I’ll have a Pint

You can’t escape it. The culture in Ireland revolves around many fascinating facets but one of them certainly has to be alcohol and their fondness in consuming it. A recent trip to Dublin had cemented the cliche but refined it at the same time. The fact that I was visiting from Germany made the whole thing seem a natural progression of fermentation. 

Later, with the advent of color television and a general love for all movies, Bollywood and Hollywood, my young adolescent mind was forming its own definition of coolness. As with cigarettes, I established that drinking is critical to being a well admired man. My dad being a teetotaler and non-smoker, access to either of those was always an issue. The white chalked candied cigarettes were sufficient to keep a part of my role-play vibrant. The bottle of brandy that was hidden carefully way back in the closet was only accessed when my parents weren’t around to be sniffed at. It was later that developed the courage to actually drink it. Needless to say, I hated the strong smoky taste. It still tasted like medicine. 

When I left home for my undergraduate studies in Pune, things got interesting. Put a bunch of young boys in a hostel together and you will quickly have an enterprise that excels in doing the forbidden. Alcohol was strictly prohibited which meant we just had to have it. A plot was schemed and very soon our backpacks were tingling with cheap alcohol bottled in glass. The whole affair, as thrilling as it was to arrange it, was just as anticlimactic in the end. None of us really went berserk and to avoid being caught, we even funneled the alcohol out the window. 

Walk in. Sit. Enjoy.

Ireland made me question it again. Why were the social values in India and in some other religious cultures so negative when it came to alcohol? How did the stigma originate? Our scriptures have mentioned mead in courtyards countlessly. When did we switch to mostly milk? 

I can distinctly remember as a kid, the company parties we would go. The best part was the meat appetizers that were served with the first round of drinks. While I was more than satisfied with the Kebabs and a rare full glass of iced Coke, I would always listen in on my parents’ conversation in the car on the way back. The separation was clear. While we were just going home early, the people who drank were going straight to hell. 

The first Guinness I had in a typical pub in Dublin was fantastic. There was stringing paced Irish music in the background, the lights were dim, no glaring televisions in sight and an all-around panoramic view of the smiling Irish ending their day happily with a Pint. It was just so easy to immerse myself in the cozy enclave of the pub. You could of course argue that one could enjoy the vibe without drinking, but I am willing to bet, it just wouldn’t be the same. 

The Irish whisky now flows smoothly down my throat. Single malt and Radiohead send me spiraling, weirdly making the notes even clearer than before. There is mellowness in that follows, the brain expands and my thoughts seem to lose their shy prohibited nature. There is certain looseness in this stuff. 

You could of course argue that Irish are hardly the best example of ideal drinkers. In fact, it is an argument that I would lose regardless of whom I showcased. Drinking harms the liver, even with moderation. It could lead to dangerous outcomes and ruin lives easily by addiction. There is no condoning it. But my time away from home in other cultures has made now it easy for me to achieve separation of concerns and dance on wooden benches without a care. Back in Germany, on hotter days, I see families enjoying themselves in the Biergartens. While the kids run around creating a ruckus, the parents regain their Mojo consuming delicious beer on wooden benches. The Germans, usually so meticulous about getting everything right, are always only a stone’s throw away from delicious golden beer. Did they get this wrong? 

no kindle in sight

I loved my time in Ireland. Listening to the Irish, tell their stories in their accent and tone never got old. The countryside was far more beautiful than I had imagined. The Fish and chips were just as scrumptious as I had previously read. I hopped pubs and old cafes. I imagined how famous authors traversed the city, observing and writing. I got lost in libraries and old Celtic scrolls it housed. 

Calender pic of the trip

And when my feet begged for a rest from walking on cobbled stoned streets, I found it entirely culturally appropriate to get myself a pint.