Genre:  95 percent factual, 3 percent fiction, the rest humor.

 

My mom was Irish.   If she wasn’t she should have been. She was about 4 feet 11 inches tall, and she tipped the scales at a whopping 90 pounds.   She had beautiful red hair, woven in heaven no less, and a couple of freckles splashed on her nose by the angels just so they could spot her in a crowd. 

 

That’s about my only connection to Ireland. But on St. Paddy’s Day, that’s enough.   That’s when everyone wants to be Irish. Somewhere along the way I developed a taste for a pint or two of the malted brew, so I’ve never had a problem keeping up with those with paper credentials connecting them to old Éire. Put those impressive facts altogether and that was reason enough for me to harbor a lifelong desire to visit the old country. 

 

A few years ago I satisfied my longing with a sentimental journey across the Atlantic to the Emerald Isle.

 

A man’s got to have a goal or two when he travels, otherwise he could become just another face in the crowd—with no chance of anything distinctive happening to him, by him, for or around him.  Mine were to “watch the sun go down on Galway Bay”; get half-plastered in a pub with a bunch of locals while singing “When Irish eyes are smilin’ “; kiss the Blarney Stone; and generally make a complete fool of myself whilst traveling hither and yon across the countryside on the wrong side of the road. Later I added “staying alive while driving” after discovering the Irish were just as bad as the Italians behind the wheel of a car.

 

My wife (at the time) was my traveling companion. She promised to tolerate my foolishness on condition that we also travel on to Norway for a week with her relatives.   I agreed knowing I could use the time to sober up and recover somewhere up there among the boring fiords.

 

The Aer Lingus pilot was definitely Irish. We did not come in over the Emerald Isle at 30,000 feet, then drop like a lead balloon onto the runway. Oh no. We approached this piece of heaven with reverence. We were only about 1000 feet up as the coast line came into view. I’d never seen so many shades of green. Oh my God! Did they name this place right, or what? I could almost hear the angels singin’:

 

 

Then we dropped down to about 200 feet and throttled back to almost stalling speed so we could see everyone below—and every cow, and every tractor. I couldn’t quite make out freckles on any faces, but they were all smilin’ and wavin’ from the countryside. Not that’s what I call a welcoming!

 

The Irish don’t need instructions. And they don’t give any.   So, I climbed into the rental car on the wrong side, shifted into gear with my wrong hand, pulled out into the wrong lane of traffic—and we were off!   I went around the first of a thousand round-abouts the wrong way, went up and over a hill, only to be greeted by a farmer on a tractor doing 5 mph. Off to the left were half a dozen small white crosses marking this spot as dangerous to life and limb.   I’m nothing if not quick of hand and foot. I got that rental stopped with 6 inches to spare. The farmer never blinked.

 

One rain storm and a gallon of sweat later, we stopped at a diner for our first plate of good ol’ Irish stew. They had only carrot soup.   It tasted like shit. But we were on vacation and I was in a forgiving mood. In a very short time we were clear across Ireland. 

 

We stopped in Galway where JFK had a park named for him, and where there were more pretty young lassies than I had ever seen in my life.   One in particular had my attention. She couldn’t wait to tell me all about the sights and sounds in and around Galway. Well, to be honest, she was telling us—she was the tour guide, and I was in a group of about 20 gawkers. From the upper level of the bus with her scarlet hair blowin’ the wind, she was a thing to behold. She was pure beauty.  She was in her early 20s and a dead ringer for my own daughter. OMG, I thought. Is it OK to be infatuated by someone who looks like your own daughter? The answer came to me in a flash: “Yes! You’re on vacation and fantasies don’t count against you in Ireland.” When the tour ended I over tipped her while also complimenting her for her smile, her superior speaking skills, her impeccable knowledge of Irish history, and her sparkling eyes.   I’m almost positive I saw her pucker and form a small kiss with her lips.

