Pub Crawl

So now you have it - the infamous pub crawl is described below. We are now in Oxford, but we can't pass up sharing this story (and if you want to catch posts from July you either will need to scroll to bottom and select "prior" posts, or go to right of blog and click on July)

Pub Crawl

Oh Good god in heaven! I have no clue what I drank tonight. It started out innocently enough. We joined a walking tour yesterday and learned of a “pub crawl” tonight. In all honesty this is the literary equivalent of drunk dialing. I should not be writing anything right now. By the same token, I should not be trying to sleep lest the room spin in an uncontrollable fashion. Thank god for spell check, otherwise this missive would be totally inchind (sp? that was supposed to be “incoherent”)….

Next Day…

Ok, that’s as far as I got last night before I realized I needed to get some fresh air. Don’t recall much, although there was a brief conversation at the lobby desk with the clerk, who rather emphatically insisted,

“No, sir. Our rooms do not come with a spin feature so I’m afraid there is nothing to turn off.”

With that disappointing news I headed out into the brisk Dublin night. I believe it was 2:30 AM. O’ Connell St was quiet and sparsely populated but not lonely; peaceful despite the groaning buses that rumbled past. I’m not sure how far I got. Measured in a straight line I’m sure I would have covered more distance but I don’t think I managed but a few steps in any one direction. And there I was, in a country of persistent stereotypes, a typical Irish drunk, staggering through the streets of Dublin, looking to make my way home. I would have stayed out longer but what was originally a brisk evening turned rather arctic. Perhaps if I had put on some clothes it wouldn’t have seemed so cold. Okay, I wasn’t THAT drunk, but a pair of shorts and t-shirt were not sufficient for an extended stroll.

I made it back to the hotel, walked into the lobby.

“Sure about the spin feature?” I asked.

“Quite sure.”

As I got into bed, I propped my pillows so I could sit up rather than lay down, I pondered the circumstances that brought on this unfortunate state. Pub crawls are an excellent opportunity to experience the Irish nightlife. Traveling as a group you visit a number of the local pubs and, with the purchase of a beer, get a free shot. Not being much of a beer drinker I thought I’d sample some of the local beer, get the free shot, listen to some music and try to observe some natives in the wild. A simple strategy, involving no more than the obligatory pint in my hand; raising it on occasion for the homeland. It was the least I could do.

Fairly early on it occurred to us that we were going to be the “old –timers” of the group. The tables around us began to fill. To the right, a group of Italian girls barely eighteen, ahead a queue of twenty-somethings with their tickets for the free first beer (Coors) and to our left, Davis. Davis, from Reno, was about twenty, a number I arrived at when he told us he had just completed his first year at West Point after transferring there from Vanderbilt. He was soon joined by Ryan, his cousin from Boston who had just completed his first year at a small liberal arts college in New Hampshire. They were here for a summer adventure. We settled into a comfortable, familiar parent -child banter with a tinge of clinical interview. Familiar not only because of our own mother-father–two sons configuration but because Ryan and Davis’ mothers, twin sisters, were therapists. Roles are like comfortable shoes, you slip into them easily and you don’t really notice them when they’re on.

We spent a good hour at the first pub, both Lisa and I nursing our one beer. When it was time to move on, our group of 30 gathered in front, where our guide outlined the itinerary: five pubs spending about an hour at each. Surveying the group, I wasn’t too keen on the idea of out of control revelers, after all I was there to observe. We were a bit relieved to see two women who were in our “age group “ and by age group I mean over forty and by over forty I mean eligible for senior-only housing. Pam and Sherry were in their mid- 60’s and while their ages may have suggested social security, their enthusiasm for the crawl and the fact they were staying at a youth hostel suggested a more youthful spirit. Also joining us were a brother and sister from Orlando Florida who were thrilled that I was a native of Miami. Another role that has become way too easy to slip into is the “Back-in-the-day ol’ codger.” As I whittled a new walking stick I told the tale of Orlando when it was nothing more than acres of orange groves; long before Disney World, Sea World and Universal Studios. Nothing screams old fart more than tales of yore.

The second pub brought more of the same, a fully consumed beer and a shot. We learned more about our crawl mates as we engaged in social intercourse and shared stories of our travels and life back home. Never having been much a barfly and not one for idle chitchat, I found the pub experience ( from a purely social science viewpoint) relaxed.

I believe it may have been the third pub where the wheels started to come off the bus. I wasted no time in getting my next beer and shot and as I settled in to listen to some live music, even singing along…loudly, one of the guys insisted I come down to play beer pong. I watched as Ryan and Davis skillfully dispatched the other team. I think they may have done this before. Rather than continue to play on as the victors they insisted that I take their spot along with orange boy from Florida. I quickly had to finish my beer in order to make way for the pitcher I was about to consume. Our adversaries were from Australia who made it clear, through taunts and psychological mayhem that they were going to crush us. I don’t know who he was but SHE was Cassie, a beautiful curly haired blond who used her gravelly voice and raucous sensuality to try and unnerve me. “C’om Jim, is that all ya got?” Fortunately there was enough beer around to steady my nerves and when I needed inspiration I would look over and see my beautiful wife sitting serenely as she watched her fratboy of a husband dominate and ultimately crush Team Australia. I was loud. I was obnoxious. Team Australia had no idea who they were dealing with. My countrymen shouting, “Team U-S-A” throughout. Soon we were off to the fourth pub to further celebrate a hard fought and drunken victory.

Beer pong was no match for the challenge that faced me at the fourth pub. My frat brothers insisted on buying shots for me. We found a relatively quiet table to sit at and as we settled in with beer and shots in hand, Davis looked at me and said, “Jim, tell us a good love story.” There it was, with all the youthful bravado on display throughout the night, these young men wanted to know about love. They were romantics. How does it happen? and when do you know? and does it last? I’d like to believe they saw something in Lisa and I that made them feel it can and does happen. I took one look at Lisa, we smiled. I turned to Ryan and Davis and said, “Boy, have I got a love story for you!” With that I began to tell the story of Lisa and Jim. How serendipity and a bounced checked sealed our fate and resulted in an enduring love. They listened. Usually I tell that story to other “adults” in the, this-is-how-we-met fashion. These boys needed to hear more. It was about fate and love and lust and macho swagger and ultimately submission to the ultimate reality: You don’t choose love, it chooses you. Lisa commented that she had never heard me tell it in such a fashion. I don’t think I’d ever been as inspired to do so.

The fifth and final stop was a return to the original pub that had been transformed into a dance club while we were sojourning. After another few rounds, I knew I had to go. I grabbed Davis and Ryan by the scruff of their necks and said, “It’s all about the love, now go out and find it.” With that I found MY love and we started back to the hotel, stopping first to buy a subway sandwich to begin the recovery process.

I had lost track of Pam and Sherry, the Florida sibs and the Australian wankers, but if there was any pair I was happy to end the evening with, it was these young men, a pair of romantics who gave me hope that in every generation, the dream of love endures. That in every generation, there are men who follow adventure but know there is no greater hero’s quest than the one that ends in love.