The Bloody Doors Off

Last night’s post suggested that my drinking problem started with the Incident in Hamilton^TM.

No, my father and his parents were alcoholics. I never met my grandmother; she died before I was born.

So the genes had definitely been passed down.

And beer tasted good.

Whisky burned just fine.

I never could get into wine.

Oh god, never ask me to bring wine to your dinner.

I’ll have an anxiety attack between the Chilean and Australian sections.

I have no idea the difference between a chiraz, pinot noir, yada yada.

Was never interested in taking a winery tour.

(The Guinness factory tour in Dublin was amazing. And that redhead with the Irish lilt who guided our tour.)

Yeah.

I was talking about wine.

My sistah-from-another-mistah Trish could tell me.

She knows her wine.

Nah. I wanna talk about Dublin.

Fucking beautiful city. The cobblestone roads in the main part of town. The people.

I nearly did improv in Dublin.

My friend John, who’d moved there a few years earlier, said he could get us stage time at an improv club.

Three days earlier. I was in the airport. Waiting.

And waiting.

And waiting.

Our plane had been delayed several times and then there was a mechanical issue to address.

Fact of flying. Sometimes you get delayed.

But when you’re a smoker. Already five hours without a cigarette. Because you’ve already passed through all the checkpoints, and expected to board the flight within the hour.

Facing a 12 hour flight.

The funny thing.

The entire flight I was fine.

Not a single craving.

Didn’t need to sublimate.

The moment I retrieved my backpack?

Ah, the sweet taste of tobacco.

Found the hostel easily enough. A bit of a climb on the main road.

Thankfully my kit fit the locker provided.

Three days I explored different parts of the city, soaking in the culture.

I was to hop a train to London on Friday. Three days there, and then a week in Amsterdam.

John and I took in stand-up comedy the third night. That’s when he suggested doing the improv set.

Yes and.

And it hit me. A feeling of dread.

I told John I had to leave and we’d talk in the morning.

Got back to my room. Tacked to the door was a note:

Paul Koster, please call home.

I tried the office first.

Suzi wasn’t there.

She wasn’t at the apartment we shared.

Finally reached her at her parents’ home.

Her father was dying. He’d been sick with cancer, and taken a turn for the worse. They didn’t think he’d make it past the weekend.

Before she could ask me to come home, I’d told her I was cancelling the rest of my trip.

I was booked on Aer Lingus to Heathrow that morning on their first flight of 11 am. I had to make my way through the international terminal — a thing of beauty, a shame I couldn’t take the time to shop — to catch my connection with British Airways. My seat was in the back row.

I made it home.

I made it in time.

I promised I’d go back someday.

Complete the original trip.

Maybe even try to join a local improv troupe, bicycle through Amsterdam.

This is another thing that I must let go of.

I am not a young man. I couldn’t spend two weeks in hostels, voraciously guarding my CPAP.

And that was the old me.

It might not’ve sounded like it, but I did find enjoyment at the cottage. The problem, okay problems, were: it was too fucking hot and it took me three days to just bloody relax.

We’re planning to take a couple of days in December. It’ll be less of a culture shock this time, and I do love a healthy hearth.

I don’t need Amsterdam. If, at some time in the future, Marlo suggests a trip abroad, I’d be happy to talk about it.

Why would I want to get away, when everything I want is here?