 

The wind was blowing like crazy and the waves were rolling in on the coldest Galway Bay that ever was. But I was determined to watch the sun go down over this bay even if I had to freeze to death in the watching.    And that flask in my pocket filled with Irish whiskey was also sloshing away its approval. I ventured out onto the rocks to see, and to feel, and to memorize this glorious setting that had occurred more than 20,000 times in my lifetime without me in attendance. This one was all mine. And, yes, I definitely heard a choir singing as the mist hit my face:

 

 

Athenry was a study in medieval monasteries, too cold and too foreboding for me. I could only recall the haunting words somewhere in that song the Fields of Athenry and the poor bastard who was taken away to an offshore prison ship for stealing corn. This was not a pleasant place.

 

I couldn’t get that man from Nantucket and all the words that rhyme with bucket out of my head as we crossed into Limerick.   But every pub in and around the area was sparsely occupied with very well-behaved people. My God! I had learned the hard truth:   The Irish are not drinkers!   At least, they are not like boisterous Americans at a sports bar. Or at almost any social gathering. My random sample of pubs led me to this startling conclusion: The Irish have a pint and go home.   How disappointingly civilized is that? 

 

Well, at least there’s no need to make a hotel reservation anywhere in Ireland. The Bed & Breakfasts pop up everywhere. Each is run by a little old lady who wants to be your mother. And they will practically drag you out of bed to feed you a breakfast that is insanely nutritious. And huge. And they don’t charge very much. And they are so darned nice to you.

 

After four or five days of pleasant places and nice people I was about to give up.   Where were the fist fights, the drunken brawls, the loud singing? How about an ill-tempered leprechaun?

 

With my spirit dragging, I spotted another pleasant looking B&B in a small town and decided to call it a day.   We went in, dropped our luggage, and decided to walk around a bit.

 

We came upon a carnival. Maybe my luck would change here.    Unfortunately, it turned out to be about as exciting as any small carnival in any small town in the USA. Except for the beer tent.  Well, the beer was warm, it tasted bad, and the guy with the accordion made Lawrence Welk look and sound like he knew something about music. But I suffered through a couple of pints. 

 

We went back to the B&B, and my wife went straight to bed. But I had noticed there was activity going on somewhere down the stairs leading to the basement. A bit curious, I decided to drift down perhaps for a nightcap.

 

When I reached the bottom of the stairs, to my surprise there was a large dining room with a few patrons and a bar. I cozied up to the bar, and to my even more pleasant surprise, there was a very attractive young blonde behind it. She asked me if I wanted a drink. I told her that I was sick of warm beer and did not even like Guinness.  Did she have any wine?   After hearing a few choices, I settled for a nice glass of German Spätlese.

 

On my second glass I discovered the lady behind the bar was from Denmark.   And she had an equally attractive sister who had come in and was now seated at the bar next to me. We were a trio of talkers, soon to become a trio of singers.

 

By now all the other patrons were gone.  There were just two gorgeous Danish ladies, me, an ample supply of spätlese, a quiet night in Ireland, unfulfilled dreams in my head, and my wife asleep upstairs.   What could possibly go wrong with this picture? In a flash the answer came to me: “Nothing can go wrong, you idiot. You’re on vacation. You’re in Ireland. And you have objectives to achieve.”

 

Objectives.   Yes, objectives! So I asked both ladies the obvious question:  “Do you know ‘When Irish Eyes are Smiling’?” They laughed. “Is that somebody we should know?”

 

“It’s a song, a famous Irish song,” I replied.   “They even sing it in Copenhagen.” No, they didn’t know it.

 

“If I teach you the words, will you sing it with me?”   They laughed, and agreed to sing it with me.

 

We were well into our third bottle, my lessons were not going well, and the girls were laughing at every mistake they were making, and at every badjoke I was telling.   What did I care? We were all singing—a different song, off key, knocking over glasses of wine, and I was just about ready to dance on the bar when…

 

She walked in.  

 

You guessed it.  She was my wife (now my former wife).   I could tell by the look on her face that she did not understand objectives, let alone Irish objectives, or international relations, or the good neighbor policy, or anything else even remotely related to fun. Or humor. Or singing. 

 

Well, by my standards, I have to say this about my Irish vacation:  “mission accomplished.” I got to sing “When Irish Eyes are Smiling” with two friendly locals, even though one of my eyes was black and blue as we headed for the airport to seek out fiords in Norway. As we lifted off the runway, these words and music wafted thru the plane...