St. Patrick's Day has always been a happy and celebrated holiday in our household, which one would imagine would be the case when you marry an Irishman. Granted, he was born here, as was his father, as was HIS father... but he's ginger, he's got lots of freckles, and he was once gifted his pint glass at a pub in Brooklyn because the Irish bartender hadn't seen anyone but a fellow countryman drink as much Guinness as my husband did in one night without keeling over. I'm very proud of him for that one.
For the past few years, because of the way our money situation has been, we haven't had our usual celebrations other than finding a place that will serve us cider and stout. On occasions like this, I remember the year we had the best St. Patrick's Day ever.
Four years ago, we had the pleasure of being in Ireland for the big event. We (meaning myself, The Hubs who was still The Boyfriend back then, and our friend living in London who I will now refer to as The Friend) hopped on a puddlejumper-esque flight from London to Shannon, then took a 2 hour bus ride from Shannon to Galway in the rain. After a very bizarre stop at a burger joint, the three of us met a seriously wonderful couple who talked to us about their trips to Washington DC, who bought us tons of pints for wishing their father a happy birthday, and who told us all the best places to go the next day once we'd recovered. I found out that Ireland is the place I should always be because a- I don't get hungover and b- I am considered hot enough to be hit on at EVERY SINGLE BAR we went to. That has never, ever, EVER happened to me. Ever. In fact, one guy stood behind me and pointed me out to his friends, who cheered him on. The Boyfriend asked me to politely point out that I was already taken, and The Guy Who Would Hit On Me took it well, even staying around to chat about football with us for a while before going back to his buddies. At the end of the night, we were very into eating some food, so as my friend and I sprinted through the square to Abrakebabra, two local girls appeared from thin air, shouting happy things in Gaelic to The Boyfriend while alternately hugging him. With wide, surprised eyes, he shook his head and told them that he had no idea what they were saying. Strangely, they seemed more excited that he was American, but he had to politely tell them he couldn't stand around to speak because he was afraid to leave The Friend and I alone. Apparently, we were too "celebratory" to be trusted out on our own. He was right not to trust us, as he found us stuffing our faces with fries drenched in shredded cheese and a garlic cream sauce. It was delicious at the time.
To sum up, it was an epically fun night.
This year... will not be like that. However, tonight, I will crack open a bottle of Magners, pour it in a glass over ice, and sit back and remember that wonderfully awesome night. For one brief evening, I was a Galway Girl.