Luck of the Irish (and the Americans): Part 2

Day 3

According to Cillian, to truly get the bonafide Irish experience you have to drink until you wake up on a filthy bathroom floor tour the majestic Cork countryside; Dublin alone doesn’t cut it. So that’s what we did. Green, green, and more green stretched for miles. The lush pastures felt like a scene straight out of Leap Year and the only thing missing was background music by The Cranberries.

To get you in the mood.

I explained to Cillian that I was a big believer in doing the things you can’t do anywhere else, the special moments each country has to offer. His solution was as Irish as it gets: taking a horse-drawn carriage up the mountainside through the Killarney National Park. Now we’re talking.

Fat raindrops sprinkled down on us, yet our tour guide wore nothing but jeans and a rather flimsy t-shirt. Meanwhile, Brandon and I shivered together under our layers of scarves, cardigans, and jackets like the soft Californians that we were. (Go ahead and judge us, Ireland.)

As we ascended up the mountain, the guide pointed out various sites and shared little tidbits, like how the herds of sheep are marked with different colors on their wool to indicate who owns which. Full disclosure: that’s literally the only thing I learned because this dude sounded like Colin Farrell with a mouth full of gumballs.

Me: Wanna translate?
Cillian: I’m going to be honest, I don’t even know half of what he’s saying.

So, there’s a fun fact about Ireland for you: the dialects vary BIG time. Next tour guide, same problem, as we took a rowboat out on the National Park Lake. Picture a stereotypical old Irish man and you probably know exactly how this UK raisin looks. He was diminutive, with fluffy white hair and sturdy clothes designed for boating. Now that I think about it, he may have actually been the grandpa from Disney Channel’s classic Luck of the Irish. Wow, I’m starstruck.

Anyway, he too gave us a brief history lesson, in which Brandon and I attempted to decipher his speech. I learned nothing.

Because my life is continuously a disaster, problems arose when the boat drifted to the center of the lake and I realized there was a leak right by my feet. Brandon immediately noticed as well and shot me an understandably distressed look. I was about to ask what we should do when the Old Leprechaun squinted over and squeezed in between us. This is the part where you would assume he plugs up the hole. This is not what happened.

Instead, he snatched up a bucket from underneath his legs and began scooping the water into it. Quietly, calmly, like this was just a day in the life of a 200-year-old leprechaun. (Perhaps it was.) Brandon and I promptly exchanged “you CANNOT be serious right now” expressions, thoroughly clueless of what to do, much like Gwyneth Paltrow using public transportation. More lake water trickled its way inside the boat and yet the man just silently filled the bucket with more h₂o. No explanation, no fear, just the scoop, scoop, scoop of the water.

Okay, cool, I guess that means we were going to die then. In hindsight, I probably should have attempted to help Grandpa out, but instead, I pulled out my phone and began drafting a text to my parents, Marti and Tim.

It’s been nice knowing you… I started typing. But this will be my last day on earth. Please remember to clear my Internet history so no one knows how often I google pictures of mac n’ cheese…

Everyone has their vices.

The water was nearing my ankles now. I was too young to die – sure, I had a prestigious 48-hour modeling career under my belt, but there was so much more I needed to accomplish, like owning a teacup pig named Hamlet and marrying Tom Hardy.

“Should we, um…” I started to say. The Old Leprechaun ignored me, probably because he wasn’t at all fluent in American English. Brandon looked mildly horrified, but mostly like he had accepted his fate, and that at least we died together and were super well-dressed while we did so. (I imagine his motto is something like, “If I’m going down, at least I’m going down wearing Ferragamo.” My gravestone will probably just say “Deuces.”)

Yet somehow we managed not to drown to our untimely death. To be completely honest, I’m still not sure HOW that happened, seeing as Old Man Withers over here didn’t even attempt to plug the leak, but for some inexplicable reason, it stopped. God smiles upon us, or whatever.

To celebrate, we indulged in a calorie-packed dinner in Killarney, a town even more fairytale-esque than Cork. While there, the three of us explored and went souvenir shopping, and at one point a stray goat approached me, absentmindedly sniffing me before trotting off. Toto, we’re definitely not in Los Angeles anymore.

That night, Brandon and I invited Cillian to go bar-hopping with us… out of common courtesy. We didn’t actually expect a 30-something year old man to go hard on a Monday, especially when he had a company of his own to govern. We were mistaken. Cillian was more than happy to embrace another late night out and acquainted us with some of his many favorite watering holes around town.

