Fake? Not really. Remembered through a haze of Bushmills more like. Back home friends of ours have a name for the second day of drinking, the ill-advised watching the game down at the pub after a heavy stag night, wedding or birthday. They call if Day 2, and it should send shivers down the hardiest of spines. And it appears that Day 2 has an international faction.
If you haven’t been you should go immediately. There’s a reason why all of the songs about San Francisco are about how leaving it breaks your heart. It’s entirely true. Granted it’s got an extraordinary homelessness problem that beggars belief, also there’s parts of the neighbourhood that you’d be advised not to venture into but despite these things it has an atmosphere that is unlike anything we’d ever experienced. There’s a buzz in the air, a belief in something, what? A way of life? An attitude? It’s hard to put your finger on it but it’s there in the electric between people. It’s there when you walk down a half empty street.
Our first St Patrick’s Day (16th of March) was spent much like the actual St Patrick’s Day, in an Irish pub, drinking Irish drinks and generally living up to every single Irish cliche imaginable (minus the fighting) and it was a blast. We even got up and played some songs in the end, which confirms beyond a shadow of a doubt that we’d found our way through the road of excess and took a wrong turn at the palace of wisdom too.
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