Side, Side, Everywhere a Side When you grow as quickly as we have these past several years, there are certain things that, often slowly, come into focus. For one, there are always issues. And issues have sides. And perspectives. There are believers/non-believers, early and late adopters, hammer droppers and brake pumpers. And by definition, that’s what it takes to make something great. Opinions. Perspectives. Sides. But what separates us, the Jay Peak Collective, is also what connects us. The belief that anything worth having, whether through preserving or changing it, is worth discussing. Worth disagreeing on. And worth, eventually, coming to terms with. But for as much metaphoric bridge building that’s been done across these past years, we’ve also come across some truths that, if not universal, certainly orbit within the same system. Including things like: The pizza coming out of Mountain Dicks is infinitely more edible than the pitchy, roof shingles being served out of Pizza, Pizza, Pizza, regardless of how deliriously connected we were to the old shitty sign. Tetanus shots have dropped off a bit since the old Hotel Jay (and the Marquis De Sade era beds) fell to the ground. Having a spa, and with it the ability to rub out the bad and rub in the good, hasn’t banished us into a blazing pit of devils and agony as the Jay’er- Than- Thou crowd oft-predicted. We are certainly all defined by the area’s we ski and ride, and the notion of having a waterpark open (while you hammer yourself in Deliverance) still makes you a every bit the tough guy you so badly want the world to see. See? We see. But still, in the darkest corner of our heart, we acknowledge that contrasts and opinions and sides are still our best, if not the easiest to swallow, medicine. And that’s why we’ve dedicated the whole of this year’s Jay Magazine to varying perspectives on a multitude of issues. Is the future dedicated to those taking up space there or the ones yet on their way?—make your own decision when you read about Bear and Alice and Andrew on pages 9 and 43-44. Flip to page 34-35 and take sides on the age old Defense vs. Offense debate with Jeff Serowik and his Pro Ambitions Hockey Camps at Jay Peak. See what our kid-critics Keaton and Maeve think about our new Disney/Burton Mountain Kid’s Learning Center on pp18-19 and for a look at our brother’s keeper and the things happening just East of here, check out pp 32-33 and see where you stand on growth at Burke. In between those, we give you plenty to read and plenty to talk about. And you should certainly believe that, going forward, conversations about West Bowls and Bonnie Replacements and indoor climbing wall-movie theater mashups will help keep our conversations sided and undull. And that suits us. All we ask is that while you’re busy keeping your opinions known and open, you pay close attention to locking your mind into that same, upright, position. It makes for a much easier flight and, at the end of it all, we’re all headed in the same direction-whatever side we’re on.

I started taking French in the 7th grade. And by taking I mean slouching, perfecting the ACDC lightning bolt doodle on my book-covers and, mostly, flailing around with uncomfortable words like inconfortable and avoirdupois. I realized that I simply wasn’t one of those people meant to speak in any more than one language and English had, if not a head start, a smallish lead. I did, however, find that certain words held an appeal that I couldn’t understand. Charcuterie for one. It means pork products or French deli or something. And bric-a-brac which I’ve kept close to my heart since the moment I realized it actually has no meaning at all and no official translation. I hadn’t thought much about those halcyon days until I recently came across another French word with a strange yet undeniable appeal as we prepared this summer’s magazine. Terrior. I, of course, wanted it to derive meaning from the terror family, carrying some dark, insulting gloom that I could fire off at co-workers. Unfortunately, it means a special set of characteristics that geography and geology and plant genetics combine to create. Like special characteristics that wine, coffee, and tomatoes can carry—that sort of thing. French winemakers first developed the concept of terroir by observing the differences in wines from different regions or even micro-variations from different sections of the same vineyard. This says much about both the almost artful focus of winemakers and the equally incalculable amount of down time the French appear to be burdened with. Nonetheless, it was a word that kept inserting itself into story ideas as we created this year’s travail d’amour. How about that, huh? If it isn’t obvious that the terra firma surrounding us at Jay Peak grows things differently, one need look no further than page 27 and our interview with local Rob Conrad. Not unlike coffee or chocolate, those raised inside our fertile borders carry with them an unmistakable stamp that is as easily recognized as it is difficult to describe; our interview with co-owner Ariel Quiros on page 5 bears that out perfectly. Our story on the Green Mountain Avalanche Hockey Tournament Series (page 16) proves that ice, and not just soil, can be foundation for the ties that bind. Maybe the best option, the best hope of sinking roots that’ll hold, happens through our Raised Jay Camps (page 18); a little water, some ice, and just enough dirt to ground you; that’s what our summer youngsters get access to. In between you’ll find stories and sidebars, pictures and marginalia and enough wonderfulness, to keep you inspired. Or, as the French call it, inspired.

