The Castlebar Diary

At 2:00 I boarded a bus that would take me from New Haven to JFK, the first leg of my trip to Ireland. I scanned the seats looking for beautiful people to cozy up to and found none. Opting for a seat in the middle of the bus, I was immediately engaged by a 50-ish Jewish man who was intent on occupying my trip to Long Island discussing music. He was elated that I appeared the musician, what with me carrying a guitar around like yesterday's John Prine, and badgered me the entire way to JFK. He excitedly told me that he was a clarinet wizard and fronted a Klezmer band in Reno, Nevada, "…Big money in Jewish weddings, kid, big money." Never mind that he was annoying me, after 10 minutes we began to annoy every passenger within earshot. When he wasn't prattling on about gamelan, he was talking about the genius of Charlie Parker. This went on for an hour and a half. He was fairly checked out on Bird, which meant that aside from the gobs of hair growing from his ears, he had something else going for him.

Thankfully, the Van Wyck was moving at a pace slightly slower than that of a loose bowel, which is ten times faster than normal, and the Klezmer's airline terminal was the first called by the bus driver. While gathering his bags he saw me reach for some one-dollar bills, readying a tip for my own exit, and scolded me in a clear (though hep) example of gross generalization, "What the hell man, you're not going to tip the driver are you?"

"Well," I replied, "I think it's all right to pass a couple of bucks to the guy... he didn't make me stow my guitar in the baggage hold and he got us here on time." He shook his head in disgust, as if our entire conversation had been in vain, and departed in a huff.

Seeking forgiveness from the remaining passengers, I eyed the most annoyed. An attractive twenty-something with a severe case of rubella (or so it seemed) met my glance with a look that screamed, "Thanks a lot asshole, because of you I didn't get a stitch of sleep." She was obviously counting on a pre-flight snooze and the drone of our chatter had dashed any hope of that. It was now clear that a quick romp with her in the back of the near empty bus was out of the question. She scowled at me while departing at British Airways; but I smiled at her anyway, as she had great tits.

When I reached my gate I hastily exited the bus, and, disregarding the sheenie’s counsel, tossed a couple of bucks to the driver. Without delay I checked in at the Aer Lingus counter, and within seconds became entranced by the accents of the lovely lasses that greet you there.

With 2 hours to kill I bought a carton of cigs at Duty Free, where cancer is cheaper for a traveler, and after 15 minutes of wandering around the international terminal looking for Arabs with suspicious packages, I found a bar, plopped down, and ordered a mineral water and lime for the staggering price of $4.25. My good friend Shanley told me the only sure-fire way to avoid getting sick as a result of jet lag, is to drink a ton of water and stay away from the booze before and during the flight. His advice sounded damn good to me, as I was going to Ireland to enjoy myself, not spend three days in bed. By the by, his advice worked … and another by the by, if you're patient, there is plenty to drink in Ireland.

The flight boarded promptly and we were in the air 25 minutes later. There is no way, sans a $4,300 ticket, to make a 6-1/2 hour flight bearable. Aer Lingus, however, did everything they could to make the schmucks in Coach feel like First Class. Furthering my luck, it appeared I had made the right decision to travel in February because the flight was half full and I had an entire row of the Airbus to myself.

The "Air Hostesses" and two "Airhosts?" served cocktails in a flurry of hospitality. Dinner was served with similar dispatch, and the food was suspiciously edible. So less than two hours from take-off we were settled in for the remaining four hours of the flight. I popped in a Tish Hinajosa CD, covered up with my cute little tartan Aer Lingus blankey, sprawled out across four seats, and closed my eyes. I knew I wouldn't sleep, I never do on flights, but I had to try… it was going to be a long day.

Just as the final cabin light was dimmed it began, like the pre-dinner howl of a serval: the incessant whinny and neigh of a bored and in–love-with-herself passenger. She began a well-rehearsed monologue regarding Celtic culture and spoke as if she were the reincarnation of Yeats. It was obvious that she was not about to fly silently, and I knew it was payback in spades for the old Jewish guy and I yakking up a storm on the bus a few hours earlier.

Three and a half hours later it was nearing 7:00 AM and the yap-jawed shrew had yet to come up for air. She was even starting to chafe her traveling partner, an eremitic, never-laid, 40-ish looking wench in similar attire, who was likely not thrilled at the constant chatter over her Enya tape.

