Read Notes from a Spinning Planet—Ireland for Free Online Page B

meantime.”
    So it’s all settled. Ryan decides to go to the store with her, but I trudge up the three flights of stairs and collapse on my bed. It seems like I’ve barely fallen asleep before my aunt is nudging me and saying it’s time to go.
    I feel like I’m in an Irish fog or suffering jet lag, but my head starts to clear as we walk the few blocks to O’Hara’s. And once we’re inside and seated, the sound of lively music and the smell of food wake me up even more.
    “What time is it back home?” I ask as we peruse the menu.
    “You’re not supposed to think about that,” says Ryan.
    “That’s right.” Sid nods. “It won’t mess with your head as much if you just go with the flow and forget what time it is back home.”
    “But what if I want to call my mom? I mean, I don’t want to wake her up in the middle of the night.” I point to the clock above the big rock fireplace. “So, do I go forward or backward?”
    “They’re eight hours
behind
Ireland,” my aunt says as she sets her menu aside. “It’s still morning there.”
    I try to process this and finally realize that my aunt and Ryan are probably right. I should forget about the time difference. And I really hadn’t planned to call my mom anyway. “No news is good news,” my no-nonsense dad had pointed out before I left. “If you call, it should be because something is wrong.”
    Once again our food is really good. I can’t wait to tell Katie that she was so wrong about this. Of course, she never made it over to Ireland either. And like my aunt says, Ireland is
not
England. Although it does feel a little strange to be eating in a bar, or rather a
pub
. There are families with children here, though, and I realize it’s really no big deal. While we’re eating, the music really kicks in, and I discover that I like Irish music. It’s lively, and the drums, which look like giant tambourines, sound very cool.
    “I think I might have to get one of those drums,” says Ryan while the band takes a break.
    “Are you a musician?” I ask.
    “I play guitar and bass,” he says.
    “Really?” For some reason this surprises me. “I play guitar too.”
    My aunt winks at me. “See, I told you that you guys have some things in common.”
    Then the waiter comes back to our table to see if we want anything else, and to my surprise, both my aunt and Ryan order a Guinness.
    “And for the young lady?” The waiter looks at me.
    “Nothing, thank you,” I say crisply, not even trying to conceal my irritation.
    My aunt jokes that she has to have at least one Irish beer while in Ireland. “When in Rome…,” she says lightly and, I’m sure, for my benefit.
    Even so, I find this whole thing unsettling. I’m not even sure why exactly. It’s not like she’s going to be driving or anything, not that one beer would impair her anyway. But, just the same, it bugs me. And it really bugs me that Ryan, who would be underage back home, can drink as much beer as he wants here, and it’s totally legal.
    When the band comes back to play, I find that I don’t enjoy it nearly as much as before. It’s like I’m mad or hurt or something, and even though I tell myself I’m being really silly about this whole beer thing, it’s like I can’t get over it. Not only that, but I feel like odd girl out. Not just because of the beer either. It’s like both of them have these Irish connections—and secrets. And I’m just along for the ride. Extra baggage. But why?
    I sit here watching them as they sip their stouts and chat as if it’s no big deal. Part of me wants to just chill and accept this behavior, but the truth is, I think I’m judging them. Like I somehow think I’m better than they are because I’m
not
drinking. And yet I know that Christians aren’t supposed to judge others.
    Of course, this thought makes me face up to the fact that I haven’t really been living much like a Christian myself lately. Being in college and helping on the farm, combined