Given what we’ve been through these past few years, how aggressively we’ve grown and added and expanded, it’s well-considered to be the height of irony when we set out to strike a minimalist spirit inside the walls of this year’s Jay Peak Magazine. While we realize the beauty of simplicity and the power of the pared-down, we also realize there’s a time and a place to preach the gospel of too-much-of-everything-is-just-enough. And, really, that’s part of the allure of this place. That we can simultaneously be all things to all people. The snowboarder. The Skater. The Climber. The Plunger. And, at the same time, make you feel that we were created, and did some of the creating, just for you. We fit the one, just as expertly as we fit the all. And you can only do that when you pay as much attention to what you leave out and subtract, as what you add and fit in. Maximizing the minimalism or something resembling this. In terms of additions, you’d be hard pressed to find anything better than Melissa Sheffer, our recently added Director of Housekeeping and Rooms (interview on page xx) or our most recent trail addition-by-subtraction (601 to Micky on page xx). Inside you can also learn about how minimalism still includes an anything-but-austere approach to employee rewards, benefits and recognition (page xx), our approach to the role we play within the communities that support us (JJ’s pizza piece) and the families that live in those communities and, in return, support the mountain in everything we do (Suarez interview page xx). Around and about, you’ll find stories and information on our Ice Haus Indoor Ice Arena, our new Clips and Reels Indoor Climbing Center and Movie Theater, our Pumphouse Indoor Waterpark and small bits of thoughtful mica designed to glitter just enough to get your attention, without taking away from the bigger sparkle. In the end, regardless of the lens you choose to view us through, we’re still (and in some cases just) Jay Peak. Plenty of space to be yourself, whichever shape that takes, while spending time among others doing alternative versions of the same. We’re beyond thankful for the opportunity to share this special experience with you, all of you, whether you’re never-evers, long timers, skiers, splashers, sippers or skaters. What you see when you look at us is oftentimes, and thankfully we think, a sharp reflection of yourselves. And in the end we’re us, because you’re you. We think that’s pretty great. We hope you like this year’s magazine and we’re looking forward to delivering a vacation you’ll never forget. Thanks for reading. Steve

Even If you’ve taken more than a cursory-glance at this year’s Jay Peak Magazine cover, it’s unlikely you’re making the connection between Jay Peak and the power of alchemy. But we that overthink these things, the creating of magazine covers and themes and colors and such, still have a job to do. To tie together disparate pieces of a winter vacation and package them in such a way, creatively, that doesn’t feel templated, or dispassionate or boring as, in reality, we check off exactly none of those boxes here at Jay. But alchemy and the process of change, of transmuting, and ultimately transformation, seems to fit us in a way that, well, fits. And, equally fitting, is that as we sit here almost 10 years from the start of a growth process that would take us from then to now, from not much to just enough in a million different ways, we’re still putting out a magazine that tries to be equal parts vacation planner and contract; something that binds us to you in ways that only the collective understands. If alchemy is always connecting to the mysterious, the unaccounted for, or the inexplicable, then Jay Peak seems to be its perfect forever-home. And that alchemic power may start with turning something into something else, but it continues, and ultimately finishes, with you. The guest. The Jay Peaker. The final arbiter of what sort of change works and what sort of change needs to, still, be changed. Our buildings and waterparks and ice rinks have exactly zero bits of alchemic possibility in their DNA, but the folks that use them, and enjoy them and tell us where we can be better, do. That’s why colors and pictures and themes about alchemy are great and fine but the real power to change and transform isn’t something that we at the mountain have any access to. That power, that responsibility, sits with you, and we hope and expect that you’ll still hold us as accountable as you ever have, for the experience we all hold so close. No one holds that responsibility any tighter than our employees and it’s one of the reasons we put them on display, front and center, in our Hotel Jay. Hit page 12 to see the who and the what. Our employees work hard at delivering uniquely great experiences here at the mountain but they also contribute to our community in meaningful ways as well—check out what makes ski instructor Mimi Magyar go on page 11 Our local community takes great pride in who we are and who we continue to become and that’s evident in our story about Nelson and his Big Jay Tavern and how quickly it’s transformed the local food an social scene on page 22. And if there’s a birthing point for change and transformation and alchemy, you’d have to look wide and far for a better example than our Raised Jay 8-Week Program. Take a look at what we’re talking about on page 14. In between you’ll find just enough to pique your curiosity about what’s happening here, who’s responsible for it and, hopefully, how you can get involved. After all that’s what real alchemy is all about; reaching to be better than we presently are, so that everything around us becomes better in the process. We look forward to seeing you this season. -Steve

My youngest daughter was born in a test tube. Or if not born in one, she had the required ingredients put in one, spun around, tipped on its head and then she finally came together just fine. As a 16-year-old, this is a process she seems to repeat with some measure of regularity. She would be considered elegant by any definition but also coarse, transparent and someone who expects to be treated and dealt with both elegantly and transparently. She is fiercely loyal to her friends, looks for opportunities to defend them and has high expectations for those expecting to drift into her inner circle. While she drifts across friend groups with ease--athletes, dancers, jocks, the slightly burnt, white collars, blue collars and those eschewing collars altogether, she rides with only a select few and even fewer have access to her vaults and odd calibrations. This is one of things that makes her unique, makes her special, her ability to stay on guard and keep her feelings under surveillance, even while she portrays, to the outside world at least, that all is manageable and under-control and fine. As all teenagers eventually come to terms with, and with which parents are acutely aware, fine can be fleeting. One day your Iced Matcha Green Tea Latte is perfectly blended. You nail a Trig test. You score a goal or two in practice. Your boyfriend seems less like a dick than he was the day before. You have something for dinner that doesn’t offend you. You finish your homework early and your parents leave you the fuck alone. The next day you’re late for school. Your yogurt leaks into your Copas. Your minutes on the pitch drop, and the accumulating burden of AP classes, the feeling that friends aren’t real friends and that your troubles are the most troubling, bears down on you and shades so much light, that all you can see is dark. You can’t see that everyone, at varying intervals, is caught in the blank space between 16 and fine. And even through it, even through those periods of lightless dark, my youngest has some piece of spark that always seems to cling. You see it in the way she purses her lips or raises a single eyebrow at the same time she curls the opposite corner of her mouth. You can see it in the way she keeps moving forward even when she says she’s absolutely going to stay put. In the way she does what can be the single most difficult thing to do but is always the most important; she shows up. And in showing up, in bringing that clinging spark to whatever it is that’s gnawing at her, she allows herself the opportunity to find fine. I watched her the other day as she was sitting on the couch next to me. We had just finished a writing assignment. She came with a good outline and we talked a bit about it, and I was happy to help sand its edges. We finished and she was happy. Her smile came on slowly, as it does, but then took over her face. Rolling up from her mouth to her nose (which is just exactly perfect no thanks to the noses up and down our family trees) then across her forehead. In her smile you can easily find fine, and even happy. But also, there in that smile, are the typical concerns built into standard 16-year old operating protocol. Things like tomorrow's AP Language test, tomorrow’s soccer game, tomorrow’s ride to school, tomorrow’s halftime football jig. Tomorrows rob from our todays but that, too, is to be expected. At 16, you don’t allow yourself too much time to enjoy any one thought, or any one experience: there’s always something coming to dread. I wish I could show her the future and explain how things end up rolling into place exactly how they’re supposed to, but I’m too old to offer anything but old words and she’s too young to believe them, at least now. When she went to bed that night after we talked about the hope for her birthday party and we negotiated acceptable terms (these friends only, no boys staying over, no driving), she was curled up in her bed distracting herself, from herself, on her phone. I said good night, and that I love you, and I asked if she was ok with her homework and she said it was fine. I almost challenged it, but decided to take it at face value and went to bed, thankful that I had a daughter working through what being 16 means on her own terms and grateful, fine even, with the person she’s becoming

