“Don’t mention the civil war. Don’t argue with a cab driver. And do not talk politics.”
“Okay.” I nod.
The cab pulls up in front of the venue, and I’m struck funny by how small it is.
After paying the driver, I slide out behind Dana. “This looks so small compared to the images I saw on the internet. I can’t believe U2 is playing in such a small venue.”
She snatches the tickets and looks at them, grins, then barks out, “U2 covers, lass.”
I snatch them back and look closer. “Well, hell.”
When she swings the door open, I smile, not caring one bit when I hear the words of “One” by U2.
“It’s the Murphey Brothers.” Dana grins then repeats, “The Murphey Brothers!”
After showing our tickets to the giant man at the door, also with red hair, I follow Dana to the bar.
“First round’s on me,” I yell to her over the music.
“Four pints of Guinness,” she yells to the bartender.
So, Guinness, it is.
I hand cash over her shoulder to the bartender who winks. Good-looking man, with a thick head of hair, matching copper beard, and twinkling green eyes.
“Keep the change.” I smile as I take the two pints from Dana.
“Stay close, lass,” she yells as she leads the way through the crowd.
Standing on a balcony, overlooking the crowd, I watch people dance and sing along to a couple of U2’s lesser known songs in the US, but they seem to know every word.
Three songs in, I watch as the crowd below goes wild as bag pipes begin.
This isn’t U2. It’s clearly an original “Murphey Brothers.”
“Do you dance, lass?” Dana asks before slamming back one of the two pints in her hand.
“After a few drinks, I do.” I hold up my half-finished pint then follow suit.
“This is the song that got our boys signed with a label. Songwriter is from the US,” she yells before holding her full pint up. “Sláinte.”
I wipe my lips with the back of my hand then hold up my full pint. “Sláinte.”
Smiling eyes meet mine as we have a sort of chugging contest, which ends up being no contest at all, since Dana finishes first while I need a breather between halves.
Once I finish, Dana nods, and I follow.
As we pass another bar, she stops. “My round.”
“I’m good,” I yell over the crowd.
Apparently, she doesn’t hear me because, when she turns, she hands me two shot glasses.
Normally, while on an international vacation, I have a two-drink limit, but I’m immersed in music, feeling quite buzzed already, and I have a personal guide who looks to be having a great time.
“Sláinte,” I say before tossing one back.
Four songs and four drinks in, I’m feeling nothing but absorbed in a country that I already know, down deep, I’ll be returning to.