Kicking off Ireland

December 30, 2008

They wanted to know what I had written in my notebook. Oh, that little black book had become more valuable to me than gold, sitting in my back pocket while holding my secrets of the past two weeks. Every question I had, every song I heard, every new thing that I had learned was kept filed away in its pages. Snug, compacted, loved, protected.

I looked up and Devlin's family was staring back expectantly. There were so many faces that I didn't recognize yet, and the kitchen seemed to close in on me. It was halfway through my first day in Ireland and I had scribbled incessantly within the pages of my moleskin. Now it was time to share the things that I had mindlessly jotted down. "Alright," I said, and flipped the cover open. Devlin was already smiling.

"Guinness before breakfast," I started. They laughed. It was the first thing we did when we got into Dublin: We found a pub and suckled on the lifeblood of Ireland. "With a splash of blackberry currant," I added, as it was the miracle additive that turned Guinness, that heavy midnight beer, into the juice of gods. The ladies smiled.

"Trinity College and then an Irish breakfast on O' Connells Street." I saw chops licking and mouths salivating at the mention of it. Toast, eggs, bangers, tomato, black pudding, white sausage, baked beans and tea. What a meal, I remembered it clearly, and that lingering feeling of lethargy and laziness and yet, immense and total satisfaction.

"Go on," someone said, pulling my attention from memories of food to the next bullet point. "A pint of Guinness at Toners." That would mean I had breakfast sandwiched in between two pints. I already felt at one with Ireland. "And then a walk over the Ha'Penny Bridge and a stroll through St. Stephen's Greens." We were only accomplishing so much because we had met up with one of Devlin's friends, Mark, who was a native Dubliner. He pulled out the stops to show a new girl around, and we efficiently traversed between one landmark to another, usually with a beer in between.

"We had an Irish coffee in Bewley's." Bewley's on Grafton Street is a Dublin landmark, known for being not only the longest established cafe in Ireland, but one of the biggest as well. "And then another pint of Guinness in Temple Bar." That would be the fourth drink of the day, not to be confused with night. Laughter. Rapid Irish/English was throw around the kitchen, and jokes were made about me being tossed right into the midst of Irish culture. I blushed.

Although it was dinner by the time Devlin and I had arrived in Arklow, and despite feeling as if I had already lived a full day, we were hardly halfway through. I would have been awake for a full 24 hours before I fell asleep, but I had no idea such events were in store. So, when invited to go out for yet another pint in a small town pub, I willingly agreed and was swept away into the inner workings of an equally small town lifestyle.

Although we left the kitchen community, we were happily joined by Alan and Carol, Devlin's cousin and girlfriend respectively. I ordered a bottle of Bulmers Cider to mix things up, and secretly nursed on it for a few hours. I had a foreboding fear of the intensity in which the Irish were presumed to drink, and I was determined to stay above it.

The pub was small and mostly empty, probably because new years eve was the following day and the citizens of Arklow were on reserve. As one would expect in a small town, each person knew the other in an intimate way and I was sticking out like a sore thumb on a crustacean. At one point, when all my comrades were out for a smoke, a man stumbled by and stopped at my empty table. He stared at me in a way where I knew he was trying to figure out just what made the scene before him so unfamiliar. New curtains? Different chairs? Better lighting? As soon as he realized that it was me who was the surprise new addition, he cracked a large drunken smile, pointed in my direction and said, "Woaaaaahhhh!" I blinked and looked around and then back at the man who was gawking at me. Except, he was done, arm down and stumbling away. Devlin came back and I was still trying to figure out what had just happened.

Soon we were joined by John, Devlin's uncle, who took my hand and kissed it upon his arrival. I looked around for answers to his behavior, but everyone was simply looking up and smiling. I didn't get it then, but it was just a show of Irish humor. I sat down perplexed, sipping away at my drink and straining to understand what everyone was saying.

At one point, after everyone had a few beers, Devlin caught on to the fact that I was only half way done with my cider. As soon as this was announced, I knew I was in trouble. It took about sixty seconds for a shot of Baby Guinness to appear before my face, John grinning and Devlin looking satisfied. Suddenly, everyone began singing Happy Birthday. For the third time that night, I looked around for answers to the absurd behavior that surrounded me. It wasn't my birthday. Not knowing what else to do, I took the shot and the table cheered.

