Ireland 6

August 3, 2012

Mooned about in the hotel in the lousy weather, watching the Olympics. Bestirred myself to go to Furey’s for a night of Blue Grass by a local group, something Grizzly, which had just won a Battle of the Bands. Their first song praised Johnson City, Tennessee. When I told one of the band members I lived thirty miles from there, her eyes lit up and she said, “You are a very lucky man.” It was a sensational evening. The room was full of happy people, and no one can be happy like the Irish can, even as few can be as morose. I was talking with a round-faced man named Aidan who said he could find me excellent Irish real estate. He was some sort of investment banker. We talked abut bands we had heard which were excellent but somehow never came to anything. He said, “Those buildings on the side of the river weren’t always there. The houses on O’Connell street had gardens that went clear down to the water.” I was happy, too, happier than I had been in a long time, in a Keatsian spasm of happiness for the sake of the happiness of others. One of the quirks of the band was that their fans came to their gigs dressed up in suits and evening gowns. I had been buying drinks for the girls to thank them for looking so fine, and after a while people began buying me drinks, too– I don’t think for the same reason-- and when I finally headed for home I was as drunk as I’ve ever been and still able to navigate. Actually I was not sure of my navigation the whole way, but here I am in the morning light, not even hung over. Furey’s is lucky in its bartenders. Paul was back for the crowd, but the main one was a humorous, kind man with a pony tail. Once you got over the panic in the face of chaos, it must be blessed to enable and ride the waves of such a Dionysian revel.