony of the world’s various festivals. Recently, the only time the bar was close to quiet was the week after the annual pride parade, which had evidently done a number on a good many would-be Cubby faithfuls. ‘How you feelin’, hon?’ a blond bartender with a Belfastian brogue inquired sympathetically of a regular. A slow shake of the head from the respondent: ‘Still shattered.’ At the other end of the bar, a woman waited for her date and decided to ease her nerves by ordering the Pink Lemonade, a saccharine vodka drink with cherries which, at four dollars, did the job splendidly. Next to her, an old-timer reminisced about her most memorable moments at the parade over a Light & Stormy (tequila, ginger beer). She had seen Edie at the bar only onceduring the past year, but celebrities weren’t the reason she came. ‘I can’t really say why,’ she said, explaining that she’d moved away from the Village six years ago. ‘But I end up back here at least once a week, like clockwork.’” (Jiayang Fan, The New Yorker, 2016)                           

CUBBYHOLE 281 WEST 12TH STREET, NEW YORK, NY OPEN 1994-PRESENT (CUBBY HOLE, PICTURED) “Sixteen years before Edie Windsor sued the U.S. government, in 2010, to claim legal rights as the spouse of her same-sex partner, this clamorous, dime-sized dive in the heart of Greenwich Village opened, becoming not only a beloved lesbian hangout but also, in the words of one longtime patron, ‘both temple and U.N. of the LGBT community.’ What Cubbyhole lacks in size, it makes up for in mirth and unapologetic spunk. An unsuspecting newcomer looking for the bathroom might find herself staring, instead, at the ceiling: a phantasmagoria of tchotchkes, from pinatas to Venetian masks and Chinese paper lanterns, evoking an indiscriminate matrimony of the world’s various festivals. Recently, the only time the bar was close to quiet was the week after the annual pride parade, which had evidently done a number on a good many would-be Cubby faithfuls. ‘How you feelin’, hon?’ a blond bartender with a Belfastian brogue inquired sympathetically of a regular. A slow shake of the head from the respondent: ‘Still shattered.’ At the other end of the bar, a woman waited for her date and decided to ease her nerves by ordering the Pink Lemonade, a saccharine vodka drink with cherries which, at four dollars, did the job splendidly. Next to her, an old-timer reminisced about her most memorable moments at the parade over a Light & Stormy (tequila, ginger beer). She had seen Edie at the bar only onceduring the past year, but celebrities weren’t the reason she came. ‘I can’t really say why,’ she said, explaining that she’d moved away from the Village six years ago. ‘But I end up back here at least once a week, like clockwork.’” (Jiayang Fan, The New Yorker, 2016)