Pint-Sized Anglophobia
Dear Chewey,
It’s day four, I think, in Ireland. Avery arrived two days ago for what will be a week-long stay with me here. She’s badly jet-lagged and currently sleeping, which I can appreciate, given how long it took me to finally kick my own case of this. It hasn’t been that long since I’ve been in this part of the world, but I don’t remember any trip to Europe that has kicked my ass like this one. The first few nights I wasn’t able to sleep more than about two hours at a time. Thankfully, I find myself doing much better now.
I’m writing from the lobby of our hotel, mostly because it’s dark and depressing in our room, given that it’s a blackout situation in deference to Avery’s need for sleep.
I remember a time when getting up before noon was about the worst thing I could have imagined, and now I simply love mornings. It’s as though there’s a new opportunity to screw up my life. Ha, I jest…kind of…but in reality, it feels as though there is hope as each morning comes. Also, I seem to do much better with writing when it’s the morning.
I’m drinking one of my very favorite morning beverages, and yet I so infrequently take the time to make it when I’m in the States: an Earl Grey tea with milk and a little sugar. Something about it gives me a pretentious feeling, which I seem to fully embrace whenever I can. If I really want to take this to a new level, I get it in an actual teacup and do my very best to raise a pinky in honor of the UK.
That said, as you know, Ireland is not in the UK, and in fact the general prevailing feeling toward the English here is one of contempt—or at least, that is, depending upon whom you talk to.
In November of 2023, the Royal Irish Academy, a body of experts in sciences, humanities, and social sciences, hosted a panel discussion titled “You can be anything you want in Ireland, as long as it’s not English.”
Yeah, if you thought the days of Sinn Fein and the IRA were a thing of the past, I’ll provide this anecdote as potential evidence to the contrary.
Upon picking up Avery at the airport, we returned to our hotel via taxi. The driver, a 25-year retired executive of the Guinness brewing family, was our host. An inquisitive and cheerful man named Brian, he engaged us in conversation ranging from sports to politics to “what must we do while we are in Ireland?”
Brian, intimately familiar with our hotel area, made it known that he worked closely with a local Irish pub nearby. Side note: you can spit as far as the next Irish pub in Dublin, so to say “local” is to mean within 100 steps—otherwise, the whole damn city is one big local pub.
He called the pub “home of the greatest pint of Guinness in all of Dublin,” so naturally I was intrigued. Brian went on to suggest that if we wanted a twist on Guinness (which I love), we should ask the bartender to add some black currant.
The tourist in me, ever hearing whispers of “when in Rome…,” thought this unusual but worth trying based on Brian’s recommendation.
So, after we got Avery settled in our room, we stepped outside and walked to Peter’s Pub, where we were greeted by the bartender—clearly the senior of the staff—and two women who appeared to be a hybrid of hostess and waitress.
As I bellied up to the bar to order a couple of pints of Guinness, I asked the bartender to throw some black currant in there, per Brian’s lovely suggestion.
In a time not long ago, I imagine Peter’s having a sign that would have read: “No shirt, no shoes, no service, and we reserve the right to refuse any and all English.”
The bartender had to ask me to pronounce “black currant” a second and then a third time, whereupon one of the waitresses spelled it out for him, as though she were my interpreter, and as though the bartender had neither heard nor spoken English before.
His reaction was reminiscent of Gunnery Sergeant Hartman’s when he found Private Pyle’s secret stash of jelly donuts in his footlocker.
His initial question of “Have you ever had Guinness?” was laced less with sardonic tone than with irascible disbelief.
Many tourists would have up and left, but as someone who generally thrives in contentious situations, I found it necessary to order the pints and slowly drink them in a loitering fashion.
As the bartender could be overheard telling the laughing locals that he would put black currant in water before putting it in Guinness, it became clear that I had unwittingly offended a man who presumably relies on my tips for survival.
After thawing a bit, he came to explain that ordering black currant in a Guinness was tantamount to coming into his pub and singing God Save the King while wearing a dress and knee highs (both of which I think I would have looked good in, if not for the massive scarring on my legs).
In retrospect, I suppose I was generally aware, as an American (yeah, I watched Michael Collins, so I’m an expert), that Irish sentiment toward their island neighbors to the east was somewhat contentious. But until this scene played out in real time in Peter’s, I had no idea just how bellicose it was.
I couldn’t help but wonder if Brian had been playing a joke at my expense, or if this was simply Ireland in all its contradictions—warm and welcoming, yet bristling with history that bubbles up in the unlikeliest of places. For all my vague awareness of the long-standing tensions with England, it wasn’t until that moment, with a glass in hand and laughter echoing around me, that I felt the sharp edges of history still alive in daily life here.
In the end, as the Irish do, we all had enough pints to forget the offense; resulting in much laughter about the moment.
And maybe that’s the essence of travel: you arrive for the scenery, the music, the food, but what you carry home are the stories—moments of humor, friction, and revelation that you never could have scripted. Ireland so far has been just that: a place where every pint tells a story, every morning feels like a gift, and every encounter pulls you a little deeper into the weave of its past and present.
Love you bud,
Dad
