I'm sick but Sarah and I are in Ireland so ... to Hell with sick!Sarah holds my arm as I'm coughing and hacking as we make our way down the cobble stone streets of West Port ... driving our walk because I'm stumbling.
"Where you want to go?" she asks.
I should go back to our marvelous and quaint little Hotel room and sleep but ... we're in frigging Ireland so I point my shaky finger at a Pub.
It's three in the afternoon as we enter the packed bar full of singing patrons and happy music played by a band of five.
Grabbing the last remaining Bar stools we settle in and Sarah instantly becomes the object of every man's desire.
Ignoring me they tap her shoulder, ask what she's drinking, where's she's from and other things I don't hear.
Even the boys in the band keep their eyes off of her as they play.
"Where ye from?" they scream at us between songs because the Pub is so loud and rambunctious.
"U.S." I cough, "Georgia."
"Ha, we've been!" they joyfully scream. "Atlanta!"
Laughing, because the world believes Georgia consists of Atlanta and that's all ... primarily because Atlanta thinks there's nothing else ... I answer, "No we live on the coast ... by the Sea."
A hush falls over the Pub as everyone stares at us.
Ireland floats in the middle of the Gulf Stream ... warm waters ... so even though it gets bitterly cold there ... Palm Trees grow ... the flowers are incredible ... and the culture is defined by the ocean.
The band takes a break and the older guys rush to Sarah but the guitarist ... a younger guy talks to me ... primarily because there's no more room next to my wife .. "So ... you be a player aren't ye?"
"A wee bit," I hack.
"BOYS," he screams to his mates, "HE'S A PLAYER!"
Before I know what's happening Sarah's pushing me towards them and I'm sitting with the band holding a guitar.
And a dream comes true.
"Go on now," the boys in the band yell picking up their instruments, "We'll pick ye up!"
"Crossing the highway late last night," I sing and play "Dead Skunk in the Middle of the Road" ... and the Pub grows silent ... except for Sarah's smile ... "I should have looked left and I should have looked right."
My young friend pulls out a Celtic drum and beats the Hell out of it.
The boys in the Irish band laugh.
Finishing ... the Pub burst into applause and calls for another one.
People buy me shots.
Sarah winks still surrounded by her crowd of admirers.
I break a string on the guitar.
"Sing on Lad," the boys in the band yell.
We do Jimmy Buffett's "God Don't Own a Car" and the Pub laughs at the words.
Finishing I'm coughing and hacking and drinking shots ... can't find Sarah for the thong of her admirers ... am hugged by the boys in the band who scream ... "Anytime Lad ... Any Time."
Sarah guides me to the Hotel and I sleep for a day and a night.
When I wake my head's cradled in her lap as she brushes my hair with her fingers ...
For the rest of my life ... that's what St. Patrick's Day means to me.
Happy St. Patrick's Day everyone.
