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what we’re on about. She hasn’t been to a proper Irish pub yet. The airport bar doesn’t count.
    “Look, I’m sure ye know best, Darlin,” says my dad, “but ye wouldn’t catch me drinkin’ in one of those ‘themed’ bars. How can ye even have a conversation with all the music and the televisions blaring and the general din?”
    “People don’t want to talk, Dad, they want to get drunk.” I slump back in my seat and almost fall backward off the stool. Why does my family always have to make me feel like a child? It doesn’t matter what I do; it’s never good enough.
    “Don’t mind us, Pet,” pipes up my Aunty Ger, “we’re just old fogeys who enjoy a bit of atmosphere in a pub. I’m sure yer themed bar is lovely.”
    “The Pot O’Gold has atmosphere! Doesn’t it, Ridlee?” My plea stinks of desperation, I can smell it. But I can always rely on Rid.
    “You betcha! It’s bustin’ with atmosphere, especially on Rave Night. Although the cokeheads can get out of hand sometimes.”
    My uncle cuts in, “Lookit, if Erin wants to have a theme bar instead of a real pub, that’s her business!”
    “Thank you, Uncle Miley. I think...”
    “The real question is how is she going to deal with this Flanagan fella?”
    Everyone around the table nods gravely. He waits for a moment before going on. “Now, I’m thinkin’ that the best way to deal with him is with a couple o’ baseball bats and some heavies. Or a shooter. I know a guy.”
    “No!” I am almost on my feet. “No violence!”
    TOLD YOU , Ridlee is mouthing to me from the other side of the table. She pulls her hand out from under the table, thumb cocked and index and middle finger pointed. She’s seen one or two too many episodes of Love/Hate and is convinced that this is the way problems get sorted in modern Ireland. I should never have turned her on to the show; I’ve created a monster.
    “We’re gonna work this out the right way,” I say, facing my friend.
    Four faces turn from me to Ridlee. Sheepishly, she returns her imaginary gun to its holster. “That’s right,” she agrees, nodding. “Legally.” She raises her almost full pint glass.
    “Legally!” we chorus, though some more enthusiastically than others, and raise our almost empty pint glasses.
    “ Slainte !” says my dad, tipping his glass to clink.
    “ Slainte , to your health,” says Mum.
    The rest of us do the same and drain our glasses.
    “ Slainte! ” Ridlee takes a sip of her Guinness and winces ever so slightly.
    “You don’t have to drink that,” I tell her.
    “What? No, I love it! Yum!”
    “Give over!” My uncle takes her glass and downs the pint in one. “Amateur,” he mutters with a smile, and we all follow him out of the pub and into a typical September Dublin morning.
    We hurry to the car to avoid the rain that’s beginning to fall and head home. Ridlee and I have one night here before we head down to County Clare. A fun night in the Big Smoke.

CHAPTER FOUR
    RIDLEE

    ERIN’S ALL EXCITED ABOUT SHOWING me her hometown, but I’m way more interested in seeing the sites right here in her family’s house. My two-hour nap has completely recharged my batteries and I’m ready to soak up the Irish magic. I’ve only seen bits of the city as it went past the car windows, but it was enough to realize that the real sparkly stuff isn’t out there; it’s inside the houses, with the people. And Erin’s people are insane. I mean that in the nicest way. I could totally hang out with them for longer than one night we’ve planned and probably never get bored, not even for a second.
    If it’s not the accent getting to me, it’s the humor. I’ve never heard so many off the wall expressions. Her aunt called her uncle a harse’s ass and a fierce hoor loud enough that I heard it in my sleep and incorporated it into my dream. I don’t even know what a fierce hoor is, but in my half-sleep/half-awake state, it was an angry prostitute with wild hair and bared