Seven minutes
Lying on the floor…
The overhead fan whirred lopsidedly, pushing the dense heat around the broken room. I was on my back, sweat pouring off my face and dripping down my armpits, my nakedness a result of being ambushed by her husband. My head felt two sizes too big for my shoulders, my legs were trees just felled and my eyes were almost swollen shut. Not a good way to start a vacation I thought. But who has ever been accuse of thinking smartly at three a.m. with a half gallon of tequila swimming around in one’s belly. She took me to her place, again a bad idea, whispering in my ear that sweet sugary Mexican breath running shivers down my sweaty neck. I had no choice but to get in the cab, I had no idea where I was (bad idea number two) who I was with (number three), or where I was going (number four). So, here I am bloodied, broken, alone, naked, and probably poorer for the occasion, but damn, was that fun.

Eleven minutes
On the bridge…
Over the river, moving north, was a stream of red lights, like salmon swimming upstream, cars barely moved, being bottlenecked at the off ramp into two lanes. And like salmon, there was much jostling and jockeying for better position, the occasional bump to bumper and the irrepressible and constant bleating of the horn. Mr. Dunleavy sat in his Camry five days a week, every week making this migration to his home an hour away where he would greet his wife and two kids, sit down to dinner, watch the news and sportscenter, and then turn in. Monday through Friday fifty two weeks a year this was his role, the hand he had been dealt. To combat the boredom and monotony of his routine he had his pills (valium, oxycontin, percocet, xanax) and his booze. Knowing the length of commute (one and a half hours) and the speed (negligible at best), he was ble to compute how much ice he would need to keep his vodka chilled all the way home. About a third of the way, on the bridge usually, he would pop a pill so that by the time he was kissing Mrs. Dunleavy in the kitchen, the edge would be worn smooth and he would be able to slide easily into his loving father doting husband role. Another two or three drinks, nothing substantial mind you, he would be floating on air and ready to melt into the nearest easy chair. Reading to the kids was as meditative to him as it was to them and he often fell asleep with his back against the wall, glasses atilt on his face, book open in his lap, and the kids warning mom that she had better come rescue dad.

Nine minutes
Valentine’s day in Juarez…
Is a cultural mixed blessing as gringos mingle with chiquitas and vaqueros carouse with American teenagers that spill across the border. There are roses, candy, champagne, flowers and all the fluff of America but in this border town there are also pimps, pinups, drug dealers and the side winders of the underground where anything goes and often does. Happy couples stroll the plaza while beefed up boys in wife beaters and bling rattling their hairless chests thump low riders in the streets. Junkies in the alleys fleece strangers venturing too deep and up on the second floor of the hotel a white man proposes to his Spanish chica over white wine and room service. Fireworks go off somewhere illuminating the square and focusing attention on the dark sky above. It is a celebration of sorts but the pimp in the dressed down Cadillac wishes it would all be over so he could get back to running his profitable business as Saint Valentine has never been particularly good to him.

Fifteen minutes
On standby to Paris…
I wandered the concourse of JFK, not knowing anything about this airport and getting ready to idle away two hours until my potential plane left for de Gaulle. I figured the best place to start was an overpriced bar where I could acclimate myself to the absurd prices I would encounter overseas. It was like slowly ascending a high mountain, the oxygen deprivation effects not as sever the longer it takes you to get to the summit. I had come from the northwest, via Chicago and now New York and in three airports cocktail prices had risen accordingly and I wasn’t in shock anymore. Next to me was a woman knee deep in the Sunday Times puzzle, frazzled hair drifting every which way including her eyes, while her vodka martini sweated its way onto a napkin. I ordered a Bombay martini, dry, and found the price so severe I only chuckled as the bartender handed me a few ones and some paltry change in return for a twenty. Get used to it, I thought, wondering if I had enough money to last the month I had planned. If it wasn’t, then I could always quit drinking…or sleep outside the Louvre. The eyes of patrons in airports are drawn to one of three places; their reading material, the sports on TV, of to the people coming and going just outside the door. It’s like peering at a busy sidewalk from a barber’s chair, an impartial observer watching the comings and goings of a society on the move. I liked watching people from this vantage with only a distant time frame tethering me to the ground. Couples, businessmen, mothers with kids, kids on leashes, mothers without kids, teenagers with pillows and headphones, they all walked by returning to someone or leaving somebody else.

The methodic beauty of a slow pulled Guinness is that it is that rare form of barista magic that is unduplicated anywhere else in the world. There is an art to not only the actual dispensing of the precious liquid but also to the generally unacknowledged brilliance of the person minding the CO2 levels, keeping the tap lines clean, and also, keeping that keg of Guinness at the proper temperature.
Ireland pours different from the rest of the world, we'll just give them that since it is their court, Tanzania on the other side pulls long and heavy while here in Portland, most baristas fail to take the necessary time to accomplish that magical head, cascading down the edge of a room temperature glass. They pour like its a lager, tap up, glass under, and fill. Still, the creamy goodness of Guinness trumps any fault of the barista, as the first sip turns into the tenth, who actually cares who poured it?
So I sit in an Irish bar listening to the Eurythmics and the Cars (must be '80's music day) looking at the nearly 25 taps and see IPA's, porters, lagers, pilseners, wheats (two, actually) with the full complement of Oregon breweries represented, but only see Guinness and Beamish stouts as the lone Irish representatives. There is no whiskey as this is a public house (no liquor here, only karaoke, darts, beer, wine and soundless TV) and the requisite food served up by early twentysomething grommets with patchy beards, rasta hats and scattered tattoos and piercings. Irish paraphernalia decorate the walls along with a Buffalo Bills pennant, a portrait of both Reagan and Kennedy, and mirrors of Harp, Mactarnahans and Lindemans.
This place screams Americana! Fish and chips, paddy (haha)melts, burgers, wings, salads and then a nod to their claim to fame---shepherd's pie, Murphy's stew, bangers and mash, and scotch eggs. I love truth in advertising, especially in pubs because if it's one thing you know you'll get in an Irish pub, it's a glass of Guinness. And, truth be told, I wouldn't go into an Irish pub for the food, no offense to Leprechaun Nation, but the food from the Emerald Isle leaves a little something to be desired.
One day I will go to Dublin on a decidedly dreary grey day, walk the streets until I can smell the telltale vinegar emanating from an authentic chip house and open the door to find the true Irish standing behind that infamous black and gold label. The crusty old salt behind the bar won't even ask what kind of beer I want, he'll just pour and expect me to accept it. Until then, I'll be content to frequent these so called Irish bars as much as I frequent French bars (for their brie and champagne), German bars ( brats and lager), American bars (burgers and Budweiser), and Italian bars (pizza and chianti).