Finding Ireland

The remaining Fog stragglers wanted one more chance at the club scene. Kevin doesn't enjoy crowds.

I went looking for Ireland, and found it at the hotel bar. (Always stay at hotel with a bar, always.)

At half twelve, the tourists and out-of-towners were shown the door. The locals, and the hotel guests remained. Songs, stories, people and pints waltzed about the room.

Seamus poured, and sang an Irish lay about a man coming back from war. I belted out a song of the sea. I met the 6'5" 300+ bouncer, who wanted to play American football. John, 66 years old, was a champion wrestler. Sev, the deskman, carried his thick Russian accent in a bucket, scoffing at ales as he inhaled vodka.

We spoke of Irish history. 1916. 1922. 1947. We sang the praises of Michael Collins, whispered politicians names, and I failed to understand the Lisbon treaty. Healthcare is grand, as long as you don't need a dentist, or major surgery.

And smoking is allowed. Hell, you could walk to Belfast and back on cigarette butts. Nasty fookin' habit, according to Seamus. He chained the moment the bar lights came on.

Rugby talk was thick. Peter Stringer? Bollix. BOD? Great runner, couldn't tackle homework. Hurley found a stick, but getting hit across the shins with ashwood is less than fun. And the Dubs are in the All Ireland Football final this Sunday at Croke Park. Do you know the history of Croke park?

The Rugby is done. I'm in Ireland now.