My Irish Odyssy

Yesterday was St. Patrick’s Day - the greatest non-holiday of the year. It may actually be the greatest day of the year, but I’m holding off judgment until after this Canada Day. Anyway, here’s the story of my St. Paddy’s Day:

It started at about 8am in the morning. Normally, if a friend calls me unexpectedly at 8am on a Saturday morning, that friendship is over, but this was a special case. An old college buddy was on the other end of the phone. A few weeks ago he had won a trip for four to Chicago including a night at the Marriott hotel in downtown Chi-town, breakfast in the morning, and a limousine to get us there, around, and home again. I must have done something right because whatever Celtic god is responsible for good luck was smiling down on me. One of his friends was forced to cancel at the last minute (I wasn’t going to ask why, I was just counting my lucky stars), and I just happened to live along the way. He called me from somewhere west of London and gave me 30 minutes to get ready. I hung up, dashed to the shower, got dressed (my genuine Art Guinness “Is it St Paddy’s Day, or am I seeing things?” shirt with the standard 8-year-old blue jeans) and got packed. Half an hour after the wake up call a big, black, stretched Cadillac pulled into my driveway. Off we went.

My buddy, a true Irish-Canadian bachelor, had planned this out pretty well. He had 24 cold cans of Guinness sitting in an ice-filled cooler and a fridge full of Irish whiskey – 8:30am or not, I reached directly for a can of the black gold. But I was stopped by my buddy. Apparently it was limo rules that I had to start with a couple shots first. Two shots later, I opened what would be my first of many brews.

We each pounded back our beer as we waited (nervously) in line at the border. No worries, the border guy was cool and we were on our way. We pulled over in Port Huron for some breakfast at a rundown grease-loving roadhouse. With a (un)healthy coating of grease and french toast protecting my stomach lining, we hit the road again. Some shots, some beers, and about 500 miles later, we pulled up to the hotel valet. I’m not going to lie, we weren’t the most graceful as we exited the limo, but no problem because everything was taken care of. The valet guy took care of our bags while the limo driver checked us in. We went to our suite way up in the Chicago skyline, tossed our bags, took care of some business and headed back down to street level. It was (probably…I guess…I’d had a few by this point) almost 3pm by now, so we headed to the nearest Irish pub (thanks Mike the concierge for sending us to a great place).

As we stepped into the pub (McLaren’s I think), we were greeted with a vision of what I think Ireland must look like. Green everywhere: everyone in the bar was decked out in green; every beer I saw (except the Guinness) was green; they were even giving out green leprechaun hats. Four mid-twenties Canadians were about to teach a bar full of Irish-Americans (if they weren’t Irish, they were yesterday) how to celebrate Ireland. It didn’t last long. Apparently my buddy becomes a bit of an exhibitionist after a few drinks. I looked over and saw him walking out of the washroom with his pants around his ankles (and a rather loose fly on his boxers).

After being politely asked to leave the pub (ok, we got kicked out- those bouncers weren’t nice), we headed across the street to another bar. That bar wouldn’t let us drunkards in, so we went for a bit of a walk. We came across the Chicago River, where one of us (not saying which one) decided he wanted to be entirely green (you know, in the spirit of the day). The city dyes this river green every St Paddy’s Day, so we tried to make our way down to its shore where we could dunk him and dye him. (Luckily,) some kind policemen stopped us before we froze ourselves (and, judging by our blood-alcohol level, drown ourselves).

Being St. Patrick’s Day, the cops were very understanding as they pointed us towards the next pub. We stepped inside, looked around, and picked our hotties. Unfortunately they were on their way out, so by about 7pm (again, who knows what time it really was, just go with it) we followed the lasses to the next pub. After a sobering wait in line, we saw our next vision of Ireland. I don’t know if I ever saw the name of this place, but the food was good, so if you’re ever in Chicago…

Anyway, a bunch more pints brought us to 11pm (or so…you know the drill) and some new lasses. These girls were calling a cab to get them to some “legendary” Irish pub on the other end of downtown, so we called our limo and crammed 8 people into the back. After a round of whiskey and some general inner-limo debauchery, we pulled up to a tower on the banks of the Chicago River. Into the elevator and up to the roof we went. Not really your standard Irish pub setting, but when you enter the doors, you’re left without doubt. Some big green man (who was apparently a regular) gave us a story about how every piece of art and furniture in the place was imported directly from Ireland. According to the guy, the pub’s owner immigrated to Chicago with his family back in the 1970s and brought his Irish pub with him from Cork.

More pints led us to last call and we headed back to the limo with those same lasses (I think they were the same girls, but everyone was wearing green, so it was hard to differentiate). We all headed up to our suite at the hotel, partied through the rest of the Guinness from the limo, and passed out (I wish I could fill you in on the details, but I must have been pretty ‘tired’ because I don’t remember).

We woke up around 11am, kicked the girls out the door, and checked out by noon. We grabbed lunch at the hotel restaurant then hit the road. At some point yesterday someone was smart enough to pick up some Gatorade (usually a hang-over cure) so we re-hydrated on the ride home. My buddy passed out somewhere outside of Kalamazoo, so we took the rest of the whiskey (only a couple shots worth was left) and spiked his Gatorade (sorry bud, wasn’t my idea, I swear). He woke up and chugged back the rest of his drink. I guess the old saying “hair of the dog that bit you” is true, because he seemed to be the only one who’s head wasn’t pounding as we pulled up to the border. By 6pm today I was at home, in bed trying to sleep off the Irish flu. No luck, so here I am, telling you all about the day that was (please forgive any poor grammar/spelling).

That’s my story; I hope your St Paddy’s Day was fun!