Music on the Emerald Isle

This may sound strange, coming as it does from an American living in Europe, but I don’t get out much. For example, I do not drink in bars. I have liquor at home, and everyone there really does know my name. I don’t much go to restaurants because I can’t say that restaurant fare tastes any better than what I can rustle up at home. And I don’t go to the movies because I have Netflix and HBO.

The one thing Denise and I both love, and cannot get at home, is live music. That is why our first trip to Ireland was a little slice of heaven.

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Thanks to Saint James, We Discover Miranda

Why, given our mutual disinterest in spectator sports, were we going to watch college football in Dublin? We weren’t sure. When asked I invariably offered ambiguous rationales involving vague words like “spectacle” and “absurdity” and “cheerleaders.” But Terry had bought our tickets, making us like a little boy dancing outside a locked restroom: We had to go.

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Getting Hosed at Hogueras

Tomorrow would be the summer solstice and midnight, the hour when tomorrow becomes today, was a scant 30 minutes away. That was when all hell would break loose in Alicante. Denise did not want to see hell breaking loose, at least not all of it, and certainly not that late; but she is a trooper and so agreed to drive Clarity and me to the tram. We would take that conveyance to the heart of Alicante and glory in the spectacle of hell’s release.

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