It's funny what a little bit of alcohol can do to a persons outlook. I went from being the only sober person within a two mile radius to the happiest girl on the block. I even began to understand the Irish chatter that a half hour before was entirely nonsensical. My innocent mistake was that I announced this, and with great amusement, I was brought out another Baby Guinness. Suddenly, not only my friends were singing Happy Birthday, but the entire pub as well. Two shots in thirty minutes and a total of three merry unbirthdays to me. What was going on?

By this time, it was well known that I was the new kid in town and everyone was sauced enough to openly inquire where from. My meek, "Hawaii," was always responded with a drunken, "HAWAII 5 O!!!" Which was followed by pantomimed surfing that would last until they stumbled, fell, crashed or just forgot what they were doing in the first place. It was around this time that I learned the commonly used word, "Craic," or the Gaelic equivalent to having a good time.

Eventually, the old drunk guy who had pointed at me earlier stumbled by and introduced himself. Carol said he was a great poet, and he took that as an invitation to swoon me. The poet-god pulled up a chair and steadied his gaze, staring me in the eyes. The table grew quiet and he recited:

"Allow my eyes to close

and leave my dreams untouched

to cradle my tomorrow

and for the moment that is now.

I think I've crossed the Rubicon

as there are few moments in any given day

that I don't catch a fleeting glimpse
of you passing my minds eye.
You may have sown the seeds
of all that you will ever wish to reap
within the gardens of my heart."

And with applause and pub-wide cheer, he got up and walked away. Joe, the poet-god, the gawker, the drunk, just created a poem for me. I looked up at Devlin and I began to think that that mischievous smile hadn't left his face the whole day.

Inspired by this spontaneous bout of poetry and fueled by the rumor of me being an avid writer, John came over and asked me to create something. Intimidated by the natural talent around me, I declined while he insisted. "What do you see around you, right now?" He asked, and my heart panicked at the thought of instant literature. "Family!" I shouted, as it was the first thing that came to mind. "Good," he said, "I want three lines when I come back from my smoke." I don't do quick poetry, in fact, I don't do poetry. As much as I wanted to ignore this game, I also felt like I would be missing out on something larger if I didn't at least attempt to humor him. Understanding that participating was part of my experience, I scribbled the following onto a clean page in my notebook, "Family. Small town living, it's like nothing I've ever experienced. I've seen cathedrals and distinguished monuments, stood in places of great historical events, and yet none of that compares to the feeling of instant family." John came back as I doodled in the final period. He held out his hand, I ripped out the page, and he put it in his pocket. The anxiety of having my thoughts scrutinized in front of me was eliminated, and I felt instantly glad that he had such honest words hidden away in a place he'll soon forget. I imagined him stumbling upon it in the morning, sober and residually fuzzy, and it would make him smile or laugh or gag, and that would be that.

The juke box swept itself into my head, putting forth incredible songs that eased my tension and caused the pub to sing along. John, a renowned singer and musician in his own right, was even having his songs played back over the speakers. Confused, yet again, I leaned over to Alan and asked, "is he famous?" He laughed out loud. No one takes me seriously.

Eventually, as all good times go, it was time to leave. The pub was closing and the barman was coaxing us out. The atmosphere had changed into something more unified, and the table that was once occupied by four had become an island that housed many. The juke box was unplugged, but John and the rest sang songs with no bass line or drums or steady rhythm. It was the sound of soulful, Irish song in the heart of an empty Irish pub. This would later be described to me as a session in the midst of a lock in. I was told later that I wouldn't have had this experience were I not in a small town as a friend of a local family. I felt a surge of gratitude for such a personal and once in a lifetime experience.

After an hour or two of singing and drinking past closing, it really was time to go. Devlin, Alan, Carol and I drank what was left of our pints and walked home. Here, we drank yet some more, listening to music and lounging on couches. At one point, near 4am, Carol walked in with four cups filled with a swallow of something that visually resembled vodka. "Don't smell it, just drink it," Alan said, and after a slurred "Slàinte," (Gaelic for "Cheers") we drank something known as Poitín, a traditional Irish spirit that is among the strongest alcoholic beverages in the world. Had I known what I was drinking at the time, I would have found an excuse to evade the poisoning of my liver. And yet, I imbibed and survived to tell the story of Irish Moonshine. Let's just say we all fell asleep shortly after and didn't wake up till noon.

My first day in Ireland would set the tone for the rest of my stay, drinking for lunch until breakfast and sleeping whatever time in between. Guinness, more Guinness and a lifetime of inebriation.