“Stupid; Or is it; Slow? Maybe it’s; Useless? But there’s a cuter word for it; I know; Manchild”

We sit at the bar on red, round-cushioned stools closest to the entrance. A Guinness is in front of her and a hard cider is in my grasp. The dark wood counter is shiny. An impressive number of liquors resides on shelves behind it. The room is narrow. Small tables with seats decorate the other side of the room. A natural aisle is between the two setups.

There’s only standing room as a pack of young, well-dressed professionals drift between cliques. Behind me are two women built like twigs with perfectly coiffed straight hair. One dons blonde, while the other, a mahogany brown. I can only see one face. She smiles brightly. Her cheeks and eyes accentuated by too much makeup for the dim lighting.

A burly man dressed in a sweater and slacks hovers over them. His neat beard emphasizes his rosy red cheeks and blushing forehead rising to his fade with a textured top. He’s cute. I tell my friend. She smiles wanting to be a good wing woman, but the day’s exhaustion has taken its toll. Next to him is a lanky man bearing a remarkable resemblance to English actor Robert Pattinson. But he has a scruffy beard and wire-frame glasses. He holds a glass with two fingers of scotch in one hand and a store-bought water bottle in the other.

I had never seen a man hold the amber liquid and water and I say as much to him. He casually replies with slurred words, “I have to. I’ve already had a bottle of whisky today.”

We settled on this bar after two failed previous attempts to find something that captures the Irish spirit and will allow me to fulfill my final mission – kiss an Irish man.

It’s our last night in Ireland and it’s already been a full day. We rose the before the sun and took two buses to get to the city spire. We joined a coach tour to venture to Belfast, Giant’s Causeway, a castle on a cliff overlooking the North Atlantic Ocean, and landmarks from “Game of Thrones.” I met Robert, a delightful Mexican, when he sat next to me. He was the fifth wheel on his vacation with friends and from the town next to Tequila in Jalisco, Mexico. No joke.

But here we are now. We last ate roughly six hours ago and both of us were ready to call it a day, but how could we? We hadn’t yet had a single drink in an Irish bar. I hadn’t felt the lips of an Irish man on my own.  

A new bartender who seemingly doesn’t fit the vibe of the establishment starts his shift by convincing us to order another round. He’s easygoing, friendly, wears a t-shirt and a long beard.

We engage in small talk when he tells us this is bar is in a rough area. He suggests we venture to another place and names a few that are nearby.

Huh. We look at each other questioningly. This place is right off the main strip, half way down in a pedestrian-only corridor.

We each take a sip of our fresh pour when the burly man scoots into the nonexistent space between the brunette twig and me. With each laugh of their conversation, he inches backward. I will soon fall off my bar stool.

He doesn’t stop. Neither does my aggravation.

I tap him on the shoulder. He turns around. He stands tall, but cowers as I speak to him. His bloodshot eyes look for mine.

As polite as I can muster, I say “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to harsh your buzz or take away from your moment, but you keep inching backward and bumping me. Soon enough I will be off the bar stool and I’d appreciate you if you’d. Knock. It. Off.” The last few words are enunciated.

He repeats, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry” as I speak, like a child reacting to his mother scolding him. Though, I don’t know that he heard my words or meant his apology. I get the impression that he thinks his repetitive act of contrition will shut me up.

He turns back to his friends and I to mine. We sit for a few minutes longer, finish our drinks, and decide to leave.

Outside, I wander aimlessly moving in the direction of the first bus stop. I have no cares and am content. She, ever vigilant, moves like a ninja. She looks behind us and turns to the sides.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“Just checking that no one is following us.”

“Why? Why would that happen?”

After my conversation with the burly man, I went back to my business. He, on other hand, gossiped to his friends about it and my bestie eavesdropped. Suddenly offended that a woman called him out on his actions, he corralled another guy to “teach us a lesson” outside of the bar. As we finished our drinks, he said to his partner-in-crime, “They’re almost finished. Let’s go.”

They did not follow us, no incident occurred, and I’m still baffled.