Ah, St. Patrick's Day. Not being of Irish descent - nor a big beer drinker - it's never been a particularly significant day for me. I went to elementary school with plenty of Irish kids, and was always a little jealous of their "Kiss Me I'm Irish!" buttons and head-to-toe green garb. After all, we didn't have a holiday that made everyone pay attention to me for being Greek, or Italian, or Slovak.
Still, I've had some quality times on St. Patrick's Day. Mostly unrelated to the fact that they happened to occur on St. Patrick's Day. Sophomore year of college, March 17th fell during spring break. I was with friends in Panama City Beach, Florida. It sounds like a recipe for debauchery, but I just remember a day of sun and relaxation on the beach. (I'm fairly certain Club La Vela was a different night.)
Last year, I was in Sydney. Paul and I spent all day in the Blue Mountains. We saw aboriginal rock carvings and enormous spiders, tramped through the bush, and rode the world's steepest inclined railway. That evening we dined with a fellow traveler (and Knuffle Bunny), ferried back across the harbour to North Sydney with the lights of the Opera House shining in the distance, and walked to a neighborhood convenience store for green snacks and Guinness. That was a good day. And I consider it a personal challenge to top it sometime in the future. I have faith in the luck of the Irish.
1 comment:
That *was* a good day. (Sorry but I'm just catching up on reading various blogs, when I really should either be napping or packing.)
Post a Comment