Another plot twist: as millennials, Brandon and I were basically fetuses compared to everyone else there. Our first stop of the night – a hole-in-the-wall pub where a woman sang along to the folky sounds of a guitar and mandolin – was swarming with older, wrinkled folks of the senior citizen/I’ve-fallen-and-I-can’t-get-up demographic.

Me: …. Is this normal?
Cillian: Sure. Drinking heavily is the one hobby everyone shares.

Another fun fact: there was no shortage of 80-year-old men who, despite smoking a pack of cigarettes and downing a bottle of whiskey daily, seemed to be in pristine health. Meanwhile, I’m on my deathbed every time I go out for a bottomless mimosa brunch. One thing I noticed, though, is that our tour guide for the Guinness Factory mentioned that their beer has 4% ABV (or alcohol by volume, for those of you who aren’t alcoholics like myself). That struck me as odd because I was accustomed to something stronger.

Cillian: That’s very true. Ireland has such a drinking epidemic that the beers here have a lower alcohol content. For instance, outside of Ireland, Heineken may be something like 5 or 6%, but here it will be about 3.
Me: Interesting. So that means it’s totally kosher if I have 10 beers, right?

Look at me, teaching you things! Anyway, that may have been true, but it definitely didn’t feel like it. Cillian was going HARD on the brews, treating us to round after round after round. When we were only 15 minutes in but four pints deep, I pulled Brandon aside.

Me: This is so aggressive. I can’t hang.
Brandon: I know, right? I already feel really buzzed.
Me: Same! And I can’t be drunk around my parents’ business associate. Homie needs to cool it.

I wasn’t even halfway done with my cider when Cillian motioned the bartender over for another round. “Hey, I appreciate all of the drinks,” I said, trying desperately not to slur every syllable. “But I think I’m good for now.”

“Come on now!” he said back. “It’s considered rude in Ireland to turn down a drink. Let’s have another!”

Who would have thought that a 30-year-old businessman would haze me worse than my sorority sisters ever did?*

Me: So Cillian… um, how much do you typically drink?
Cillian: Oh, you know. Not a ton. Just, like, twenty-five to thirty drinks a night.
Me and Brandon: …… what

Needless to say, it was all downhill from there. Exhibit A:

A disturbing amount of alcohol later, I asked Cillian if he was tired of the bar. It was hovering around 2 am at this point and I was fairly positive he had a schedule jam-packed with business calls in five hours. But instead of taking that as “we should head home,” he agreed that, yes, let’s migrate to another club. I mean… as long as he was cool with it. Mostly, I was just confused that clubs in an ostensibly sleepy, provincial town like Killarney were open until the wee hours of the night on a Monday. Again, grandparents were turning up left and right and young Irish girls dressed like it was a red carpet event rather than a seedy dive bar with out-of-order restrooms.

After a myriad of failed missions in Paris, we FINALLY tracked down a kebab shop in Killarney. Sweet, sweet satisfaction. The basket of chips we also ordered was provided with curry sauce on the side, which was unexpected. But I can officially confirm: they tasted heavenly together. Four for you, Ireland Coco.

Meanwhile, just outside, two men were fighting on the street.

As they began throwing wobbly, drunken punches at each other, I turned to Cillian. “Should we do something?”

He glanced over, barely even noticing them. “Oh, that? Nah, happens all the time.”

Moral of the story: sometimes stereotypes exist for a reason. The excessive drinking and fighting? All in a day’s work.

Me: Excuse me, can I grab the ketchup?

Random man: Dearie, what are you doing?

Me: Is this a trick question or…

Man: No, I mean, don’t be so polite! That’s not the Irish way! Repeat after me: MOVE DA FOOK OUTTA ME WAY!

Me: You’re kidding, right?

Man: No, say it. You don’t get the ketchup until you do.

Me: Fine. Uh… move the fuck out of the way.

Man: Come on now, with more passion!

Me: Move the f-

Man: Like you’re Irish!

Me: HEY! MOVE DA FOOK OUTTA ME GAHDDAMN WAY!!!

Man: Aw, lovely. Cheers.

God, I was going to miss this place.

*My sorority didn’t actually haze me at all. I was ready to prove my worth so it was a major disappointment.