In hour four of her insipid verbal portrait of Irish history, the dimwit proudly announced that this was her first trip to Ireland. And this she said as if expecting a claque. Likely realizing that the entire middle section of the plane was reciting a Novena in hopes she would lapse into a grand mal, she shut the pie hole for thirty seconds and hopped from her middle aisle seat to that of a window in a vain attempt to see the island from the air. Mind you, it was 7:00 AM, dark as the understory of the African rain forest, and … you guessed it … overcast. I think a couple of times she must've seen a grayish green hue below because every few seconds her gypsy skirt-wearing ass quivered. Of course my fellow passengers and I were treated to more commentary while she strained to see her beloved Ireland. After the plane had landed I could hardly wait to get to the baggage carousel to hear her two-hour lecture on 19th century guano trade and its impact on Irish commerce.

Noel is often late. So often, that had he been born a girl he'd have had nine unnecessary abortions before the age of 20; and,
Noel is a dear and trusted friend and wouldn't blow me off, he's just one of those guys in whom you have faith. But with Noel, tardiness is a given. It must be noted however, that he'd be dead if he weren’t somewhere he said he'd be - give or take a few hours.

As you depart customs at Shannon Airport you enter the arrival area and pan the room looking for the best place to wait. I had to pinch myself because for a moment I thought the old St. Ann Airbus (Aer Lingus, in a reassuring gesture, names each of the planes in her fleet after a Patron Saint) had taken a wrong turn at Bangor and landed in Lebanon, New Hampshire. But in mid-pinch, I noticed the accents around me weren't as loony as those in the Granite State, and the people were actually smiling.

Noel and Betsy had warned me about Shannon Airport. No … nothing to cause utter terror. The gist was, "... and don't be shocked at the size of the arrival area at Shannon, as there's really nothing to it: a bar, a bathroom, a bank and a car hire desk." Well, all good Yanks, especially those of us who have had the grave misfortune of residing in Texas, believe that all which exists relative to our own, is inferior. So I was expecting a small airport, but how small could an airport be that accommodates millions of travelers a year? Pretty fucking small. "Where are the people movers?" I asked myself. But a better question would have been, "Where are the people, and where in hell would a mover take them?" The fact is everyone was right. The reception area at Shannon is smaller than a CYO gym and after you get used to the coziness of the room, you realize that a rendezvous here is gonna be cake. Arrive at Newark or Logan and think for a minute that you're going to meet with your party without problems … you would be more likely to find a $10 bill on the floor of a soup kitchen.

I expected nothing less in Ireland, as most of the Irish I know smoke, but the NO SMOKING sign had a font five times larger than the WELCOME TO IRELAND sign…and boy I needed a butt.

I found a bar serving coffee where smoke was bellowing out of the doorway. This, I decided, is where I would remain until my ride, er, lift, arrived. I needed some cash and, ignoring Noel's advice of not exchanging money at the airport, I jumped in the queue at the Bank of Shannon window to exchange an American twenty spot for some Irish money… pocket change. I was still in a bit of a fog, going on 20 hours without sleep, and as I lugged my allotted two bags and guitar through a maze of empty turnstiles I heard a familiar voice. "Where are you playing your guitar in Ireland?" That voice … that mother fucking voice! That wretched, ear-piercing, fingernail-to-chalkboard, neighbor's dog, shriek of a voice.

I looked up as if to say, "It couldn't be, could it?" and sure as shit, it could. There was the chatty-assed hag from the plane standing in the bank line holding a guitar. Boy was I in the fuck of all company, I mean, here's this idiot and I standing around with our axes like we were waiting for Paul Stookey to return from the fucking loo and complete the trio.

I hadn't really gotten a good peek at anything but her ass while on the plane, but there she was, plain as day, standing before me. She appeared at first glance to be a byproduct of an Al Jaffee, Carole Kane and Arlo Guthrie orgy, and stood there grinning like a dope, eagerly awaiting my reply. When I didn't respond she cocked her head and repeated, "Where are you playing your guitar in Ireland?"

"Let's see, where am I playing my guitar?" I furrowed my brow and said, "Somewhere north of here," relying on my canny wit and experience of blowing off dumb-assed chicks during my slimmer and more attractive years.

