The kindness of strangers in Ireland

My fiancé and I both had the same thought, but we didn't know it until weeks later when we were telling friends about a pair of guys who sent two drinks down the bar to us our first night in Dublin: They are robbers preying on naïve American tourists. They will get us staggering drunk, then follow us to our hostel and steal our wallets at the earliest opportunity.

We had met them on the Literary Pub Crawl, a two-hour event that splices entertaining excerpts of Irish literature with breaks to have a pint in three or four pubs of literary repute throughout Dublin's Temple Bar district. We enjoyed speaking with these fellow literary crawlers — two nice-looking, close-shaven young men in their 30s wearing sharp, stylish black clothes — during an interlude at the third pub. They were in the computer business; they were impressed that we were from Seattle; they obviously noted what drinks we ordered in the pub, because those same drinks appeared in front of us at the final pub, Davy Byrnes. Apparently my fiancé remembered what they had been drinking as well, because he sent a round of drinks back down the bar to them. Moments later they appeared at our side, protesting, You didn't need to do that!

What followed were several hours of exchanges, both verbal and beverage: pints of Guinness flowed as we debated American foreign policy, the strengths and weaknesses of education in Ireland and the U.S., Ireland's role in the European Union, and more. At 1 a.m., my fiancé and I stumbled out of the pub, wove our way from Temple Bar across the O'Connell Street Bridge to our hostel on the north side of the River Liffey, and cautiously climbed the four flights of stairs to our room, half expecting the men would not be far behind.

In all honesty, though, what did we have to steal? Two backpacks filled with t-shirts, jeans, and wind-breakers. On ourselves we carried a few maxed-out credit cards and virtually no cash. Not exactly a windfall for two computer executives enjoying Ireland's economic ascendancy in the era of the Celtic Tiger. What did we have that they wanted, then? Simple camaraderie, hard as that was for us to believe at the time.

More pubs, more sights

We never saw them again, but we met many equally friendly people whenever we ventured out to pubs during our six-night stay. In fact, we could not sustain six straight nights of it. On mornings after our early nights, in the absence of hangovers, we attempted to be dutiful tourists, but our 8:30 a.m. Black Cab tour of Belfast and our 10 a.m. visit to Nora Barnacles house in Galway revealed that few Irish get going so early.

(You Americans! chided the sleepy, elderly James Joyce scholar manning the table in Nora Barnacles mother's miniscule kitchen. Trust you to come by before I've fully woken up!)

On our last night, in the small western town of Kinvara, we went to Keoghs Pub to hear our last traditional music session of the trip. There we met Frank, the deck-builder, another lean young man riding the crest of the Celtic Tiger wave. While buying us Guinness after Guinness, Frank told us of his recent discovery that building wooden decks on County Galway homes is a stupendous way to get rich. We talked of travels; we talked of love; we talked of our upcoming wedding.

I sensed that love was in the air, Frank exclaimed. On your wedding day next month, I will be thinking of you and wishing you the best. You won't forget, will you?

As we made our way back to our hotel, we had no fears that Frank the deck-builder would be on our heels to take advantage of and rob us. We had seen enough Irish friendliness and generosity by then.

One huge hangover and six weeks later at our wedding, Frank's good wishes found a moment to echo in my mind, adding a tiny bit of Irish enhancement to an already glorious day. I wondered if he was sitting at Keoghs that night, but even if he had forgotten, he had added his blessing to our wedding. I raised my champagne glass to him in silent thanks.

Anne Winebrenner lives in Olympia.

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