If you ever wake up in the mirror of a bad dream. It’s 4am on graduation day and you’re asleep in our room, with your sister, because of how many people are in the house. I woke up and your mom was gone, She was awake in the sunroom with the windows open, listening to the first of the birds. “It’s so quiet outside.” she said, “I was up before the birds even. There was no wind out there, no nothing. I imagined that I could wake up and she’d be 5 again, when we first moved here. That I’d go into her room and she’d need me, and want to spend time with me and do projects. I hope we did the right things by her Steven. I just want her to be so happy.” And for a fraction of a second you can’t remember where you are-just open a window and follow your memories upstream, to the meadow in the mountain where we counted every falling star. I remember when you humored me. We would sit in the hammock in Rutland, on Charlies Place, and look out past the lightly barbed wire fence that kept Charlie’s cows from visiting more often than they did. Down the hillside to the mountains just to the north and east. I remember back, and the days were always sunny and warm and clear. And you would lie on my stomach and I would rub your back and we would talk and not talk. I would suggest that you “pay attention and that life is good right now and that sometimes life gets harder” I should have just shut my fucking mouth and rubbed your back. But we counted clouds and later, when the stars would come out, those too. But we always rocked slowly in that thing. Partly because it was easy to fall out of, but also because slow was fine back then. I believe the light that shines will shine on you forever, and though I can’t guarantee there’s nothing scary hiding under your bed. I remember watching The Shining with you and your friends when you were about 8 or 9. Your mother wanted to kill me. I was so interested in turning you on to things I liked, that I didn’t consider the likelihood that there was at least a chance you weren’t ready for Scatman Crothers much less Jack Nicholson. We made popcorn, and had candy and likely ice cream, and I turned the lights off and you and your friends huddled on the couch and we had the sound on low because this wasn’t a scene your mother would warm to if she came downstairs. It barely held your attention and didn’t stay with you, or even scare you, in the least. I remember you and Olivia wondering when the scary part would start. “Was this a scary movie back when you watched scary movies a lot Dad?” Maybe this wasn’t the first time I connected to the idea that time was moving, but it stands out. I watched 3/4’s of the rest of it by myself with all of you asleep on the same couch. You, Dasha, and Olivia. I took a picture that I still have somewhere. From that point on Jack Torrence didn’t scare me much. He was just a guy trying to keep his family together. Also trying to kill them, but still. I’m gonna stand guard like a postcard of a Golden Retriever, and never leave ’til I leave you with a sweet dream inside your head. I remember reading books to you before you’d sleep, like any parent does. The same ones, something by Sandra Boynton at first. Moo, Baa, La La La!, Opposites, and certainly, Pajama Time, which I can still recite by line if you give me a start. I remember reading A Child’s Calendar by John Updike to the point where it was impossible to start a month without his words rolling around in my head. To this day, I remember, reading about April, “The blushing girlish world unfolds, each flower, leaf and blade of turf, small love notes sent from air to earth.” I read those lines to myself and I am, again, lying next to you, rubbing your back again, trying to help you nod off. We’d end each night with the two of us singing Ripple or Dire Wolf or Friend of the Devil. Got two reasons why I cry awake each lonely night, first one’s name is sweet Dehlia Dee and she’s my heart’s delight. You’d generally be asleep before the second verse, but I’d almost always lay there and finish. I’m gonna watch you shine, gonna watch you grow, gonna paint a sign, so you’ll always know. I remember your Mom and I saving up to rent a house for a week on Brandt lake in NY with a bunch of friends when you were little. We spent a week fishing and riding on Louie’s boat, and swatting flies. On our last night we drive down to SPAC to watch some iteration of what was left of the Dead, I think it was Furthur. I remember walking the lot before the show with you. You wanted a sticker that, instead of Hello Kitty, said Mellow Kitty and had the kitten holding a bong. I remember getting into the show, we sat on the lawn, and I watched you twirling around and dancing, and all of our friends taking turns dancing with you. Your mom and I were so happy to be there and to have you with us. They played Stagger Lee, and you sang from the top of your small lungs. Obviously I loved you a thousand times before that, and have record of at least saying so, but I still get a lump in my throat when that memory comes around. I’ve begged time to stop a thousand times since then too. Still no luck. Trust your intuition, it’s just like going fishin-you cast your line and hope you get a bite. I remember your first dance. It was at the Municipal Building in Newport and I was a chaperone. At this point of things, it still wasn’t supremely awful for this to be the case both because I was your ride, but also your wallet and they had candy and you like candy. I bought you a Kit Kat and you went to hang out with your 6th grade girlfriends and I made small talk with other fathers. I don’t remember what I said to them, but I remember watching you and being happy that you appeared pretty confident-especially in light of how nervous I was. It was impossible for me not to connect to this as an important moment-a girl’s first dance, but it was even more difficult for me to take my eyes off of you. I may have spoken to several people that night, but I didn’t spend much time actually looking at them. The dance only lasted 90 minutes or so, and I bought you a shareable sized pack of Rolo’s that we split on the way home. This was probably the last time a dance ended this way for either of us. It would always happen this way though; falling deeper in love with your daughter just when you’d think that couldn’t possibly happen. But you don’t need to waste your time, worryin about the marketplace, trying to save the human race, struggling to survive, it’s as harsh as night. I remember watching The Wild Thornberry’s movie with you In Rutland. It had been one of your favorite shows, chronicling the lives of Eliza Thornberry (who is granted the power to talk to animals by a Shaman, so long as she mentions it to no one) and her mom Marianne and father Nigel (voiced by Tim Curry), and it was now headed to the big screen. We got pizza at Ramuntos and headed to the Rutland 10-plex or something and got popcorn. At some point in the movie, 12-year old Eliza gets shipped to boarding school and has some tearful farewell with her Dad before she boards a plane. At this point, you’re unlikely aware that I cry at hardware store commercials and songs about summer ending, so you’re a little taken back when you see me welling up. You laugh when you notice. “Dad, you’re actually crying?” It’s dark so you’re not entirely sure until the huffing comes. I remember you holding my hand and then I may have had some kind of a joy blackout as I don’t remember much else. We left the theater and you said something like don’t worry Dad I’ll never leave you. I remember putting my sunglasses on as I got into the car. As long as one and one is two, there could never be a father who loves his daughter more than I love you. I am locked out of the hospital in St. Albans. I just left you in a wheelchair in a waiting room after wrecking your ACl in a junior year soccer match versus BFA under the lights. You were taken off the field in a stretcher, transported in a golf cart to the car after being diagnosed by their athletic trainer with a ‘definitely torn, it’s definitely a torn ACL, definitely torn, yup” and pointed in the direction of Northwestern Medical Center on Fairfield Street (these directions, in my brain, are seared). I went back to the car to look for your sandals and, given the apparent operating hours of this place, have been summarily locked out. I’m running around the building looking for a door, an open window, a chimney to drop into and I find some unlocked orderly entrance or something and make my way back to you. You are sitting in uniform. One sock rolled down, the other still holding a shinguard. Both cleats still on and tied. You have a little black mascara running down your face. Your hair is in a ponytail and held back with burgundy athletic tape. You keep saying how bad you know it is and I keep deferring to other potentials even though I know it isn’t great. It’s been a while since I’ve held your hand like this and for as awful as I feel for you and I can’t help but enjoy the seconds turn to minutes like this. You are hurt and I know the season is over for you but I also know you’re young and tough and resilient. So I hold your hand and tell you it’s going to be ok and, even though the last thing you want to hear right now, that I love you. And even though I do my best not to cry, I do-by myself, out by the orderly door. Then I come back in and we go home. I may not remember much else about that night, but I remember holding your hand. And I remember thinking that if all I can ever do is hold it, when you need it, I’m happy, I’ll pretty much always be happy with that. I love you D.