"I think we are heading south, right?" she asked her Enya-listening traveling pal who did not respond as she was in the midst of a monetary exchange at the bank window, and appeared more confused than my wife at a baseball game. Just then, by the grace of God, a teller said, "Next!" and I nearly knocked the hag down as I sprinted to the window.

With the shrew out of sight, and stuffed with the riches of 14 pounds Irish, I decided to go for a smoke and some coffee. "That'll be 80 pence please," said the barkeep. I held out a ton of heavy change, offering the man to help himself to whatever would be necessary to tender the transaction. He took a horse, some cows, and a fish of some sort, leaving the stag deer and an odd looking bird for a later purchase. "That's grand," he said. Sure, I thought, a large coffee would suffice, but it seemed too small for a 'grand.' Oh well I figured, Ireland is a tea drinking country, so this must be a large.

Still feeling full of myself, with coffee in hand, I entered the smoking area and inhaled a half a pack of butts in 45 minutes. My eyes were fixed on the single entry point from the outside, waiting for Kilkenny to pop in.

Two hours after my arrival Noel strolled in, looking simply awful. Apparently Galway City had entered the organ donor race in a big way, offering visitors the opportunity to consume massive amounts of drink and leave behind as many brain cells as could be puked out in their fair town. He entered the only door at Shannon's arrival terminal shaking his head, like by my being there I had somehow done something wrong, and snapped, "You're pissed aren't you?"

Before I could explain that his smiling face was enough for me, and no, I wasn't upset because, "Dude, I knew that you would be here…" he whisked me out of the airport and toward the Nissan rent-a-car where Betsy waited. Welcome to fucking Ireland Mark!

Hugging Betsy proved a Godsend. Settled me right down; a bit of home, several thousand miles away. Now on to the ride, er, lift.

I had rehearsed the driving on the left (from a passenger's point of view) several times since December in anticipation of the trip, and was cocksure to be fine with it. I jumped in the front seat and watched Betsy throw the spacious car (honestly, for a European it was large) into drive. When the first car came at us, though, everything changed. I pressed my face against the window and applied the phantom brake normally reserved for driving with my wife during rush hour. I felt faint. I've never been seasick, airsick, or carsick, but I thought for a second I was gonna roll down the window and christen the N-17. I watched in horror as the first car whizzed by. I blinked my eyes … nope, I wasn't lying in a hospital with tubes sticking out of my nose, nor was St. Peter standing there with a laundry list of yesterday's sins, so this driving business was not gonna kill me after all. I may survive, "But I don't like it for one minute!" I mumbled to myself.

After five minutes of this driving business my only thought (aside from the old joke, "Why did the Siamese twins move to England? …So the other one could drive.") was that there is nothing funny about driving on the wrong side of the road. This was industrial-strength bumper cars, but I was now 6,000 miles from Cedar Point.

We should have straightened out the Brits and this driving bullshit on the eve of bailing them out of the Second World War. "OK, Winnie," I can hear Truman now, "Tally-ho, pip pip, and all of that, but get the fucking Austin on the right side of the road." Unfortunately, Harry had bigger fish to fry at the time, and after they’d been buzz-bombed for three years the least we could do was not disrupt their disorganised (sic) manners.

But later in the week, speaking to the locals, it dawned on me that they were not aware of the origin of driving on the left. "It's a British thing guys," I informed them, "It's a holdover from their time governing here."

"Tisn't," they replied in their intoxicating Irish accent while conjuring a double contraction of "it is?" and "it isn't," while asking half a question. Three days more in the country and I'd've (see we can do it too - but it's not as colorful) replied, "Tis," with a subtle north-to-south nod. Back to the point, the locals were unaware that the driving custom was a remnant of the erstwhile Empire. So in obvious places like Scotland and Wales they drive on the left, but in less obvious places like Singapore, Perth and Hong Kong they too follow this inane custom. I've got to do some research relative to the origin of driving on the left. What? Were the horses in Britain left-eyed? Was it simply an effort to make it easier for the driver to exit and piss? Did the postman or newspaper delivery boy grow up to be the Director of Roads and Tunnels? Well fuck it, I can take tea as a custom, but awkward shit like driving on the wrong side drives me mad.

