An Alcoholic Walks Into An Irish Pub…

Estimated read time: 15 min

But this [woman] still lives, and she is free. She does not need a bodyguard, nor is she confined. She can go anywhere on this earth where other free people may go without disaster, provided she remains willing to main­tain a certain simple attitude.

If you’ve been following us (The Grateful Nuts) on Facebook and Instagram, you’ll probably remember our recent trip to Ireland. 

This trip came about in such a peculiar and unexpected way for me. See, as far back as I can remember I have wanted to visit Ireland. 

It all started back in middle school really, so bear with me as I take a trip down memory lane. It was my 6th-grade year, which puts me around 11 years old. 

My generation was in an odd position with technology at this time. Yes, a few of my classmates had iPhones and iPods. A few even had tablets or laptops. Meanwhile, the vast majority of us were not as well acquainted with such new and fancy technology. 

As slow and ancient as it was, I did grow up with a computer in the home. At the time, Google was a thing, and ask Jeeves was phasing out. It was at that weird time that the internet had not yet exploded as it did for the next generation.

This seemingly erroneous information will make sense in just a moment. 

By the time I made it to 6th grade, those in charge of curriculum quickly noticed how important the internet and being “tech savvy” would be. They also came to the conclusion that if they failed to move quickly, my generation would fall behind in the blink of an eye. 

This is where my love for Ireland started…

The powers that be, in the world of youth academia, decided that in order to keep up with advancing technology, my generation should have more access to computers and the internet to increase computer literacy. 

These new classes were available under the incredibly elaborate, crafted title “technology lab”.

Okay, they are getting bored Nina, cut to the chase…

So here I am with my 6th-grade self, sitting in the “technology lab.” The teacher, who was a little mean if I’m being quite honest, is giving us instructions for a project. 

Despite her grumpy demeanor, she was quite creative with our assignment. The assignment prompted us to plan a trip to anywhere on the planet. 

When planning this trip we were instructed to:

1. Pick a real place
2. Determine how we would get to our destination 
3. Places we would stay 
4. Sights to see
5. Brief history of location 
6. Local cuisine
7. Cost/budget of the entire trip

…and plenty of other things I’m sure I don’t remember.

My fellow classmates selected places like Hawaii, California, Las Vegas, and the world-famous Disney World in Orlando Florida of all places. 

Not me though, I always have to be a little different. I chose… Ireland. 

As I did my research I learned about the old castles, the beautiful cliff-sides, the Celtic culture, old architecture, pubs, and of course Guinness and Irish Whiskey. 

I saw the draw of Dublin, Blarney Castle, Northern Ireland, and the “The Troubles.” I was fascinated by the history, the landscapes, the sheep and wool production, and of course the alcohol consumption the Irish seemed to have cornered the market on. 

The wheels started turning, and I found myself daydreaming about this trip often. 

See, I fancied myself as an aspiring writer back then. English and literature were a passion of mine. Nerdy I know, but true. 

I pictured myself with a leather-bound notebook in a cozy, low-lit pub, a warm stout nearby at a high-top table, surrounded by locals having a pint after work while shooting the breeze with their neighbors. 

I imagined peaceful walks on cliff sides, and picnic lunches, where I would pause to work on whatever novel or collection of poems I had in the works at the time. It was magical. 

In my mind’s eye, I could feel the cool mist of the Irish drizzle on a dreary day, my skin cool to the touch despite my warm jumper. The chill, not leaving, till I wandered in to a small pub, and then I’d be warmed by a wee peg of Irish Whiskey. 

This project became less of a learning experience for honing my technology and research skills, and more of a life plan for my future. 

Naturally, as time passed, so did the dream. 

I became wrapped up in sports once I hit high school, college prep, work, and relationships. The dream waned, and eventually, my active addiction flourished once my drinking began. 

The dream was dead—long forgotten in the throes of addiction, much like the childhood dreams of aspiring princesses and astronauts of preschoolers once reality sets in and erases the magical thinking of fairytale worlds. 

