The Brazen Head

"Other people have a nationality. The Irish and the Jews have a psychosis."

This weltanschauung comes to you courtesy of Mr. Brendan Behan, Irish novelist, playwright, and poet. We've recently found a home in one of Behan's preferred pubs, the Brazen Head --- but on second thought, this was a man who referred to himself as a "drinker with a writing problem," so I wonder if there was a Dublin pub that Behan DIDN'T frequent. After all, he drank "on two occasions --- when I'm thirsty and when I'm not."

Luckily, the Brazen Head's got much more to offer than pints and whiskies. It's the oldest pub in Ireland, actually established in 1198. For more than 800 years, it's stood just on the south side of the River Liffey at Bridge Street, luring locals and tourists alike with traditional music and cozy wood-panelled rooms. Seven nights a week, local musicians tramp in to the main hall of the pub, bringing their accordions and guitars and settling onto stools to sing traditional songs --- although a few weeks ago, one of the groups had a strong penchant for Simon and Garfunkel covers. While they didn't play "The Only Living Boy in New York," I have to admit that it was the first moment since I've been here in Dublin that I was actually homesick.

Only a few minutes walk along the river from my apartment here, the Brazen Head's out of the touristy Temple Bar neighborhood. No bachelorette parties disrupting the evenings spent here! It's really refreshing to be able to leave behind the scribblings of any day and stroll down to hear a few hours of music with some of the girls here. We've never been hasseled, never been bullied, and already we've become regulars to the bartender! We've been there a grand total of four times in three weeks, but he recognizes us enough to give us advice and ask about class. Wednesday night, we had a lesson in pouring cream over the backside of a spoon so that it floats on top of a cup of coffee. Slowly, delicately...and it's done!

Equally attentive are the patrons. Most are international, some tourists and some expatriates. We've shared terrific conversations with a family from Norway, debated politics with fellows from Australia and England. Within the three rooms of the pubs, there are benches and chairs, tables with candles --- all full of people happy to tell you how their days were, when their mother's coming to town, how much they love Manhattan and can't wait to visit again. Of course, while I'm always glad to have a chat, there come moments when you just have to be quiet --- "Whist, whist," they say here --- and listen to the band.

And at the end of the night, after the singer's encouraged you to clap until your hands are swollen and bang spoons in time to the music, you walk home with your friends and watch the bridges over the Liffey and the cars driving home. You understand then what Joyce was thinking when he wrote:

"The space of sky above us was the colour of ever-changing violet and towards it the lamps of the street lifted their feeble lanterns. The cold air stung us and we played till our bodies glowed. Our shouts echoed in the silent street. The career of our play brought us through the dark muddy lanes behind the houses where we ran the gantlet of the rough tribes from the cottages, to the back doors of the dark dripping gardens where odours arose from the ashpits...a summons to all my foolish blood."

As always, wish you were here!