Having resided in rural areas like central Ohio and south Texas, I am used to driving through 400 miles of cornfields and road kill deer, or 1000 miles of sagebrush and road kill armadillos … so obviously I can spot Rural like a pair of nice tits. But during the 2-hour drive to Castlebar, I noticed that it wasn't the landscape (which is a constant juxtaposition of the greens of the land and the grays of the sky) that exuded Rural, nor was it the gaudy edifices (the Irish love their bold colors on buildings - like a three hundred-year old 'shoppe' or pub, with a baby shit yellow exterior and a titty pink roof). What really screamed out Rural was the fucking roads.

Let me tell you, Eisenhower may have been a buggering fucking idiot as a president, but his implementation of the Interstate Highway Act rivals no other accomplished by modern man. Seriously, screw the Gattling gun, the airplane, tequila, the 3-point shot, the bong, and the golf cart; the best-damned invention ever is the good old United States Interstate Highway system… period.

To the Americans: bitch as you may about the traffic on your local interstate during rush hour, just be fucking glad you have more than two lanes. And I mean two TOTAL lanes, one in each direction. In the intellectual hotbed of Tennessee, for example, you can drive on I-24 between Nashville and Chattanooga and never realize you've driven through Catpiss Ridge (which is incidentally 3 miles outside of Murfreesboro). In Ireland though, at least western Ireland, there are no divided highways with exit ramps, so a traveler can enjoy the charm of each town on the way to her or his destination. Which means to us that on your drive from Nashville to Chattanooga you would pass directly through Catpiss Ridge, noting every detail if you chose … and once outside city limits you could turn to your wife and say, "Damn, there were 17 women with goiters in that town, and why in fucking hell was that toothless kid dangling his feet off that bridge playing a banjo?"

Back to Eire ... Somewhere between Shannon and Claremorris Betsy stopped for gas. This is where the second sign of American pelf reared its ugly puss (the first having been the Interstate). It took nearly 50 pounds to fill the gas tank. This is like $75.00 American. Could you imagine paying this to fill the tank in, say Connecticut, where even the Nazi vote-monger John Rowland cannot curb the highest gas prices in the U.S.? I mean, the Donna Karan-wearing snobs from Greenwich would respond as if somehow bombs had found their esteemed country club, and in a blaze of patriotism would arm themselves with salad forks and kick the ever-loving caviar out of anyone responsible for the inflated cost of gasoline. Not the Irish, though. Their attitude toward this inevitability is simple, "I commute three minutes to work, the cost of petrol is really not a problem."

After the tank was filled and the pocketbook emptied, Noel, still reeling from a hangover to beat the band, went inside for something to drink. "Want some Lucozade?" he asked. I could see by its color that it was the Euro equivalent of Gatorade; but I am a weirdo regarding name brands. Had it said Gatorade I'd have gladly paid twice the amount of petrol for a bottle. But Lucozade? For some reason that scared the shit out of me, as if it accentuated my entry to a foreign land, and I'd have none of it. "I'll pass dude, and grab some water," I embarrassingly replied.

Missing the whole Lucozade dialogue, Betsy asked if I wanted a sausage roll. This should have scared me more than the fucking Lucozade, but I had to try it. "Thanks Bets," and seconds later we were in the car munching our flaky sausage rolls. It was a pig in a blanket with bits of sausage replacing the weenie, like a cousin-fucker eggroll.

Knowing I was being poisoned, and the chance of surviving the next 18 kilometers to Claremorris highly unlikely, I gave the phantom brake a rest. This without regard to the change in drivers, as Noel had replaced Betsy behind the wheel, and having driven many times with Noel, I greeted this exchange with more than a bit of caution. It was of no consequence though; I'd be dead in a matter of minutes, be it the sausage roll, be it the roads, or be it Noel's driving. It was immaterial.

Sure as fucking hell, within seconds of departing the petrol station, we took a hairpin turn (which in Ireland is a hard right from the left side of the fuckin' road, mind you) and approached a not so wide (12 feet, tops) tunnel. This was more like a large culvert you'd see at a golf course as opposed to a tunnel. Low and behold, a truck (a lorry) was going through the thing as we approached, and being that Noel was driving like Jackie Stewart at Le Mans, I thought for sure we were dead, or at least sideswiped. But no, we lived to play another reel.