Even once I found sobriety, I didn’t dare have big dreams. I wasn’t sure if I would even make it back into college, never mind becoming a residential tourist in a foreign country. 

For starters, I didn’t even have a passport. I hadn’t even traveled more than just a few states away. Even my more rational and realistic dreams had been shot once I hit rock bottom.  

Every now and then though. Just once in a while. I would allow myself to reminisce on the time when I thought that maybe… Just, maybe, I could do something as amazing as travel to Ireland and create a life there. 

Of course, reality would set back in. Life, work, bills, and the desire to finish my college education would snap me back to reality. 

Then, one day, something happened. My father-in-law, the 89-year-old world traveler, mentioned he wanted to go to Ireland. 

I was at work at the time he verbalized this desire, but Stan, knowing my fantastical dream from childhood shared this dream with the world traveler. 

Ideas were tossed around. Conversations were had, and before I knew it, I was applying for a passport. WE were going to Ireland! 

I was ecstatic, speechless, and convinced that I should measure my optimism and excitement because surely something would come up rendering the trip impossible. 

After all, we didn’t have the money for that, COVID is still a thing, and childhood dreams don’t really ever come true…do they? 

Stinking thinking is what we call that. Pessimism, skepticism, and a failure to recognize that, like many others, I have already done the impossible. I am a sober alcoholic; that’s supposed an anomaly. A statistical improbability. An exception to the rule. 

Yet there I stood, an alcoholic who had not had a drink for almost 4 years, and next to me, a man who had not a drop of alcohol in almost 8 years. 

Who was I to say what was or wasn’t possible? I clearly had no authority on what opportunities life and sobriety provide a sober alcoholic like myself. 

Arriving more quickly than I had anticipated, July 5^th, we boarded the plane, another first for me. I had never been on a plane before! 

Seven and a half hours later, we touch ground in Dublin. While a wee bit warmer than I had anticipated, thanks to a perfectly timed heat wave across the region, I breathed in Irish air for the first time. 

The words to describe the feeling escape me even now almost a month after we’ve arrived back home. I was in Ireland, AND if you squint your eyes and tilt your head just right, some might even consider me to be a writer of sorts ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ .

Over the course of the trip, we made our way around the Irish coast. 

We walked around the busy streets of Dublin and took a black cab tour around Belfast. Feeling adventurous, we hiked to the bottom of the Giant’s Causeway, scared some sheep on rural country roads, drove the Ring of Kerry, Kissed the Blarney Stone, caught glimpses of the English Market, and wandered around the monastic ruins of Glendalough. 

A dream come true. As the trip came to a close and we ventured back towards Dublin to catch our flight, Stan and I discussed our experiences thus far. 

We verbally retraced our steps around the coast, mentally highlighted our favorite parts, and excitedly mentioned places we’d like to return to if ever we made it back. 

A strange type of sadness and nostalgia crept over me. Even though the trip was not yet over, I was already missing Ireland. 

Then, as luck would have it, we missed our flight! It was completely on accident, and posed some pretty major inconveniences and concerns, but who in their right mind is ungrateful for a few extra days abroad! 

We spent an extra day walking around the National Botanical Garden in Dublin.   On our last night, after the world traveler had settled in for the night, Stan and I again took a moment to review our days spent in Ireland. 

We talked about how odd it was to be sober in a place where the culture, to an outsider, seems almost entirely based on drinking. We then mentioned that despite our best efforts, we hadn’t made it to a meeting our entire time in Ireland. 

Not so much because meetings were not available, but more of a timing thing with the jet lag and strict schedule of the regimented world traveler. It was okay we decided, just a bit disappointing was all. 

We had eaten in countless pubs, ordered more than a dozen pints of beer (for the world traveler), and walked by many distilleries, breweries, and storehouses filled with booze. 

