As soon as we walked in we knew we were in the right place. The musicians were setting up in a tight corner, men were playing pool, football jerseys were suspended across the ceiling, quark sticks and sports trophies and family photos were everywhere.

We were the only tourists in the bar, which was the other thing we were looking for. Is it hypocritical to be a tourist and want to get away from the tourists?

We had spent the previous night in Temple Bar and we were simply done. We saw a staggering drunk get the shit beat out of him, and just had to deal with mobs of people.

We sat at the bar and ordered Jameson with lime and Bulmer’s hard cider.

A father and son pair sat on my right. I had noticed that the pool table was smaller than American ones, and the balls were as well, so I asked the Dad, thinking maybe I had solved the issue: “Do you call that billiards?”

He smiled wide and said, “No. We call it po-ol,” hyper-pronouncing the word. We spoke for a few minutes, about pool, and then he asked me, “Where are you from? Poland?”

Which Mike loved, of course. But when I asked the 19-year old boy if they had the same racist joke as we do he said, “oh no. The only other country we make fun of, especially for being stupid is England.”

Favorite moments:

A tiny little old Irishmen who got up from his table and danced the jig in the middle of the bar, while everyone clapped and cheered.

The young boys who arrived in jeans so tight I wondered if…socks were involved.

And especially, when an Irishmen with an exceptionally big belly came in, he was greeted with that male half handshake half hug. He began greeting us in the same way, even though he knew darn well he didn’t know us. Out of the blue, he said, “You know, nothing ever bothers me. I figure, why bother. It’s so much more fun to be happy!”

Ah, Ireland. My sentiments exactly.