Then the whole business of passing (overtaking) a vehicle came into play. The N-17 is Ireland's equivalent of Old Highway 90 in the western U.S. Unlike our vast two-lane roads though, here you could maybe get two golf carts, driving in opposite directions, to pass one another without incident on a national road … and this with perhaps 3 inches to spare. But even for European cars, each slightly larger than a golf cart but with less trunk space, this was another story. Overtaking, as far as I'm concerned, is vehicular jousting. The only positive thing about the entire process is that you get to do it from the proper side of the road. Keep in mind that this thrill is by a country that has no guns, thus the lack of any real crime threat or thrill (unless of course you decide to tour the north); so I suppose it's akin to a pre-Rudy Giuliani stroll through Central Park in NYC. Thankfully, Irish drivers are more polite than four nuns on their way to the fish market. Consequently, even the dumbest of driving moves, of which there are plenty, is met with a kind wave of the hand or a pleasant half nod and salute.

I dozed off just after Claremorris. And while we're on the short subject of Claremorris, I would be derelict if I didn't mention that the parking in this town puts anything 25 UPS drivers could conjure up to shame. Cars parked parallel in opposite directions, perpendicular sticking ass or nose out in the fucking street. They were in the middle of driveways, blocking driveways, on the sidewalks, everyfuckingwhere! It appeared as if a well-placed U.S. embassy bomb had detonated. I never got a really good explanation of the parking. Asking Noel for a reason to this chaos he just shook his head, laughed and said, "...fucking Claremorris." I decided to settle for that, like I'd say, "...fucking New Jersey." Back to my doze … I began a dream of this strange place. The dream was an odd one, one where Richard Harris, wearing a Walt Whitman beard, was throttling me by the neck raving about, "The land, Yank, the land! Can't ye get it out of your gobshite head that it's all about the land?"

Fast asleep, drooling all over the driver's, er, passenger window, and finally getting used to the stagecoach quality of the road, I was awakened by what would surely be my last moment on earth. After a three-foot drop into a chuckhole visible from Mars, my head snapped back like that of a fisherman reeling in a prize marlin. My eyes went from a vision of Richard Harris to that of a fucking truck wider than the road, coming toward us at over 120 miles per hour. I'm dead, but hell, I saw Ireland. Hell, I died in Ireland. Fuck it, my life is complete. It would all be over in a flash. Looking at Noel I screamed, "Gun it boy, gun it!" which sent Noel into a tailspin of laughter. Gun it he did and we missed the truck by two inches. With the danger 500 yards in the rear view mirror, Noel began cackling, realizing he woke me in a state of confusion. I rarely let my friends see me this vulnerable, and he apparently got a charge out of it. "'Twas a short nap or a long one," he cleverly quipped, still laughing.

"You're not Richard Harris, and what does gobshite mean?" was my response. In the backseat, Betsy slept through the whole thing.

Castlebar appeared from the outskirts to be like the six or seven towns we’d passed through en-route from Shannon, save Claremorris. But as we entered the town proper I could tell it was a much more cosmopolitan place than the others. As we approached Noel's mother's house I felt like I was in Florida, as tile roofs and pebble textured siding were found on every home in her development, or "estate" as they call it.

The normal tension that would otherwise accompany my visit to a strange house was absent because I had met both Josie and Siobhan, Noel's mother and sister respectively, when they were in the States last fall for baby John's birth. So, feeling full of myself, I tossed my bags in a back room; and, as if a six-hour flight, a two-hour wait in the airport, punctuated by a two-hour drive wasn't enough sitting, I searched for a vacant couch. Finding one, I plunked down, waiting for the entire population of County Mayo to descend upon the house and hang on my every word.

After ten minutes of relative silence, Siobhan asked if I was hungry. "I'll make you an Irish Fry, then you can grab a nap and a shower," she said. An Irish Fry ... what the fuck? Well, if I had survived all else that had happened up to then, whatever a 'Fry' was wouldn't do me in.

The smell of sausage and bacon quickly filled the air. I remembered in my travel guide it said that fried eggs are served in Ireland hard, but Siobhan 's were just the way I like 'em, running like a six-year old’s nose. The 'fry' was served and I headed toward the table. A huge slab of Irish bacon was lying on the plate. We in the States would personally raise and slaughter our own hogs if we could replicate this variety of pork. Accompanying the bacon were three or four small sausage links, referred to as 'rashers,' eggs, toast, coffee, two fried slices of roll sausage, and mushrooms - sliced and fried.

