20 April 2014
736
R. Linda:
So . . . I had this dream—I know what you are going to accuse me of, and you'd be right! I ate spicy food, so it was a strangely stupid dream.
I dreamt I was in Ireland and sitting in a pub in Dublin when I was handed a T-shirt. I put it on thinking it was the pub's name, but it wasn't. It said, "1st degree of inebriation: SOBER" in big yellow letters. I looked around to see if anyone else had a t-shirt like mine, and well, there were black t-shirts galore, all with either yellow, red, blue, orange or green lettering, but I could not see what they said because people were moving about the place and it seemed a blur.
So I ordered a Murphy's Stout and sat sipping it. The chat was always loud in Dublin pubs, and I wondered why that was until I realised I was in one of those pubs made famous by the Irish Tourist Board, where Americans come, and Americans are, by nature, loud.
R. Linda:
So . . . I had this dream—I know what you are going to accuse me of, and you'd be right! I ate spicy food, so it was a strangely stupid dream.
I dreamt I was in Ireland and sitting in a pub in Dublin when I was handed a T-shirt. I put it on thinking it was the pub's name, but it wasn't. It said, "1st degree of inebriation: SOBER" in big yellow letters. I looked around to see if anyone else had a t-shirt like mine, and well, there were black t-shirts galore, all with either yellow, red, blue, orange or green lettering, but I could not see what they said because people were moving about the place and it seemed a blur.
So I ordered a Murphy's Stout and sat sipping it. The chat was always loud in Dublin pubs, and I wondered why that was until I realised I was in one of those pubs made famous by the Irish Tourist Board, where Americans come, and Americans are, by nature, loud.
I shrugged to meself that that was the why of it and went back to sipping me beer. I then wondered why it was in a Dublin pub, where you paid an arm and a leg for your jar. I ordered another as I thought of that and realised it was the fault of the Irish Tourist Board touting such places to foreign travellers who they knew would pay an arm and a leg for the brew and the atmosphere. But I did not reach this conclusion until I was three Murphys in.
Someone came along and handed me another T-shirt. I put it on over the first one and looked down. I noticed it was red, and the lettering said: "2nd degree of inebriation: MERRY!" I was sort of; at least, I felt quite happy as I ordered me fourth brew.
Sitting there, I wondered why everyone around me was so lively. I looked at me jar of Murphys and thought it looked no different than usual, so was it the beer? Nah, not everyone was drinking Murphys; some had Guinness, some had Beamish, some O'Hara's Celtic, some Kilkenny and others Harp. So it couldn't be the brew, but then I realised the most lively among us was the whiskey drinkers swirling their Jamesons or Bushmills, the majority in their cups on Paddy's. I decided to order up me merry way to an Irish whiskey, and a Paddy's was brought before me.
As I contemplated the smoothness of me Paddy's Irish Whiskey, someone gave me another T-shirt, and I put it on. I looked down; the letters were electric blue, and the wording said: "3rd degree of inebriation: DRUNK!" I realised I was there, but that didn't stop me from ordering another Paddy's.
Behind me was a wee bit of ruckus; a group of pub-goers hopping about with "DRUNK" t-shirts were trying to do Irish dance. They looked silly, and everyone, including the would-be River dancers, was laughing. I toasted the group and ordered another Murphy's and a shot of Paddy's. I was doing shots with me beer and lost count of how many beer shots I had until someone pulled a t-shirt over me head. I looked down, and it was orange and the words said: "4th degree of inebriation: TOTALLY WASTED."
Uh-huh, that was probably the case, and being in such a state, I did not care. I changed over to what everyone at the bar was drinking—Irish car bombs! It was then I was wondering why the music was so loud, and then I remembered. When I was half a block away, I could hear that music, and that sound led me to the pub. But the music was American, not Celtic. This was a tourist trap, and well . . . goes without saying.
I was on my tenth car bomb, feeling no pain, when the barkeep, leaning towards me with a folded T-shirt, informed me I had "arrived." I unfolded the T-shirt, and in big green letters, it said: "5th degree of inebriation IRISH!" Yup, it said that, and yup, I put it on.
Seems because I did not open me gob, everyone thought I was an American and working me way to being Irish, or what Americans think Irish are . . . drunkards. I took exception to that. I did, even though I had on the offending T-shirt. But then I clamped me gob shut, letting them think what they will, we are making money off them as they try to be us, but know not a fig about us.
So, in me dream, I was an alcoholic, but in real life, I be a coffee addict. Back home, there is a pub on almost every street corner because, for centuries, the meeting place in the British Europe has always been the inn or pub. Believe it or not, not everyone who frequents these places, and many of us do, are not alcoholics. It is chatting up friends at the end of the day that be the real draw. The tradition survives to this day! Strange how, being from another country and knowing better, one picks up what people living in the adopted country think of you. Not only that, but now that I live here, I have adopted the coffee craze of Americans. So what's up with that? Or more, what's up with me?
Gabe
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