two hundred. thirty four.

Hannah and I went downtown recently to go to an Irish singing lesson of sorts and then a music jam in a pub. Life should always always be this way. The ladies knitting, people playing music, fish & chips at every table.
It flashed me back to a moment to a pub in Galway.
To set it up: We had just met Paul, a nice lad engaged to a nice lass back in Chicago.
"Where did you meet her?"
He pointed. "That pub, right across the corner. We met there!"
"How sweet! That gives me hope that I can find a husband here in Ireland," I said laughingly. [And, you know, completely serious.]
"Really? Oh great, meet my friends!" Cried Paul, in a enthusiastic "but-wait-there's-more!" announcer voice.
Disregarding my protestations, Paul dragged me over to meet his three friends. None of the the fine Irish gents were interested in love and marriage (though not for Paul's lack of trying, as he would constantly check in and ask if we were falling in love yet and point subtly at the church just behind the pub). They were jolly good fun though, mostly making fun of each other and filling us in on Irish life.
Brian and I got to talking about Chicago vs. Galway.
"I would live here in a heartbeat," I said.
"Here? Why?! This pub is as good as it gets here," said Brian.
"This pub is one of the best things in the world!"
"But you have Boystown and Wrigleyville!"
As if the delights of those sex-crazed and boozy areas could satisfy me the way the ocean could, just steps away, and the music playing at my elbow, and the Guiness in my hand. As if the lights and clubs of Chicago could compare to the graves that were older than my country in farmers fields. People passed them everyday without a thought. As if the Budlight buckets could top the warm whiskey drink the bartender insisted I try.
So we shook on a trade, Brian and I.
Still banking on it coming true one day. If you meet a man named Brian parading around in my life, you can be rest assured that I'm over at his pub in Galway.