Everything was going down just swimmingly, and, unlike the cuisine in Spain, nothing was staring back at me from the plate. "I'll just have some of this roll saus..." It was at that distinct moment I thought of Kendall Cait, my darling five-year old daughter, because what my mouth was telling my brain must be exactly what goes through her mind when her mother and I assure her that whatever it is we are trying to con her into eating won't kill her. Please realize I've never fed the tyke shit like this, though. One bite of this curious substance sucked every free ounce of spit from my heavily hydrated mouth.

At 38 years I'm much more sarcastically inquisitive than polite, thus my reaction, "...What the fuck is this shit?" (forgoing the proper spit in the napkin table manners). I damn near spat it at Noel's head, because judging from his reaction he knew that I’d been set-up. Siobhan was grinning from ear to ear as well and said, "'Tis blood pudding, d'ya like it?" "Do I like it?" I screamed, "Can I drink the tap water here? Where's the fucking Lucozade? Anything …my God, I'm dyin' girl."

With that, I guzzled twelve glasses of water and for the life of me couldn't extract the piss-awful taste from my mouth. In fact, everything else now tasted like blood pudding. Perhaps liver would have killed the taste, but that would have posed yet another problem…vomit.

I have subsequently discovered that the Irish refer to blood pudding as black pudding because, "No one would eat it if it were called blood pudding." For shit sake, I don't care if they call it clitoris, I won't eat that shit again if my life fucking well depends on it!

Once I had eaten the edible parts of my fry Noel ordered me to take a nap because, "You'll be useless in two hours if you don't." I was intent on toughing it out but deferred to his judgment. A nap would do me a world of good. So I excused myself from the room and collapsed into a warm and comfy bed. After a good pee that is, and a dry heave, still reeling from the blood pudding.

Thanks again to the Shanley tip and the twelve glasses of "douse the blood pudding" water, I woke up barely three hours into my slumber having to piss … and the way my body works, once I'm up, I'm up. I felt like I had slept 8 hours, and aside from the fact that I hadn't gotten a wake-up screw, I felt pretty fucking good.

I entered the kitchen where the family was gathered around the telly watching the snooker championships. I thought, "How novel, this watching an esoteric game, sort of like pool, as if it were the evening news." To me, 99% of American TV is a mountain of stupidity. This, however, was television at its finest. "I think I'll take a shower," I stated, feeling compelled to announce my plans to the room.

"Good shot Jimmy!" Noel's mother exclaimed, after Jimmy White knocked a six pointer in the side pocket. "Help yourself to the towels Mark, and please make yourself at home," she said as I left the room amidst the riveting excitement of the match.

I gathered my shower stuff from my suitcase, stripped to the negative nines, and entered the bathroom. Without a thought, I turned on the tap, put a leg in the shower, and squeezed in, literally sucking in every inch of gut I could to enter the half door. The shower didn't have a curtain, it had a slider, and I could tell right away that the builder was a callous and vindictive soul who had no use for fat Americans. I didn't realize the extent of my plight until I was in the fucking shower though, because now that I was in, I had to eventually get out. I milked the experience for all it was worth, taking ten minutes, fretting that this may be my last thorough cleaning in a few days. But now time came to exit, and if it had been a tight fit dry, it was gonna be hell wet … the anti-intercourse as it were.

Once again, astounded at my predicament, I sucked in every ounce of fat and air I could and began my exit, fitting one of my ass cheeks through the door casing. The metal of the door was now in the crack of my ass and I knew I had to make a move. I was just happy I didn't have the blood pudding audience to share my misfortune; this would be my little secret and there was no reason for the world to know that I was as good as stuck in the shower. As I made the move to force the rest of a well-fed American ass through the door though, I gained my audience as a screech that sounded like the airbrakes of a truck echoed through the house.

I hurriedly dressed, splashed on some Perry Ellis - believing an olfactory distraction to be the most effective - and entered the kitchen. There was a quizzical look on both Noel and Siobhan's faces, as if asking, "Were you just re-arranging the furniture in the sitting room?"

Knowing that the dreadful noise caused by my exit from the shower had caught their attention, and as the result of a guilt-ridden Catholic upbringing, I blurted out, "I got stuck in the fucking shower, OK?"

"For fuck’s sake, Mark." Noel began to howl, and even Siobhan, who was clearly embarrassed for me, mustered up a grin. On top of all of this, I had cut the shit out of my chin while shaving and was bleeding like a virgin bride all over the place. I'm sure Noel was quite proud to have brought me to his family's house; the fat, bloody fool from Americay, here in their kitchen, with all of his worldly ways.