Just past a collection of old oars, sheets of ¾” plywood, milk crates and several skill saws and there was a room. Only someone looking for it would find it and, given what was in front of it, there was no reason to expect anything particularly wonderful behind it. Past that door, though, was Chic. He was holding court with a collection of blue collars unwinding at the end of the day, drinking water glasses of red wine, somewhat cool Bud Lights and eating Sturgis pretzels from a brown paper bag. He’s there every day from 4-6p, delivered by one of his friends and then returned to his space of somewhat-assisted-living. Chic Schaeffer is, and will forever be, the consummate Jay Peaker. He spent his working years on the floor of the NYSE helping money grow and spent the better part of 40 years spending what free time he had access to, right here at Jay Peak. He bought several properties here, and anchored our Ambassador team where he could be spotted giving directions, sometime correct ones, to folks who’d lost their way, or who were way past lost. He began most of his Ambassador days, way back when, with a half cup of coffee that he’d bring into my office and top off with just enough something to keep his toes warm against the Jay Peak cold. Properly tuned, he’d head out into the elements and do his best to show people the Jay Way in both act and action. Chic tuned 90 a few weeks ago and while he’d turned into his Ambassador jacket for golf shirts down the Jersey Shore, I stopped in to see him to let him know that while Jay Peakers might have short attention spans, our memory’s, of winter’s past and cups of coffee and hours served, are long. I told him that we missed him and that we hear from guests, all the time, asking for him. About that short older Ambassador who seemed to always have an answer for anything and was happy to let you know what you should be doing. That’s Chic. Many of you know Chic and many more have talked with him, were directed by him, or simply shared a fast smile on your way up and about the mountain. He wanted me to pass on that he misses everyone and that we should all be grateful for what we have here. I told him that I agreed, and that I definitely would. -Steve

Wisdom and Ardor It takes equal parts experienced eyes and fresh perspectives to layer Raised Jay across all of the growth and expansion we’ve seen over the past several years. Below, Steve Wright sits down with recent hire Andrew Lanoue and old-and-in-the way Gary Birchard who’s been stewing stews and steaming soups at Jay Peak for nearly 20 years. The things that distinguish them aren’t nearly as important as the things they share. Gary, Bear Birchard, is wearing his kitchen blacks and a white apron. Andrew is wearing a flannel, is holding a cup of coffee and easily.

The Doheny’s, Mick and Peg, sit on nearly 80 years of combined service; Peg womanning one of the most respected ski patrol’s in the business and Mick, former Ski School Director, who only taught more people the love of skiing than anyone in the North American ski industry. They both found their respective callings here at Jay Peak and, as is the case, stayed connected to each other by always calling. Peg’s radio call sign was 601. Mick was, quite simply, Micky. So hearing ‘601 to Micky’ was as standard a radio-call here at Jay Peak as was, the ubiquitous, ‘here comes the snow folks.’ Powerline has always been a favorite trail of Peg’s; it’s double fall line and natural snow magnet has been the main draw. But also because other folks tend to disturb other lines on other trails. And Peg is just fine with undisturbed lines. This season Powerline, and Peg and Micky really, assumes a new title (while holding onto the same precious identities) in honor of two Jay Peak team members who’ve left their own marks on the mountain while at the same time the mountain was imprinting on them. So now the former Upper Powerline is ‘601’, the lower portion is ‘Micky’ and the only way to get the whole of it, the way these two lions of Jay have done for the past 4 decades, is to send it down 601-to-Micky. The soundwave graphic below represents both the calls-to-action and the sort of dedicated calling required to have your own trail named after you. Congrats to Peg and Mick. Long may you run. Do You Have What It Takes To Have a Trail Named After You? First thing you’ll need is zero desire to have a trail named after you. Is that you? If yes, continue. If no, back to your job in the Marketing Department. Understanding Old School to mean ‘All the stuff I still do’ Micky wears neither a neck gaiter nor a helmet (I know, sue him), and still eats carbohydrates with passionate abandon (and burns them at a similar clip). Productivity Ahead of Reactivity Peg pioneered ski safety at Jay Peak by looking for ways to prevent accidents before they happen. Ski patrol can always be counted on to respond, but Peg’s preparedness mantra emphasized proactivity. Work Hard. Play Hard. It’s Easy. Whether inhabiting the psychic space of ULLR at Jay Peak Welcome Parties (exhorting folks to drink more beer. And then more beer.) or donning a familiar tutu once temps warmed to above freezing, Mick and Peg took their jobs seriously while taking themselves decidedly less so. Shaping the Mountain By Being Themselves Through opening up boundaries and making glade skiing more accessible, Peg served as the motivating force that encouraged us to venture into the trees. Micky taught mogul skiing with flair, ease and graceful spins and helped popularize runs you’ll never see on a map and we’ll never mention. Queasy Like Saturday Morning Micky’s strong, smooth turns are the net result of 4 decades of hustle while Peg can still beat anyone to the bottom when the clock she’s racing against is connected to someone else’s well-being. What won’t Micky miss? January. Peg? Saturdays. You Say Goodbye, I Say Hello. While Peg and Mick are retiring from their present roles, those who know where to look will still be able to find them. Mick as part of Jay Peak’s Ambassador Program and Peg working part time (sans Saturdays) in Patrol. And if you happen upon the old Powerline Trail some puffed-up grey day this winter, and see two folks breeze by you, pay no attention; that’s how they prefer it.

