For those of you that have spent any amount of time in downtown San Luis Obispo, the Porterhouse, formerly known as the Judge Roy Bean pub, is a little like Mother's--but about four times larger. It has a very nice, very large mirrored bar just inside the entrance and it seems to go on forever. The drinking age in Ireland is only eighteen and, with a university across the street, our clan easily raised the average age of clientele by at least ten years. By the time Harry arrived around 9:45, the place was packed and the music--an eclectic mix of American and English technopop--was loud. I didn't think this outting would last too much longer and sure enough, shortly after Harry arrived, Gary headed back to the hotel. My sister figured the rest of us old fuddy duddies were not far behind so she and Josh took off to go find the next party. My mother, who two hours and a bottle of wine earlier was adamantly opposed to going anywhere except bed, asked for a change of venue. I guess she wasn't worried anymore about turning into a pumpkin.
Harry took us down a few more blocks to Dawson's Pub, quite probably the smallest pub in the world. This is where the theme for the rest of the trip would be set because the Porterhouse was the first and only pub we would leave voluntarily from here on out. Dawson's was, well, small, and it was packed. Harry bought the first round. As my glass emptied I thought for sure we were in the home stretch. By now even I was beginning to hear the Sandman calling. As if reading my thoughts, Harry ordered another round. Alright fine, one more. But the eleventh pint of the day--twelfth if you count the beer the day before in Chicago--was going down a lot slower. This would be it, no way I could drink anymore tonight. It's not that I was drunk (although I obviously had to be by now) I was getting full! The bar started to clear out a bit. I was halfway through my Carlsberg when I noticed another one sitting on the bar in front of me. That rat bastard Harry had ordered another round. Not only was he getting us shitfaced, he was paying for all the damn drinks. This guy was tricky.
In Ireland when they serve wine by the glass, they actually give you a 187mL mini bottle. At this point in the evening my mom had them lined up along the bar. She started putting them in her purse because she couldn't drink them fast enough. It seems we had met our match, Harry was hard core. It was about 2AM when we finally got thrown out of Dawson's Pub. We walked back to the hotel with Harry and when we got to the door of the lobby he asked "do they have a bar in there?" Hell yeah they do, come on in! The five of us bellied up one more time.
This time we were ready. My dad and I had our money out before we even walked into the hotel. We picked up this round. Shortly after, he and my mom disappeared, six hours after they insisted we couldn't wait until 9:30 to meet up with Harry. Surely the night was finally coming to an end for all of us. Last call. I still had half a pint and was happy to sit this one out. I think Harry must belong to some Irish religous sect that does not believe in allowing last call to go unanswered, no matter what. The bartender served us one last round, but asked us to leave the bar area so they could lock up. Amen. We shut down our second bar of the night and stumbled into the lounge.
We were down to just me, Harry, and Patrick, and two other occupied talbes in the lounge area where we sat down. One was a French couple on the other side of the room. They were minding their own business and I wouldn't have noticed them except for the two guys sitting at a table between us. The guys were from Sweden and had started poking fun at the French couple by shouting "voulez-vous coucher avec moi" at them. The couple did not appreciate this and exchanged some words--in English--with the Swede before getting up and storming off. My brother, ever the drunken International diplomat, applauded, a move that earned him favor and a seat next to the Swede.
For about an hour we argued with this guy about--of all things--whether the Irish were friendly or not. Apparently he doesn't have a cousin named Harry. We'd probably still be sitting there if it weren't for the guy's pregnant girlfriend who came to collect him. At that point even Harry admitted the night was over. We walked him out to the lobby, pledged to see him later in the day, and greeted our sister who was stumbling into the hotel at the same time and whom I'm pretty sure was astonished to find that her "old" brothers were still up and about. With Harry off, our sister accounted for, and no bars open within walking distance, it was time to call it a day/night/next day/next night.
To recap: I woke up Friday morning about 8AM in San Antonio and I went to bed around 4AM Dublin time...on Sunday morning. In those 38 hours of consciousness, I flew across an ocean, drank over two gallons of beer, discovered the
worst copilot ever, met the
worst guard ever, patronized three Irish pubs, got thrown out of two, and set a new personal record for most hours awake without going to bed.
And that was day one.