We hadn’t had a drop. Not even one drop of alcohol between the two of us! How is that possible? 

“It’s our last day,” we said almost simultaneously. “Let’s see if we can make one meeting before we leave.” 

I ran a quick google search as we stood outside the hotel, listening to a drunken fellow tourist tell us his troubles. 

There was in fact a meeting that night! 8:30 pm, 30 minutes away by cab, but if we ordered it now… 

A bit late, we made it to the meeting. Almost identical to any other meeting we had attended here in the states (with the lovely addition of heavy Irish accents of course); we had found our tribe. Sober alcoholics. 

As I listened to the shares of our fellow attendees, I couldn’t help but get carried away to that childhood dream I mentioned earlier. 

The trip had been amazing. More spectacular than I could have even imagined back in my adolescence sitting at a large desktop computer in a warm grungy classroom tucked away by the gymnasium. 

It had been very different than the original dream. That was to be expected of course, at 23 I have a much better understanding of travel, finances, and life overall than I did at 11 years old. 

In the living reality version of the original dream, there was no leather-bound journal. No warm pint of beer as I sit writing alone at a pub on the corner. No warm fuzzy feeling instigated by Irish whiskey in a highball glass. 

Was I missing out? Was the trip somehow less spectacular or dream-worthy without consuming alcohol? Was I disappointed in this version of the dream? 

All these thoughts tumbled through my brain as we waited on the cab to pick us up from the meeting. 

The answer, I determined, after voicing these thoughts to a fellow alcoholic (aka Stan), was no. 

For a brief moment, I felt a pang of guilt and shame for even having the thought. I shared this as well and was reminded that I am allowed to have and feel feelings about alcohol, sobriety, and life without alcohol in sobriety. 

The feelings I was experiencing, the thoughts I was having, and the questions I was asking were all valid and fair. They were not evidence of ingratitude for my sobriety, reservations about putting the plug in the jug, or even premeditations for future relapse. 

They were just questions, thoughts, and self-reflection. Important discoveries about self are made in moments like these. 

Life looks different sober. More often than not, different is exponentially better than the most fantastical dream conjured up in active addiction. However, there is a small percentage of the time that different is disappointing. 

This was one of those times. 

To be in Ireland for two weeks. For my drinks of choice to be dark beer and strong whiskey… To not have a single drop of either in the land that invented Guinness and Irish Whiskey. I mean c’mon now, can we appreciate the irony here? 

The wildest part about it all is that it was okay. I, was okay. Really and truly. I wanted to be the person to enjoy a pint or two at a pub over dinner. However, at this point in my sobriety, I can accept that I am not. 

IF I were to test the waters, denying all of the evidence from my active addiction, and hit the “F-It” button and give in to a drink, I’d still be in Ireland. 

By that, of course, I mean I’d be stuck in Ireland. A permanent resident of the ironically placed detox facility across the alleyway from the Guinness Brewery. 

See, the dream from my childhood was always just that, a dream. 

It could never be manifested exactly as it was in my mind because I was never going to grow up and be the type that could have JUST a pint or two.  

Would it have been nice, absolutely! Would it have been possible, absolutely… NOT; and that’s okay. It’s also perfectly okay and normal to be ever so slightly disappointed in that fact. 

What that “disappointed” feeling didn’t do, though, was ruin the trip. It didn’t ruin the experience. I didn’t miss out on having the real-life version of a childhood dream. 

Not having a drink didn’t make the countryside any less beautiful, the cliff sides any less breathtaking, the locals any less interesting, or the castles any less majestic. 

In fact, not having a drink allowed me to appreciate each of those things in the fullest light possible. 

So how is it, that an alcoholic walks into an Irish pub and doesn’t take a drink? 

It’s simple really. 

This [woman] still lives, and she is free. She does not need a bodyguard nor is she confined. She can go anywhere on this earth where other free people may go without disaster, provided she remains willing to main­tain a certain simple attitude.

An attitude of gratitude. 

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