Chapter 1 Settling into my seat, 13a, I let out a deep breath, relax my shoulders and sigh. My wife and 4 yr old daughter are in b and c, fastened tightly and excited. While Dehlia is smiling in a not-sure-what-the-hell-is-happening way, my wife is craving, it appears, a pre 9am drink and the other half of her Valium. “Do you think I should take this now?” “What if it wears off half way through?” “What is that whining sound?” When Brooke is nervous, she asks lots of rhetorical questions. I suggest she take the other half of her valium just to see what will happen and she dismisses me, immediately, and puts her attention to Dehlia and the whining sound of engines kicking to life. Half of the family we’d seen gnashing and tearing at each other in the Logan Duty-Free is sitting in front and just to the right of us—apparently having given Social Services the slip just in the nick. The 5 year-old is positioned directly behind me and seems to have a surplus of energy; evidenced by him landing successive kidney punches to his smaller brother who is bawling. He is grinning as his brother continues to wail. I whisper to him that his brother is going to pound him later and he pays me no mind. He is standing. He will stay standing, in one form or another, for the entire trip. I begin to consider the events and circumstances leading up to our family vacation. By the grace of my in-laws, we’re presented with 2 weeks accommodations, a plane ticket for our three-year old daughter, and the opportunity to cavort with several sets of cousins in the town of Dingle, co. Kerry Ireland. According to family legend, Dingle boasts more than 60 pubs crammed into its cobblestoned corners, it’s very own Dolphin that’s taken up in its bay, and was used as backdrop for countless movies dating back to Robert Mitchum era Hollywood. It’s not that I didn’t want to go to Ireland—just that I never really considered it—sort of like how you never really consider visiting, say, Kansas. To me Ireland was wet and dank and smelled vaguely of boiled dinner and soap. When Dehlia asked me what there was to do in Ireland it took me a while to answer. ‘Well,” I said, “I’m not sure.” Despite my indifference, I did a fair job at staying neutrally interested without being too much of a dick.. I even managed to read ‘A Pocket Guide To Erin’, by Dara O’Maoildhia, hoping to kick-start my curiosity through historical reference. I drank pints of Guinness, memorized the words to several grotesquely popular Irish folk songs and even managed to learn exactly two unwritten hurling rules, those being—don’t leave your mouth guard in your locker, and whenever there’s a question always opt for the larger bottle of Ibuprofen. I read up on Michael Collins, Eamon deValera, the Vikings, the Black and Tans and the Sinn Fein. I even tried an Irish brogue on for size, alone at home mind you, which sounded like awful stew of Crocodile Hunter and Margaret Thatcher. My wife had been to Ireland several times over the past 20 years and promised me that I’d love the country. My father-in-law Brendan, a prodigious man with a soulful voice and the patience of Job, still has relatives scattered across the mountainous Southwest under the shadow of Mt. Brandon. To my wife, visiting these relatives was at the core of our trip and she assured me that after meeting them, I’d ‘understand a little better.’ 5 hours into the flight, and both my daughter and wife are sleeping. I’m staring, unknowingly, at a man who’s been asleep for the entire trip—from take-off, through several snacks, two meals, a movie and a patch of turbulence that caused the flight attendants to buckle up and close their eyes. I saw them. He opens his eyes in an instant and catches me staring at him. He rights his chair, fastens his seat belt and, I suspect, begins to look for something sharp to wave at me. I’ve actually dozed off a little when the boy behind starts applying forearm shivers to my headrest. His mother, sitting next to him, doesn’t appear to have much of a strategy. For the duration of the flight, she has been half-heartedly attempting to control him by repeating the mantra, ‘Do you want a smack?’ 50 or 60 times. Or perhaps it was ‘Some smack.’ It’s hard to be sure. In any case, mum was the one who got the smacks: the first, a right ding to the jaw, and the second-a direct shot with the tail-end of a Hot Wheels muscle car. The little fella was clearly in charge here. You had the feeling he’d really lay into dear mom after landing. ‘So what was that on the plane about a smack?’ ‘Nothing dear.’ ‘Come here a minute, would you mother?’ Along with wife and daughter, I’d be staying with several iterations of in-law, my wife’s mentally handicapped but keenly self-sufficient aunt, and a tribe of family friends rotating in and out on an almost daily basis. The 4 bedroom apartment with pay-as-you- go electricity and recently laid wood floors had been rented for an entire month by my wife’s parents, Brendan and Loretta who, in turn, figured they’d ruin their own vacation by offering space to everyone they knew within a 1,200 mile radius. Right on cue, everyone accepted. I imagined, from the relative spaciousness of 30,000 feet, that ‘cozy’ might be the understatement of the year. As the wheels unfold-- mum, two flight attendants and a man by the window are still trying to get Junior buckled down, when two nip bottles of Bushmills roll back from underneath the seat in front of me. ‘Em, sorry,’ says a quiet Irish voice. ‘Those are probably mine—could you pass them back.’ I’m a little intrigued by the short whisky drinker in front of me, but my attention is busy being occupied by the short tantrum thrower in back. ‘”So help me, you’re going to get a smack.” I’m now openly rooting for mum to close the deal, but Junior shows no fear and continues to thrash. The glamour of airline travel is beginning to wear off. As we touch down in Shannon the day is just starting, but I feel like I’ve been awake for a generation. We refuel, take on a few more passengers, then move another hour toward Dublin and the eastern coast of the country. It’s a damp, gray day that doesn’t exactly paint the picture my wife has been selling. My daughter asks me if we’re in Ireland yet and tells me, ‘I really want a drink Daddy.’ Just before touching down, I’m thumbing through the appropriately titled, ‘Idiot’s Guide To Irish History and Culture’, where I read about craic. The term (pronounced crack) refers to ‘a cross between mojo, synchronicity and the unspeakable but noticeable power present during moments of bliss.’ This craic, often led by the adjective ‘mighty’, is available in varying doses throughout Ireland-in combinations of its ‘Pubs , snugs, rolling green hills and accommodating peoples.’ I write the word down in my book. Craic. Then we head out of the plane.

