What's a home away from home? Well, for this 21-year-old Wisconsinite on the trek to Ireland, a pub -- any pub, really -- is certainly a good start. Throughout my trip to Ireland, I have transformed into a fish in the proficiency and resiliency I have become with my drinking exploits, of which were frequent, cathartic, and an opportunity to take the backpack off my shoulders (sometimes quite literally) and relax for a bit. While I have no cause for concern that this extended episode of frequent drinks and pints at some of Ireland's most established pubs will translate into a problem of some sorts with my alcohol intake, I will admit that I had never consumed this much alcohol in a month-long period. But nonetheless, when I have ever felt down and out with the world in my time in Ireland, there was always a pub waiting for me, a pint waiting for me, a bartender waiting for me, and hopefully a friend waiting for me. To me, for these reasons, a pub is not just an establishment for service, but also one for hospitality when needed.
The pub scene in Galway is nonpareil for its liveliness and warm, cozy, and intimate atmospheres. Pictured: Busker Browne's.
Whenever I have let the temptation of alcohol consume me at UWL in my first two years, I did it for common reasons of male college students; as a social lubricant, alcohol could serve up hopes of good times with The Boys (and girls if I was lucky), offering an atmosphere of haziness, booziness, and craziness that I had never been accustomed to in the past. But as time passed and "friends" became distant and aloof to my happiness, alcohol became a coping mechanism for loneliness, FOMO, and a sense of hope that had been weathered through and hanging by a very loose thread. As bleak as that all sounds, alcohol became a friend, but more of a "plug" that I could use or abuse when necessary and abstain from when unnecessary. Perhaps that's the allure of alcohol -- it offers those who choose to strap on the seatbelts for alcohol consumption a ride into a world that can't exist without intoxication. Come on down! We've got a loss of social anxiety to the left, haze to your right, slower time right next door, an urge to piss four times in a two-hour span down further on your left, stumbling and tumbling next to the mirror maze of bathroom doors, and everyone's favorite: the world-famous loss of consciousness on center stage!
While this is not a love letter to alcohol, it is not farcical to understand the appeal of alcohol to the world's most vulnerable gang of people -- those who crave a sense of longing, a sense of hope, a sense of belonging, anything. When combined with heartbreak, personal strife, grief, mental health issues, soon, the mere notion of alcohol can take the form of an unnamed and unseen monster, looking for prey to inflict upon with the most devilish notions of danger, depression, and death. To this point we must acknowledge the inherent dangers of alcohol usage. Alcohol can be a ride towards fun times that one might forget but can also embody a double-edged sword that can leave its mark on the stab wounds of despair.
Anyways, the pub culture in Ireland would not leave one with a notion of danger; instead, they act as Irish citizens' second home. Whether in Dublin, Galway, Belfast, or Kilkenny, I have been privileged to buy a round of beer for those in my circle to celebrate the feelings in the building and possibly drown out your sorrows, thoughts, and metabolism if you have enough to drink. The first true pub experience I got to indulge in was the Boar's Head pub in Dublin's city center. On its facade, it would appear to be a bar-like atmosphere, but once inside, you felt warm, almost like you belonged there with the hospitality, pints of Heineken, and fish and chips cooked, fried, and battered especially for your liking. Really, shouldn't everything we choose to do be for a sense of belonging? We can fall short of our desires in this regard, but we can never "belong" anywhere if no effort is put forth.
As for class discussions and lectures, it is clear that alcohol has impacted the lives of every single human being (even in dry places of the Earth), but lands its most notable impact, apparently, with authors of Irish memoirs. Besides Twelve Thousand Days, alcoholism secures a starring role in the lives of Frank McCourt (Angela's Ashes), Colin Broderick (That's That), and Nuala O'Faolain (Are You Somebody?). McCourt was the subject to poor parenting on behalf of his largely absent father who repeatedly put his temptation for "the drink" over the needs of his own family; Broderick was undeterred by his young uncle's death and embarked on his own lust-filled, havoc-wreaking, society-be-damned form of alcoholism that would take decades to recover from; O'Faolain was not an apple that fell far from the tree of alcoholism as she took after her mother to cope with her crippling loneliness through her temptations with alcohol (and men -- lots of men). The brewing industry of Ireland, namely with the influence of Guinness and its parent company Diageo, is an industry that clearly holds a crutch of power in food and drink regulations in Ireland, of which are relatively lax (as they should be) when dealing with breweries and distilleries.
Handsome man swilling down a drink of customary Smithwick's Red Ale in Kilkenny -- the long-lost home of Smithwick's. Smithwick's is now a subsidiary of Diageo, as is Guinness.
Gravedigger's! Less enthusiasm for the Guinness, however.
While I have become a second-rate citizen of Dublin, I have not come around to the sensation that is to be known as Guinness. As an American accustomed to the basic lagers and the paramount IPAs of the world, I cannot come to appreciate the taste of Guinness for a myriad of reasons: the bland taste, the length of the pours, the foam, the smell, etc. While apparently to my friend Aidan I am a man who "doesn't leave a pint unfinished" (true) I would only finish a Guinness out of reluctance, like if I was held at gunpoint by a madman who was satisfied by finished pints and Guinness for some odd fetishistic reason. The invention of the IPA, in my humble, experienced mind, is of greater importance to my life than the Guinness stout concoction of shit-water. Why drink a beer that looks like sewer runoff and tastes like rye bread when you can blissfully drink a beer that tastes like a 70-degree summer night with its hoppy, bitter, and fruity taste base? The choice is yours, friend, and you better not waste it.
If you want to enjoy life, drink IPAs (like the Rye River IPA at the Brazen Head). If you want to be an average nobody or a schnook who wants to hop on the least tasteful trends, drink a Guinness.
To my fellow fans of alcohol, I urge you to drink responsibly (or Wisconsinbly) when you desire to enjoy life or drown out your demons and take your socks off, take the backpack off your shoulders, take your bra off, let your hair down, whatever. Remember, we can consume alcohol, but when unfiltered and uncontrolled, alcohol can destroy your life and all those around you, as it quite often did for Frank McCourt, Nuala O'Faolain, and Colin Broderick. Alcohol can be a helping hand for those who long to belong or even those who want to dance with romance but can just as easily be a death grip for those in a stay of dismay. *casual microphone drop*
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