The Irish Embassy

I miss my pal Brenda. You know Brenda, Brenda Rock of the Ananda Centre in Slane. It’s about 45 or so miles north of Dublin.

Way back, a zillion years ago, when I was the production manager of a mid sized, short run pressroom, I hired Brenda to be a plate maker. Did she have experience? Hell no BUT making plates isn’t/wasn’t exactly brain surgery and we could train her. I wanted her on board because:

a) I needed more estrogen on my print team
b) She was obviously smart as all hell, had an open mind and was tremendous fun
c) I liked her accent

Yup. Brenda could’ve told me that the sky was falling, there was a giant, killer tsunami coming right at us and a regiment of hungry zombies were pouring out of the Pru with one thing on their mind -- ink stained BRAINZZZZ and I’d have been all mellow and focused about it.

‘Oh yeah,’ I would have responded, ‘put up an umbrella or two and maybe we should all keep our bike helmets on until the zombies move on, eh?’

That mellifluous accent, serene demeanor, the dry, hilarious humor -- she could've chilled out a horde of war mongering, hate spewing, shock jocks.

Brenda lived with a few other Irish folk (most from Dublin but one, I think, from Athlone) in a big apartment down the road from me in Allston. The joint, to my mind anyway, was a 24/7 party place. Not raucous -- well, not always.

Hers was the kind of place where I could just pop in after work without calling. After a hard, ugly day, I’d often get off the B train a few stops early, plop on their sofa -- no words required. Someone would hand me a pint of the black stuff and pass the spliff.

They were angels of mercy. Oh yes they were!

I recall the first big craic there. Now, I’ve never been comfy in large party situations. No REALLY! Chat, blither blather, soirée jibber jabber has never been one of my talents. I’d always, totes freeze up -- not know what to say or how to be -- could NOT just relax and enjoy.

At Brenda’s though, all was chill and charming -- no rough edges just loads of warm, welcoming laughs. All tense and nervous, I walked into the packed apartment, knowing only one person apart from our fab hosts. Immediately, as if by magic, I was pulled into the living room and onto the couch. There I met grim faced yet convivial dude.

I asked him where he was from.
‘Ireland’ he replied
‘'Yeah, no shit dude -- I’m the only American in this house. WHERE in Ireland?’
‘Oh right -- Limerick. Stab City.'

Whoa, I was 70,000 kinds of captivated now. Danger in the fairy, magic emerald island? Naive? Who me?!

Colin then pointed to various clots, telling me where they were from. Dublin -- the waifs. Galway -- the hippies. And then there was the group from Donegal.

‘They’re from Ireland???’ I says, all stunned. ‘I can’t understand a word they’re saying. What language are they speaking?’ Even though I had nearly 20/20 hearing then, I hadn't a clue.

‘English. No one understands them.’

Huh. Live and learn, eh?

All too soon, Brenda and her mates picked up and moved on. They bought an ancient boat of a car and drove cross country to San Francisco. It was a romantic dream of theirs -- free wheeling across the vast, alien American landscape.

Christ, I miss that Irish Embassy on Linden Street.