I don't recall what we ate for dinner that evening, or if we ate dinner for that matter. What I do recall is my first visit to an Irish pub, McDonnell's. We were going to the Linenhall Theatre, across the street from the McDonnell's, to see a performance by the fiddler Paddy Glackin and the guitarist/vocalist Micheal O' Domhnaill, founding members of the Bothy Band. Noel and I arrived at the pub first, which was fitting as I wanted to share my first authentic pint with him (you know the one that inspires you to enter Guinness' "Win a Pub in Ireland" contest) and began a litany of thanks that would last the week. Two rounds later, Dan, our fiddler from Morrigu, and Katie and Joe, other traveling chums, arrived. Shortly thereafter John Kilkenny, Noel's older brother, came by and we all chugged pints.

John is a well-known fiddler in Co. Mayo and a teacher in Comhaltas Ceoltoiri Eireann (http://cce.irish-music.net/) since 1995. The Comhaltas is an outfit that teaches traditional music and takes it Jimmy Stewart seriously. John and I had met at Noel’s and Betsy's wedding a few years back. He met so many people on that trip that I never expected him to remember me, and of course he didn't, but we reminisced about the wedding just the same.

Since Paddy Glackin and Micheal were in McDonnell's we knew we couldn't miss the show. If we saw them leave, we would follow. Still feeling the effects of all the water I had consumed in the last 36 hours, and having just chugged five pints in 20 minutes, I was nervous about where our seats would be. There would be no getting up from the midst of a crowded performance room to pee. Luckily, the 45-minute set flew by, and I reached the loo just in the nick of time. In fact I pissed three times during the 20-minute break.

I enjoyed their performance as both musicians complimented their excellent playing by taking the time to explain the origins of the tune or song. A few of John's fiddle students were present and Glackin did all he could to enhance their experience, knowing full well if he enhanced theirs he would be doing the same for the rest of us. Micheal's guitar playing was straightforward D-A-D-G-A-D, but with an extraordinary right hand … very bouncy, very rhythmic. The performance confirmed my belief that trad Irish music transcends four generations. There were kids in their teens, parents in their 30’s, grandparent's in their 50’s and great grandparents in their 70’s, all present for the performance. Very few, if any, musical genres in world can speak to this sort of demographic.

After the show, it was back to McDonnell's where we met up with Mickey Baynes, one of Noel's Castlebar friends, and a guy I had the pleasure of meeting and playing tunes with last summer. He was going to be my host during the latter part of the week, and it was good to see him again. It has become sort of a joke among Mick, Noel and me that I refer to Mick as "Baynes." Apparently, my oafish, jockish manner of referring to folks by their surname is "just not done" in Ireland.

It all started one day last summer after Mick and had I met and hit it off pretty well. He sauntered into Anna Liffey's during the session and, again being the American clod, I bellowed, "Baynes!" down the narrow stretch of bar. Mick looked at me as if I had a golf ball-sized snot string hanging from my hairy left nostril. I looked to Noel, who was spitting beer out of his own nose, laughing for the hint of my gauche. After he regained control, he explained to me that the Irish, even on sport teams, do not call each other by their last names. I really don't know if this is a Co. Mayo thing, or an Ireland thing. Whatever. I mean, what the fuck is Bono supposed to be, a first name? But since I am the American clod, and totally appreciate being so, I have continued to call Mick "Baynes" in a belligerent manner each time we meet.

With Mick were some of Noel's old friends, Bucky, Richie and Tommy. In the U.S., when introduced to a new circle - even by an insider, it takes several hours if not days (and sometimes several purchased rounds) to feel welcome. I was not surprised though that each of these guys approached me and were friendly; asking questions, smiling, back patting, pint buying, the whole works. It was like I had been in Castlebar my entire life.

I had had little sleep and was getting pretty drunk, and nearing closing time I thought the way the publican closed the bar was pretty cool. He flickered the lights, nicely asking people to drink up and scat, but he quietly told us to be still and remain in the bar. After several folks left he went to the front door, locked it, closed the blinds in the front window, returned to the bar, cut the lights entirely, then lit a small lamp (it was all of 3 watts) over the bar. This transpired at 11:30, but several of us were allowed to remain in the cozy bar until 1:30 or 2:00 AM.