Chapter 2 …By the time we pick up our luggage and step outside Dublin Airport it’s 9 in the morning and it is pouring. We’ve been up for 24 hours at this point and our collective mood is just south of sour. As luck would have it and despite the deluge, Dehlia falls asleep the second we duck into a purple cab. “I wanna go to Ireland.” are her last words as she dips off. Sitting on the left side of a car, with no wheel or pedals, and a weird perspective, I make small talk with Eamon, our driver. He tells me he lives on 315 Dawson Street in Dublin, and I nod like I understand. We’re staying north of Dublin in an ocean-town called Malahide. I can’t help but think of the freak-boy from Stephen King’s ‘Children of the Corn’, Malaki, or something like that, but out of fear of unsettling the first actual Irish- person I’ve come across, I decide to keep this to myself. We pass neat rows of shops and as the rain slows to a patter, Eamon spins us into our Hotel driveway. He is moving like a middle infielder, grabbing bags from our hands, carrying Dehlia (who’s locked and loaded into her car seat), and scurrying like a man on the trail of 20 Euro’s worth of tip. Given my light understanding of the newish European currency, it’s probably exactly what he got, maybe more—I know it was a lot of heavy coins. The Island View Hotel is peppered with nautically themed bric-a-brac and noveltia. On the entryway wall a script tells the story of St. Brendan the Navigator. He was born in Co. Kerry around 486 AD. He became a monk and later the Abbot of Ardfert and founded a monastery in Galway in 561. The epic voyage of St. Brendan amazed the medieval world, and is chronicled in the 10 th century account, The Navigation of St. Brendan, in which he set sail with 12 disciples in search of an earthly paradise in the Atlantic Ocean. The journey lasted over seven years and it has been suggested that his account of ‘crystal columns’ (icebergs?), and ‘curdled seas’ (the Sargasso?), may pinpoint him as the first to cross the Atlantic. In 1976, and in a putative repetition of the supposed Voyage, Tim Severin sailed across the Atlantic in a leather-covered boat called the Brendan. In 1980, apparently tired of the rigors of leather-sailing, Tim built The Island View. We’re too early for lunch and too late for breakfast so we finish off the sleeping Dehlia’s peanut-butter crackers and collapse in our room for 90 minutes, almost exactly. Our bed is fitted with one of those vile plastic under sheets, originally designed to make life easier for carers of the terminally incontinent. These things draw sweat from your pores like suction pumps. My dreams of drowning in lukewarm brine are interrupted by an older woman setting down a tray of tea, some biscuits and a few plastic shot glasses of what appears to be cream. “There isn’t any food ready yet, is there?” I say. Apparently blind to the fact that this lady has magically appeared in the middle of our room “There is.” Says our tea-bringer—“Head downstairs after you’ve gotten yerself together, and git yerself a bite. Oh look at herself there in the crib, isn’t she a wee-love.” Dehlia is just getting herself together, sitting upright in her Pac N Play and resembles nothing particularly wee or lovey. She offers a popular scowl that says, ‘I appreciate the biscuits lady, but you’re going to have to give me a minute.” Downstairs in Oscar Taylor’s Pub they’re just setting up the Carvery—a sectioned off area dedicated to preparing heaping portions of mashed potatoes, sliced meat, and gravy- soft vegetables. The tea-bringer has deftly turned into the meat-slicer and offers my wife a plate. The Pub is late-night dark here at 11:30am, and there’s some sort of music being pumped through invisible speakers. I drink my first pint of stout and am just starting to percolate when the rest of our traveling brood arrives. Brooke’s parents, her aunt, her sister and the Hausman’s—long-time family friends of my in-laws who, in a previous life, led forced-march military expeditions through Macedonia and trained briefly with the Huns. Linda, the matriarch, has assembled enough in the way of Irish maps and guidebooks to actually lead tours, which it is clear she’s going to at least try. Russell, by long-measure the more reserved of the two, possesses a comic’s timing and air of quiet command. After hugs and backslaps, attack plans begin to form. The Hausman’s are hungry, my father-in-law Brendan is about to set out on a vision quest to secure his parents marriage certificate and ultimately his own citizenship, and Aunt Carol has begun to needle my mother-in-law Loretta with questions like, ‘Rhetta-is there a batroom in here-Rhetta?” and “Rhetta-don’t you think I should go to the batroom now-Rhetta?” Ti-Ti Carol, a 50-ish woman with thick curly hair and the survival instinct of an Army Air Borne Ranger, is my wife’s Aunt. At birth, she spent a few precarious moments with her umbilical cord around her neck that caused some irreversible damage. She has the tendency to begin and end sentences with the name of the person she’s speaking to; an attempt, I think, at hammering her point home with unfailing precision. ‘Rhetta, you better listen to me now, I haveta go to the batroom Rhetta.” It’s worth noting that my mother-in-law has spent the better part of 20 years caring for her sister and is the senior- receiver of Ti-Ti’s commands, edicts and epistles. Absent anything inspiring on the flesh-heavy Carvery menu, I finish a second and third stout as Brendan, not unlike his saintly namesake, begins his Voyage. The rest of us, armed with a plan as loosely knit as the scrap of cloth Dehlia will drag across the lower half of the country, stroll to the train station about a mile and a half away. If you had decided to take a stroll across a sunlit meadow in central Ireland about 14,000 years ago, you would have needed more than a sweater to keep you snug. The place was covered with ice, When the glacial sheet withdrew about a thousand years later, it left behind a land that was, for the most part, a lot of soggy bogs and barren tundra. But, over the course of the next 3,000 years, the climate took a turn for the better. Although not quite balmy, it was warm enough for a few bushes to spring up here and there. By 10,000 BC you could have taken that stroll through an actual green meadow, though the sweater would still have been strongly recommended. The channel between Scotland and Ireland was, at one time, only a few miles across and a land bridge encouraged adventurous horses and Megaceros (giant deer standing nearly 7 feet high with antlers topping out at over 11 feet) to make the trek across the divide. They were rewarded with vast green meadows stretching into the horizon. With water now everywhere (lakes and rivers were left by the ice) fertile soil, and a climate tempered by the oceans and seas surrounding the island, the vegetation thrived. Meadowlands gave way to trees, which multiplied into dense woods until the island was covered with mighty forests. The enormous herds of horses and giant deer dwindled as their grazing plains matured into woodland. The first wave of Ireland’s many invasions, far and away the gentlest, had come and gone. We’re now standing at the ticket counter at the DART station in Malahide. The DART (Dublin Area Rapid Transit) is the primary system of public transportation in and around Dublin. The ticket signs are written in Gaelic and I ask who appears to be a quiet, gruntish man what the price would be for a 3 yr old, straight into the city. “Sure’n it’s free for yer tree-yr old, man.” Says the gent, “Now if she was tree-and-a-half, that’d be a different story.” The Malahide DART station is impossibly tidy. Enormous hanging baskets of Geraniums, Petunias, Licorice and creeping vine hang from long poles, and a dozen sturdy wrought-iron benches support those waiting for the train. I immediately make quiet mental comparisons to Boston’s MBTA system—specifically the Blue line, a stretch from Boston’s North Shore into the city, with which I’m most familiar. Absent from this scene are the spoon- and-dribble musicians, the panhandlers and the general sense of filth that pervades the Wonderland stop in Revere, Ma. The acrid scent-mix of urine and burning electricity is replaced, here, with something decidedly better, though for the life of me, I can’t figure out what it is. Kids in varying shades of green school uniform are milling around to the left of me, and Ti-Ti Carol is working, cloak-and-dagger-like, on her Kit-Kat to the right of me, as the train begins pulling into the station. The Hausman’s are covertly pouring through relief and topographical maps of Dublin. Loretta is sitting with her eyes closed, enjoying the oddly tranquil setting and trying to beg her headache away. My wife and her sister are talking and I’m writing it all down on a notepad pilfered from the Hotel lobby. Dehlia is sitting on my lap, shrieking. She’s directing her volume at a lady on the bench across from us who’s knitting something that looks remarkably like her blankie that, incidentally, we decided to leave back at the Hotel. The lady gives a good-natured glare back at us while thinking, I have to believe, that Americans are loud, noisy creatures—especially the short ones. Lack of sleep, 3 stouts and Dehlia’s increasing pitch are bringing on a headache, and my thoughts turn to Brendan and his voyage. I’m starting to lose faith in his original story. I’m picturing him slinging stouts and singing songs in one of Dublin’s damp corners when the train slides to a stop, the doors open and an Irish voice whispers, “14 miles to the City, next stop Kilbarrack.” On the sign it’s listed as ‘Cill Bharrog.’ I duck into the train and the doors slide shut behind me.

