Love: The Irish Way

By Tania LaCaria

A robust Irishman in suspenders strummed his guitar and began to sing. When he opened his mouth, I could not believe my ears. His voice went through my body like a shot of whisky – shocking at first, but in its wake leaving a comforting trail of warmth.  After the first verse, he reached over his guitar to take a generous gulp from a pint of Guinness. He strummed a melodic series of notes, cued the man directly across him to join in and continued:

“…Eighteen forty seven,
Was the year it all began.

Deadly pains of hunger,
Drove a million from the land.

They journeyed not for glory,
Their motive wasn't greed.

A voyage of survival,
Across the stormy sea…”

He blinked hard and took a deep breath, clearly affected by the words that were passing through his lips. He swallowed purposefully and without missing a beat, he continued:

“…To the City of Chicago,
As the evening shadows fall.
There are people dreaming,
Of the hills of Donegal.”

The other musicians lowered their heads in a modest display of respect and continued to play softly.  I wanted to avert my eyes in order to offer this grown man a private moment in such a public space, but I could not look away.

His emotional response had solicited something inside of me, and suddenly, I felt as though his story was my own. I felt as though it were my own relatives who fled from the green hills of Ireland to the city of Chicago during the famine of 1845-1850.  I felt as if it were me that was missing my family.

I was sitting on a wood chair with a worn-in seat in one of the most charming Irish pubs in Dublin. Moments earlier, I had ventured up to the second level of the cozy pub to find an even cozier (somewhat musty) space. I had arrived just in time to experience a live Irish session performance. I was expecting to hear some off-tune locals who fancy themselves singers turn out their best attempts at Bob Dillon covers. I ordered a pint of Guinness with black current and sat down. Instead of bad covers, a man and his new-found musician friends churned out one traditional Irish ballad after another in the voices of Irish angels.

I was shocked.

I was mesmerized by the music. I knew that these songs had been passed on for generations (the singer told me so) but hearing them performed by a group of men who sounded like professional tenors (yet wanted no pay) made me feel like I was in on a big secret. I felt as though the singer was directing his stories to me, as if to stress the importance of sharing.

Each song told an eloquent tale of love.  The love a man has for a woman, the love for a woman has for her son, the pride one has for his country…it didn’t matter. Love was all anyone cared to sing about.

I learned a lot about Ireland’s history that night, but I also learned about the warm hospitality, pride and love the country’s people share.

I enjoyed my pint of Guinness (and possibly another two) and spent the entire time tapping my foot along to rhythmic Irish tunes. To them, it was just another good night at the pub, but for me, it was a genuine Irish experience that I will never forget.

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