The Everywhereist

My beloved, with his beloved.

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In case you were unable to gather it from yesterday’s post, Guinness is a big deal in Ireland.

Okay, calm down. Yes, I realize there is far more to Ireland than Guinness (trust me, I GET IT). I’m not trying to upset anyone. I don’t mean to overgeneralize or to come off as a bigot. I’m sure plenty of people in the emerald isle don’t drink the stuff at all.

So please, stop waving your finger around like that and calling me names. Really. Such language.

I simply mean to say that Guinness is important to the Irish. Much like pasta is to the Italians, or koala meat is to the Australians.

KIDDING. I’m KIDDING … Italians don’t eat that much pasta.

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My husband is a beer drinker.

It’s one of the many things I love about him. He looks great in a suit; he taught me which fork to use at fancy dinners (when in doubt, start at the outside and move in towards your plate); and he can discuss 20th century art without sounding like a pedantic ass.

He also likes football, and Buffalo wings, and a really good beer. And he reminds me that in those things, there is poetry and elegance as well. So while in Dublin, despite Rand’s shouldn’t-have-been-but-actually-was busy schedule, I forced him to take a break and go with me to the Guinness Brewery.

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