Chapter 3 It’s approaching 3 in the afternoon when we roll into the Rath Eanaigh stop on the Dart line into Dublin. The oldish lady that Dehlia had been focusing on at the Malahide station is sitting across from us and is knitting furiously, barely looking up from her work even when Dehlia chirps, “You can’t touch my blankie.” Although daughter is relatively calm, I can tell there’s a storm brewing. She is grinding her teeth as she continues to stare at the old gal and she’s digging her left hand into my forearm like a Puma. This gal might get off the train with her crochet work intact, but I have a feeling it won’t be without incident. A collection of what appears to be privately schooled kids burst in taking up seats to the left and right of Dehlia and I. They are wearing green skirts and shorts (separately), with off-green shirts, lime green knee socks and light green neckties and scarves. They look like they’ve been ripped directly from the pages of “A Stereotyper’s Guide To Ireland.” Green may be the unofficial color of Eire but as the countryside goes ripping by through the windows, I see none of it. I’m tired and the cadenced rattling and rumbling of the train is conspiring against my best efforts to stay awake. I decide to pull out my trusty ‘Dumbass Guide To Irish Culture’, and read about the Celts. Of all the peoples who had invaded, conquered, and inhabited ancient Ireland, the one group whose influence had the most lasting effect on the Irish of today was the Celts. They were a colorful bunch, both figuratively and literally. They proudly sported elaborate tattoos, and sometimes painted their nude bodies bright blue before going to war, a sight that probably scared their enemies witless, or at least confused them into sprinting in the other direction. Gregarious, rambunctious, fiercely proud and boastful, the Celts loved a good story, a rousing song, plenty of food and flowing drink, but warring and pillaging were by far their favorite pastimes. If you go back far enough into the mists of distant history you find the Celts on the plains of western Russia. As hunters who later became stock-keepers, the Celts were among the first to domesticate the horse, around 3000 B.C. This skill, along with their deft use of iron as weaponry, gave them a tremendous advantage over their fellow humans who, at the time, were limited to name-calling, stone throwing and a terse glare or two. The Celts were a people filled with wanderlust and a love of war so they decided to invade Europe around 500 B.C. and did so as hordes of fierce, shrieking, naked warriors thundering over their hapless victims on horseback. It’s easy to imagine why some believe that this horrible vision of the nude warriors on their horses inspired the myth of the centaur. I’m just starting to get into the part about the Celts stiffening their hair with lime and painting themselves blue before battle, when the conductor blurts “Dublin City, mind the doors.” I’m standing and holding a dozing Dehlia. Rhetta, Carol, my wife and her sister Erin, and the Hausman’s get up to leave and almost forget Mema, my Mother-In-Law’s friend who is also part of the march-on-Ireland. Mema is a retired teacher, 50ish, single and would win national awards for being accommodating, agreeable, and non- confrontational if they gave out national awards for these sorts of things. She makes the fatal mistake of saying to Dehlia, “Doesn’t that look like your blanket honey?” In an unprecedented and landmark maneuver, Dehlia lunges for the near-finished blanket without opening her eyes. I tug her away from the clearly frightened woman and she’s smiling, though wailing, as I tug her through the doors of the train. We stand, the nine of us, against a wall at the Dart platform in Dublin, and begin planning our next steps. Brooke is interested in purchasing a stroller to push daughter around in. “Just something cheap to push her around the city in, unless of course you want to carry her the whole way” I think is how she phrases it. Playing the role of fool, I ask why we didn’t bring the stroller from home. “Um, because you insisted we wouldn’t need it.” I feel dumb in a way that only a dumb husband can feel. Linda has her Dublin guidebook open and is pointing in various directions without taking her nose out of the centerfold. Ti-Ti Carol is hungry and has to go to the bathroom—a combination that will re-appear with shocking regularity, and Erin has put her sunglasses on trying to hide the fact that she is, in fact, asleep. I have been awake for 27 consecutive hours at this point—save a few restless minutes back at the Hotel. Dehlia and her 34 pounds are perched on my throbbing neck and I feel my morale start to drip in the form of perspiration beads. And there’s still the matter of finding Brendan. Frau Hasumann actually comes to the rescue. “Ok folks, we need to rally, follow me.” It’s clear she doesn’t have a blessed idea about where she’s headed but we collectively admire her spunk. Absent any other plan, we fall in line behind her. We’re headed toward the Temple Bar section of Dublin. In the 18 th century, the area was known for many insalubrious characters that lived in and around the Fownes Street; an area also known for its many brothels. Along with the riff and raff, skilled craftsmen, artisans and printers lived and worked around Temple Bar until post-war industrialization led to a decline in the area’s fortunes. In the 1970’s, the CIE (National Transit Authority) bought up parcels of land in this area to build a major bus depot. While waiting to acquire the land and buildings needed, the CIE rented out, on the cheap, some of the old retail and warehouse property to young artists. Soon thereafter, record stores, bookshops, coffee houses and clothing stores began to spring up. The area developed an ‘alternative’ identity and more cynical Dubliners began to refer to it as the “officially designated arts zone.” While the new investment and planning may have added a slight air of contrivance, it was a welcome sight to us. Rows of shops and restaurants, live street music and performers, the smell of stout and Dehlia’s revived willingness to walk on her own are working in concert to boost my spirits. We stand for a while, as a group, watching and videoing a street comedian ridicule different members of a large crowd until he turns his flame on me making fun of my shoes, shorts, and jacket tied together nicely with a ribbon of obscenities. I’m thinking about liming-up my hair, painting myself blue and rushing him with a scrap of iron but being that it’s only day one of our vacation (and that he weighs a metric ton) I decide to follow the rest of the group toward The Duke’s Pub; home of The Jameson’s Literary Pub Crawl and our pre-determined Brendan meeting place. It’s 7:30pm when we meet Brendan inside The Duke. At its base, the Duke’s wooden façade is painted in black with gold trim and lettering and a humble wooden sign—presumably with a depiction of the Duke of Grafton above it. The building is over 200 years old, serving its time as a pub for the past 163, consecutive. There’s a sign out front advertising both the starting point for the Crawl and ‘Mighty Craic Nightly’. Brendan not only