was mounted on a card that had the phrase “Thank you ever so much
for your kind help” printed on it. I really had no clue what was going
on at this point, but I appreciated the Irish hospitality. I hadn’t done
anything and I’d been thanked five times.
Shuffling through the terminal, I felt the air around me vibrate
with the lilt of the Irish accent. Such melody in speech made it hard
for anyone to sound anything but happy. I was beginning to see why
an Irish man could beat the stuffing out of someone in a bar brawl,
and then pick him up off the floor and order him a drink. They just
sounded so goddamn spirited all the time, even if and when they
were sober.
All of which brought to mind the fact that I really could use a
drink. I looked for the nearest bar and quickly fell prey to the Irish
national pastime: quaffing Guinness beer. So thick it could have been
a beer milkshake, I could float a bottle cap on the head of a pint of a
domestic Guinness—probably with the bottle still attached. To my
surprise I learned that they filled up a glass halfway before waiting a
few minutes to let it settle before pouring the rest. I received a few
good-natured giggles at the airport bar when I gave the bartender a
hard time for only pouring half a glass. “That’s all? What’s that, a
half-pint of Guinness? Can’t you fill it all the way?”
“Just hold your horses, laddie. It’s important to pour your
Guinness slow, else the head be too large. Ye don’t want a mouthful
of head, do ye son?” The others at the bar laughed.
“What part o’ the States ye said ye was from, anyway?” asked the
bartender. The men at the bar smiled their silent acquiescence,
clutching their huge, brown glasses of stout.
“Uh, Los Angeles. Just arrived.” I offered.
“Going rucksackin’ through Europe?” he asked while polishing a
glass.
“Sort of. Just a few countries.”
“Well, you’re a long way from home, but I can tell you
something—you’ve started off in the right place. The Irish are a
mighty friendly lot. You’ll be hard pressed to take out a map or ask a
question without a flock of Good Samaritans pouncing on you to help
out. And…” he motioned for me to come closer. As I leaned in, he
looked over at one of the women sitting at the bar. I expected
something characteristically bawdy. He confided: “…once you get a
taste for the Guinness, it’ll never leave ye.” I guessed that women
came in a close second for the men’s attention in Ireland. “Guinness,”
BIG AMERICAN BREAKFAST
22
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