Happy Saint Me Day

On Thursday the ladies went off on a bus tour for the day. I was scheduled to have three classes. The professor for the morning class cancelled it the week before, which was nice since it allowed me to head out late Wednesday on a stress-reliever. Then the afternoon class got cancelled on Wednesday when the substitute lecturer (yes substitutes in college, I don't get it) said she wouldn't be able to make it. So I did head into campus in the late afternoon for my last class with a plan to meet the ladies for dinner.

To make a long story short, the lecturer never showed. And no notice either. It's hard, too, on Irish time, to know when to give up. This was the same professor who once breezed in at twenty after the hour apologizing for being late. So how long does one hang around and wait for her? Apparently the consensus was about 25 minutes. So I left campus around half five and called down to the B&B; the ladies were supposed to be returning at 5:15. I got one of the B&B ladies on the phone. Our conversation went something like this:

"Hello this is E's son Pat, could I speak with her please."

"Hello?"

"Yes hi. Is E there please."

"Who is this?"

"This is her son, Pat."

"Who's Pat?"

"What?"

"Who's Pat?"

"Wait. Is this the bed and breakfast?"

"Oh yes it is, how can I help?"

"Okay, there is a woman staying there. Her name is E. This is her son. Is she there?"

"Who are you?"

"Her son Pat."

"Oh Pat! Hello there!" Like we're best friends. "They haven't come back from their bus trip yet."

"Okay, thanks."

I continue to check back at the B&B every half hour or so while having pints downtown. That's right, plural: pints. I was going to walk home and wait, but since I live in the other direction, it didn't seem to make sense. I kept thinking that as soon as I got home I'd get the call that they were ready meet for dinner. I finally get them on the phone at 7:15. Apparently the bus driver was a chatter. Of course they have to get changed and brush their teeth. At 8 they arrive at the pub. We walk a block away and enjoy a fabulous dinner and dessert at O'Deah's. My role consists of translating the ladies' Maine accents to our Eastern European waitress and back again. A bit after 10 we're back on the street. The ladies are tired after a long day and I send them on their way.

It is at this point in the week I begin living a double life. Not as a secret agent though. As a tour guide by day and pub closer at night. It started innocently enough. Walking home I realize I would really like a nightcap. I stop at Freeney's in the middle of downtown but it is packed. People are kicking off their St. Patrick's Day weekend with a bang. Coming out the door I see a fellow American exchange student I know. I pull a page out of middle brother's playbook on living alone in a faraway city. To wit, I invite myself along with them to a pub on the other side of the river where it is quieter. He's out with his brother and friend visiting from home. Upstairs at the Crane I buy the first round and we enjoy some traditional Irish music. I end up chatting with the couple next to me who are out enjoying their 26th wedding anniversary. They learn I am from Maine and comment that Maine is famous for its humor. Yes it is, I say, and turn my attention to the music.

That gets a good laugh. Feeling sharp I tell the joke about the man looking for Vinalhaven. He keeps passing a man in a rocking chair on a porch but doesn't get out of the car to ask for directions till he passes him a third time. Admitting he's lost, he goes up to the man and asks, "which way to Vinalhaven?"

Old man looks up and says, "don'tcha move a goddamn inch."

They love that one so I go ahead with the one where the two Mainers win the raffle at the county fair for a balloon ride. Only problem is they have to pilot it themselves. They get blown out over the ocean, get worried, but then get blown back over land. They're hopelessly lost. They see a farmer plowing in his field and holler out to him: "Where are we?"

Farmer stops plowing, looks up and shouts: "Yer in a balloon ya damn fools!"

Here is the kind of thing you can't make up: the couple I have told the joke to are president and secretary of the Galway Ballooning Society. For real. So of course from that point on we are best friends.

The Crane closes at half twelve, and one of my fellow Americans says we ought to hit a late bar (one that has a license to stay open until 2). So of course we do. I get home around 3, still wearing the backpack for classes that never happened.

. . .

The next day is St. Me Day, and I get up and out in the late morning to meet the ladies for the parade. It was one of those experiences I'm glad I got; to see a St. Patrick's Day parade in Ireland, but beyond that I can't say it was anything very special, unless you really like elementary school bands playing Irish whistles.

After the parade we walk into town but it is a mad house. We try to hang out in the beachhead pub for a bit, but I can see the ladies are not enjoying the loud, crowded, and boisterous atmosphere. I ask what they want to do since all the pubs in town will be this way. Surprisingly, they say they will head to the B&B, stopping at shops along the way - that I should stay and enjoy myself (there are a couple people I know in the pub). I almost feel guilty about it, but I agree. They wouldn't enjoy what I'd be doing, and I wouldn't enjoy what they were doing, right?

So I stay at the pub for a bit and end up talking to some of the people that work there, especially those who are off duty. There are two Galway county clubs in the All-Ireland Finals of hurling and Gaelic football. Both teams win and the crowd is even more celebratory. I end up trading bartending stories with some of the staff and we're getting along great. But I can tell I am falling victim to what my cousin calls "the shampoo theory," which says that drinking the day after is like re-lathering your hair with shampoo. It only takes a little bit and you are fully sudsy. I make a bold decision to try the Triple Lindy of drinking: the Buzz-Debuzz-Rebuzz. This is not for you rookies. It consists of taking a few hours off, preferably with a nap and a meal, then returning to the front.

I leave the pub around 6, stop at the Irish version of McDonald's - SuperMac's - and hit the hay around 7. I wake up at 10 and get back to the pub about 10:30. I dreamed the impossible dream. And accomplished it. The only thing left was the easiest part: rebuzz. And fortunately for me the people I knew and the ones I had met had hardly moved. I don't think I paid for another pint. As it got towards 2, the bartenders and a few of us (dare I say regulars?) were talking and one guy says, are you ready to head out. Sure I say, thinking the night has ended and it's time to go.

Incorrect. My new friends just assumed I was coming with them - one of them had the keys to his uncle's pub a few blocks over where we could all be on the drinking side of the bar. As we were heading in the door there, I heard some raised voices and scuffling. Pushing and shoving, the staff sent two people out onto the sidewalk and slammed the door shut.

"Those feckin assholes!" They said as they looked through the peepholes of the front doors. "The police will be here soon for sure!"

"Quick!" The nephew with the keys said, "everyone upstairs to the function room and don't make a sound!"

We hustled up the stairs, into what was essentially another level of the pub. Guys and girls hurried around the room pulling shades, then got everyone a pint. We posted a sentry at the door to watch the police come and remove the offending pugilists. For about 15 minutes I had the surreal experience of enjoying an ice cold pint on the second floor of a pub in the middle of Ireland on St. Me Day - in complete silence. Then the sentry came up and gave us the all clear. The police had made their arrests and headed off none the wiser!



From then on we loudly enjoyed our drinks and company, even playing a quick rugby match with Shane's shoe. I think I got home around 5. Ah, good times, good times.