has found his parent’s wedding certificate, but also has purchased 8 tickets for the Pub Crawl, to go along with 4 pints of Guinness and 4 pints of Smithwicks for us-“A little variety.” He says. The Duke is bursting with people and the Pub Crawl, which is set to start in a few minutes, is completely sold out. While swilling our first pint at the Duke, two amateur actor-historians introduce the aim of the Crawl; the group would meander between some of Dublin’s oldest pubs and stop at other local points of historical interest like Trinity College and The Dublin Tourism Center. There would be a reading and an anecdotal performance outside each stop—focusing on Ireland’s literary heroes. The performances would be followed by 20 minutes inside each pub; about enough time to order a Stout, wait for it to settle and, if you’re particularly quick, scull it down before being whisked to the next stop. The evening would conclude back at The Duke where you’d be presented with the option of either sliding across the street for one more pint at Davy Byrnes, or passing out quietly in an authentically dark Irish alley. The entire group is finally firing on all cylinders when we order a second round of stouts at our first stop—O’Neill’s. This place has existed as a licensed drinking establishment since 1755 and before that (well before that), the land on which it stands was used as a ‘Thingmoot’—a Celtic ‘punishment mound’ which was the staging area for public executions and the odd beheading (the distinction between the two, to this day, remains a mystery to me). Even before that, history holds that the ground was used as a fulacht fiadh, or ancient cooking place. Stones were heated in a nearby fire, and then plunged into shallow water to cook deer and vegetables. Experiments suggest that seventy gallons could be boiled this way in eighteen minutes, and that water could be kept hot for three hours, which explains why Irish vegetables have never been served al dente. It is at O’Neill’s that Dehlia mails it in for the night and passes out, horizontally, in my wife’s arms. The eight of us are sitting down draining pints and passing daughter around like a loaf of hot bread, when Brooke falls on the grenade and takes a cab back to the Hotel with Dehlia. Ti-Ti Carol has ordered 3 consecutive Bud Light’s and, in total, has finished about 1/8 th of a glass. Erin asks why the hell she continues to order if she isn’t going to finish them. “Well, I thought I was thirsty Erin. You go ahead and worry ‘bout yourself.” Lack of sleep in Ti-Ti’s world, combined with the eating of greasy foods and a modicum of aerobic exercise, is generally a recipe for swift doom. I haven’t known Brooke’s Aunt Carol as well as most on the trip (I’m only slightly ahead of Dehlia in this department), but I know her well enough to spot the first signs of a meltdown and, if I’m not mistaken, one is just off on the horizon as we dip into pub 3, The Old Stand. According to the bartender holding court as I try and order a Bud Light and 8, 1/2 pints of Guinness (it’s worth noting here that if your height exceeds that of an average 6 year old it is preposterously difficult for a man to order a ‘half pint’ of anything.), The Old Stand started out life as a grocery store owned by John Cox. In 1885, and upon the realization that there was more money to be made in the selling of drink than in the selling of potatoes, Old John stopped selling groceries. The place oozes of literati, claiming that Brendan Behan (when he wasn’t drinking at nearby McCaids), spent a fair amount of time lying peacefully in the gutter out in front and that Oscar Wilde still owes over a $1,000 (absent any adjustment for inflation) on a tab from the 18 th century. After two more pints at a place I can’t remember, we congregate back in front of The Duke for a final quiz on the evening’s events. The tour leaders fire off questions about things discussed during the Crawl and those answering the loudest win t-shirts, bottles of whisky-flavored barbecue sauce, Trinity College headbands, and other such niceties. Rhetta barked out the only correct answer to the question of “Which Beatle had a penchant for Indian food in Dublin.” and subsequently scored a green (you were expecting, maybe, blue?) Jameson’s Literary Pub Crawl T-shirt. I could see Carol’s eyes light up in anticipation then drop as Rhetta handed the t-shirt to me. The storm that had settled upon Dehlia earlier in the day, was now hanging low over Ti-Ti. “You neva listen to me Rhetta, I’m the one that said John Lennon Rhetta. I wanna go home.” My Mother- in-law, fresh off of her victory, was in no mood for her sister’s antics. “Go ahead Carol, go home then, we’re going to Davy Byrnes.” “Go ahead yourself Rhetta, I’m not going to Davy Jones, you can go to Davy Jones, but I’m not.” Professed Ti-Ti. A Monkee’s fan, somewhere, beamed. The low light of the evening for me was our post-Crawl trip to Davy Byrne’s—home of Leopold Bloom’s Gorgonzola Cheese sandwich in Joyce’s Ulysses. Joyce was a regular at the pub and developed a special relationship with the friendly but abstemious Davy Byrne. Joyce’s Dubliners has mention of Davy Byrnes, but the Joycean character with which the premises is most associated is Mr. Bloom. I was expecting big things here—especially since I swallowed the Cliff Notes to Ulysses prior to visiting. The place looked plastic. Funky lighting, faux Irish bop that was more Sinead O’Connor than Stephen Cooney and blue linen tablecloths topped with leather-bound wine lists gave the place a feeling of insincerity. For kicks I give the menu a once-over. No stew, no soda bread, no cabbage—not even a cheese sandwich to be found—these staples being replaced with filet of Chicken with tomato-tequila coulis and marinated Feta balls with Tarragon. For the record, the Cliff Notes said nothing about Feta-balls. We finished our drinks and left quickly. I half hoped to salvage the experience by stepping over a gutter-rummy but the velvet-ropes kept out the urchins, and I went away feeling a little cheated. Walking back toward the train, the crew is in good Guinness- soaked spirits and we barely notice the gaining North Atlantic breeze. At the train station a group of hurling fans, dressed in Clare-blue hats, blue shirts and blue face-paint, are singing and carrying on, readying themselves for the forthcoming All-Ireland hurling finals against Kilkenny. They are slightly less intimidating than their nude, horsebacked, ancient brothers and seem more ready for late-night eats than oppressing a tiny hamlet, but the comparisons are certainly there. My personal nostalgia quest has me rooting for the barbarians after the Davy Byrne letdown. They are singing some inspired Gaelic fight song that I’m guessing, translated, goes something like ‘Stomp the foreheads of those Killkenny boys,’ or ‘Smack ‘em in the kidneys mates.’ They head off, impatiently and without episode, into the night looking for some war to wage, or possibly an all-night salmon and cabbage hut. I had hoped to see the wielding of iron or at the very least some indiscriminate pillaging, but at this late hour, they have probably already had their fill of carnage. At least, that’s what I want to believe.