I love St. Patrick's Day. I am of Irish descent. I lived in Ireland. I love Irish Whisky. My birthday is the day prior.
I was in Ireland for two St. Patrick's Days. The first was my 21st birthday. It was wild wonderful fun. I was friends with this crazy french guy, named Fred. Seriously. His name was really Fred. Not a pseudonym. Fred was tall and lanky, and when I think of that St. Patrick's day, I envision Fred the French Guy dancing in his long-legged way that was really more aerobics class than dance fever, singing happy birthday to me in front of the Bank of Ireland. I also remember meeting Matty-o for a pint at the very yummy Porter House and laying a big fat smooch on him that day.
My second St. Paddy's day in Ireland was spent at a heavy metal bar, listening to AC/DC cover bands all night, thanks to my crazy Bostonian friends. The details are fuzzy from this particular St. Patrick's day, but I do remember one of the bands was called Joan of Arse, which will go down in my book as the funniest band names in the whole history of the world.
So, par for the course, I awoke this morning to a very strong sense of nostalgia for Ireland, and for Dublin especially. I hope I can go back sometime. In the meantime, I plan to drink a few Guinness, then a few Smithwicks, and hopefully the sense memory can appease my nostalgia.
ON THE SIDE:
Happy birthday to my brother-in-law, Scott. Your last name may be german, but at least you had the good sense to be born on an Irish holiday! Love you!