This was a passage I wrote a while back, and never posted…I just re-read it and thought it was funny…so here it is. 

When I awoke yesterday morning, I could hear the busy chatter of visitors outside of my neighbors door.  Actually, I awoke freaking out that someone was inside our apartment!  Weirdly, for some reason when someone is in the hallway talking, the acoustics lend themselves to something resembling bionic hearing and I feel like I’m Jamie Summers listening in on some top secret plans to destroy the world. I was in no way ready to defend the world order in my oversized pajama bottoms, my husband’s sweatshirt and slippers, but I quietly manuvered my way to the door to look out the peep hole to see what all the hub bub was about.  My assumption is that our neighbors had some friends over for some breakfast in preparation for some rugby and heavy drinking at the pub later.  My assumption was later confirmed when my bionic hearing and sly peep hole spying caught them on their way out clearly stating, “see you at the pub!”.  You see, yesterday was the first Six Nations rugby game, Ireland vs. Italy, and from what I’ve learned of the Irish, is that when Ireland is playing in anything, even a food eating contest, people turn out in droves to support them.  And when it comes to either Rugby or Football (Soccer), the whole country shows their support by heading down to the pub and getting shit faced drunk!

I checked the Sports channel and learned that the game started at 1:15, so hearing my neighbors heading down to the pub at 11:00 a.m. was not a surprise to me.  I’ve been known to head down to a sports bar on occasion before noon to guarantee good seating, watch a football game and gorge myself on chicken wings and beer.  So, this was not unusual in the least.  It was later, when my husband and I decided to walk into town that we were stuck in a haze of “where are the drunk people” quandry.  Usually after a Six Nations game, our little town which is laden with 6 or 7 pubs in a two block radius, resembles a game of “drunk person slalom”.  This is a game where while you’re walking down the sidewalk you do your best to avoid the staggering drunk people, manuever around the drunk guy urinating against a building with the trail of urine that flows from that said urinator, or leap over the vomit that has catapulted off of the side of a building directly into the walking path.  When my husband and I stepped into town yesterday evening, it was as dead as a town after a nuclear disaster.  There wasn’t a person in site. (I must admit, I am somewhat exaggertating the above mentioned drunken debauchery, and have combined experiences from when we lived in City Centre with our experiences of Blackrock, but it just makes the whole slalom-ness that much richer.)

As we headed toward the bank, which was our said destination before we crossed the street to our local video store, lo and behold I saw it.  The sign that “drunken lifeforms had been about” in this ghost of a pub laden town.  A pool of vomit was there, waiting for me to step straight into it.  Thankfully, since I’ve moved to Ireland, I’ve learned to walk with my head down, constantly purveying for dog poop in my path, which tonight came in mighty handy.  When I notioned to my husband to watch his step, we both looked at eachother and that quizzical look of “where were all the drunk people” quickly dissipated, and we both shook our heads in unison, giggling.  The world made sense again.