Just before actual closing time, reveling in my new-found friendships - and apparently testing the waters - I panned the room and asked if anyone would give us (Noel, Dan and I) a ride to Josie's. A hush overcame the room. Now what? Noel, I noticed, was spittin' beer again; obviously another inappropriate comment.

I was still a bit confused when Mickey took me aside and clued me in as to what a "ride" was. Just how the bloody hell was I supposed to know that "Can I get a ride?" meant, well, "Can I get a fuck?" They oughtta give a card at customs with all of these things spelled out for idiots like me.

After a pause and quizzical glance at Noel, and secure with my sexual preference, John replied that he was "giving Katie and Joe a 'lift'" (the appropriate term) back to Stephanie's house (where they were crashing that night), and he would meet us up the road. From there he would be happy to 'lift' the three of us back to Josie's. All this embarrassment to save three minutes of a ten-minute walk.

I'll relate it now, as I end the recap of the first day in Ireland, that anywhere you want to go in Castlebar is a ten-minute walk. From Josie's to the church, "'Tis a ten minute walk." From Josie's to any pub in town, ''Tis a ten minute walk." From any pub in town to any church, "'Tis a ten minute walk." My word, ‘tis’ a wonder there’s a need for an automobile in the entire fucking town.

Walking home though, two things stood out. First, the smell of stale pot smoke. Noel told me that, no, the town of Castlebar is not a haven for Irish hippies, and that what I was smelling was turf, as they burn turf instead of trees. And one must simply look around to realize the why of this. There are very few trees in Ireland. It reminded me of the hill country in Texas where a small grove of mesquite trees is all that distinguishes wasteland from wasteland. Not to infer that Ireland is a wasteland, it's quite rich and green - no shit, Mark - but the landscape is definitely tree deficient. The English must've taken them, because the soil and rain would certainly support a bevy of trees. Actually, a tree dude I know once told me the U.S. has more trees now than it did in the 18th century, when much of the east was heavily farmed. And perhaps the answer lies therein, because these people, throughout history, have been Aggies. So why support a field of fucking trees? It gets in the way of the sheep. Man, am I rambling on about this or what? I'll move on.

The second thing I noticed was there are no buildings over 20 feet high within a 500 kilometer radius (thus the sky is not littered with city lights), which meant I could see stars from horizon line to horizon line. And that is an impeccable sight if you're not used to it. I was like an Iowan, in Manhattan to see Willard Scott, trying to walk and look up at the same time … plus I was fucked drunk, so walking, in general, was no easy proposition.

John, true to his word, came speeding up the lane, fifteen minutes into our ten minute walk home, applied the brakes and offered us a 'lift.' This was the first, but wouldn't be the last time that I approached the right side of the car to sit in the shotgun seat. This trait, by Friday, would drive Mick Baynes loopy.

"What do ye like to drink, Dan?" John asked, and I can only assume my reputation of an unfussy boozer had proceeded me. "We'll stop by my house and pick something up, then go to Josie's so we won't wake the kids." Ya John, you may fool Danny and Noel, but I've used that logic before and it's universal: it's better to wake up mom than (forget the kids) the wife.

For some reason, when asked what he wanted to drink, Dan responded, "Vodka." We waited in the car, and after a few minutes John exited his quiet and dark house with a bagful of Guinness pints and two-thirds of an unidentified bottle of spirits. With that we sped down the narrow lane to Josie's.

Arriving at Josie's, Noel and I remained outside to have a smoke while John scurried in the back door and began pouring pints as if at an audition for Aer Lingus. I don't know what or if Dan was drinking; I do know he was drunk as hell, no less than me I guess. Noel and I joined Dan and John at the table and there we sat, ending our first night in Castlebar, drunk as four sailors on leave, farting and telling lies. I must say though, that John, even drunk, maintains the cognitive tone of a world-class chess player.

I slammed down two or three more pints of Guinness, living up to my aforementioned reputation. It's a simple philosophy really. I can drink beer forever, and as long as I don't mix it with whiskey or anything stupid (I used to do tequila shots and Guinness chasers in my younger days) I can easily maintain a conversational, somewhat sober, drunkenness. This attribute will certainly make my daughters proud one day, when I celebrate their costly weddings. At something like 4:00 AM, we stumbled to bed. Dan crashed in the sitting room, Noel and I in the extra bedroom, Noel on the floor and me on the bed. I passed out. Noel passed gas.

next day