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Health & Fitness

An Irish Adventure

A visit to soak up the rich culture of my ancestry unexpectedly turns into a hunt for the world's biggest rock star.

With St. Patrick's Day upon us, perhaps it's rather fitting that I, Christopher Clancy Brennan, am going through the very Irish trait of feeling conflicted as to how to honor the day. Shall I sit in my house, arms folded, decrying the drunken, boorish behavior taking place outside as everybody claims to be Irish for the day? After all, for those who have been touched by an Irish friend or family member who has struggled with alcohol, this stereotype is far from being "cute". Or perhaps, I should stand out on 2nd Street, with my dog Murphy by my side, handing out copies of Joyce or Yeats or Beckett, as I proclaim "this is what being Irish is really all about!!". Or just maybe I should just run down to Old Navy, buy a 5 dollar "Kiss Me I'm Irish" shirt, grab a Guinness and shut up?

As I struggle with how I truly feel about this big Irish day, my mind wanders toward a remembrance of the very first time I was lucky enough to visit Ireland.

In the spring of 1989, as a freckle faced 18 year old finding my way through freshman year at Diablo Valley College, I was blessed with the opportunity to spend the spring semester in London. (An eternal thank you to Mom and Dad on this!) About 6 weeks into the semester came our Spring Break. (Apparently the faculty thought we needed a "break" from amazing museums, breathtaking theatre, and a drinking age limit of 18 years old.) While some went to Greece, others to Italy, and others to Africa, I knew that my trip would be to one place and one place only: Ireland. For those who may not understand, when you are born to not one but two Irish parents, you learn you are Irish pretty darn quick in life. I cannot prove that my baby diapers had shamrocks on them, but it wouldn't be a bad bet.

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I discussed my plans with my roommate, a San Diego artist and skateboarder with a semi-mohawk named Scott. Scott was one of those guys who was down for anything, and this seemed like a great adventure for him, so he grabbed his bag and we were off. On the plane ride over, it dawned on me just how special this moment was going to be. I was to be the first in my family to set foot on our homeland soil. It felt momentous. Then we landed.

Soon, Scott and I are in the back of a cab taking us into the center of Dublin. I am staring out the window thinking "everyone looks like me!", Scott, meanwhile has a big grin on his face as well, but of course, he always looked like that. Then, for some reason, I find that my initial purpose of being the family historian, gives way to the simple fact that I am an 18 year old in Dublin, Ireland. 

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"So,um, where does Bono live?" I ask.

In 1989, Bono and the Irish rock group he sings for, U2, were enjoying their first flush of global superstardom. I had been obsessed with them since my freshman year in High School, as I was desperately clinging to something meaningful amidst the Flock of Seagulls which exemplified the decade. When most musicians of the time were coolly detached, Bono was a passionate Irish champion of righteous causes. (Yes, I realize now that many of you view him as a pompous jerkwad, but for me, he was the exact right rock star at the exact time I needed one.)

As it turned out, the helpful cabbie knew exactly where Bono lived. "Everyone does", he told us. "We see the lads all the time. We don't bug them though, we just let 'em live."

Well bully for him, but what our cabbie didn't understand was that I was an 18 year old American U2 fan. So I was gonna bug him. It was my right.

Scott and I soon found ourselves on the Dublin Area Rapid Transit heading south to a town called Bray. Our rationale was simple. We will find a Bed and Breakfast in Bray and either we find Bono or we don't. At least we are in a cool town in Ireland.

The Bed and Breakfast was about a 10 minute walk from the train station. The nice lady took us up to view the room. As we surveyed the room, I decided I would go for it.

"So..umm..I heard that this is where Bono lives?" I asked sheepishly.

The lady quietly walked to the window and lifted the drapes. She then pointed to a Lighthouse/Castle looking building about a block away.

"Yeah, that's his house there."

Scott and I looked at each other. We couldn't believe our luck.

"We'll take the room." Scott said.

We had soon dropped our bags and we were rushing over to Casa de Bono, as if we were late for an appointment.  We hurried up a tree lined pathway, and surprised to find no big Beverly Hills style fence, we soon found ourselves in Bono's driveway.

Happy St. Patrick's Day everyone!

Coming soon..Part 2!

 

 

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