An Tua Nua is a small Irish Pub that sits diagonally across Beacon Street from my apartment building. Don’t ask me how to pronounce the name properly, I feel like an idiot when the words escape my lips anyhow, and I’ve heard it said multiple ways. “This is America, I speak American.” Painted red on its outward face, it is nestled cozily between a shop that sells vacuum cleaners and a flouriest, and some taller apartment buildings coated in white and black. The place is legitimately Irish; if the Gaeilge name isn’t obvious enough, two orange, white, and green flags are displayed prominently all seasons of the year on either corner of the edifice like perked up dog ears. There is no mistaking what country this bar supports. It bears a slight resemblance to the souped-up SS Impalas I used to see driving around the Naval Base in Norfolk Virginia, with 22” rims that no doubt did a grave disservice to the brake pads and University of Georgia flags mounted in both the passenger and driver’s side windows. My boy Perry used to drive real slow with the seat laid back a bit too far, it was like traveling on a reclining sofa, comfortable but quite dangerous.
July:
I first entered this establishment when I arrived in Boston almost nine months ago and found myself with little to do one summer evening. At the time my over-sized bedroom had no air conditioning and I hadn’t yet placed my big fans in the windows. With the humidity at 90%, even sprawling out naked on the floor was a miserable experience. I thought I would love the place because there were flat screen TVs playing sports, Sam Adams Brick Red Ale only served in the bean on tap, and tied knots in frames adorning the walls. I’m a sailor, I love knots, rope, tying stuff underwater (who doesn’t?), and dive bars that pour Jameson in double shots every time. Not to mention that the night I went in there, an amazing looking blond was working behind the bar who had played college basketball . . . actually held an intelligent conversation with me too, go figure. What was this splendid shrine to everything I hold dear?
It might have been pre-season football I was watching, and the more I sipped on my buttery whiskey, the louder my commentary on the proceeding competition became. It was a Tuesday night and there were maybe ten people in the place. I became increasingly animated and the bartender appeared to have less and less to do, so once she let out a few cute giggles in response to my personal blend of profanity and difficult to pronounce words (ex: “Pontificating piece of shit”), I struck up a conversation. It didn’t take me long to forget her name, my memory is the first thing to fail me once inebriated, and she was stone sober and ready to go home once she was cut due to low client volume, so she wasn’t particularly forgiving of drunken inability to remember specifics. We were saying goodbye, and I stored her phone number under “E,” which must have thoroughly offended.
I called her “Madam” for a couple of reasons. I personally like the word and feel chivalry is not dead as long as there is but one to practice it, I become quite agreeable and polite when imbibing alcohol, and of course the obvious rationale she picked up on, which was that her name escaped me. Better than saying it incorrectly, right? Alas, that one got away. Then I received objective feedback:
“Ay, tha was harsh.”
“I gave it a solid effort I thought.”
“I don’t deny ya tha, better luck next time.”
Emmet was a young red-headed Irishman, visiting the states on business, and in true foreigner fashion he was staying within his comfort zone. He had seen the flags like beacons in the night, heard the distant ding of the bell on the rocking buoy, and been guided to this well stocked oasis. Some statement I made about hits in football compelled him to show me video clips on his phone of a game I cannot to this day remember the name of (see a pattern emerging?) where guys are simply hitting each other across the face with sticks, it was hilarious. Perhaps that sounds heartless, but my compassion is reserved for those not volunteering for such epic abuse. For some reason I was determined to get this guy laid while he was in town. I’d been here myself for less than a month and only had a few similarly ill-gotten phone numbers of local women, but by my hazy logic that only made it a more exciting venture. A man needs a sense of purpose.
The walk from Beacon Street to Lansdowne has since become a routine event. I now know almost every crack in the asphalt, the spots available for climbing in the chain link fence that don’t have barbed wire at the top, the way I have to position myself to maneuver through the bent-up gate when it’s locked shut (I can only surmise that a car hit that thing very hard, because I don’t know how else metal twists like that), and every recession to avoid when the rain is cascading over this fair city. I’ve soaked some serious sneakers figuring out that little tidbit of information.
We went into Lansdowne Pub on a Tuesday night, and as could be expected, the place wasn’t exactly booming. The Irishman and I were on a mission, however, and despite my inability to remember particulars like names and conversational content (you know, minor details) I was actually fairly productive. The ol’ bait’n’switch worked well a couple times, and my contact list felt a bit heavier. The last thing I remember was shaking his hand as he was about to leave with some decently attractive older lady I’d introduced him to; I think her name was Cathy, but I’m undoubtedly wrong. We’d had a good conversation, but I didn’t have an Irish accent. As I made my less than graceful way back up the hill towards home, it occurred to me that Americans are despised, boisterous, and nationalistic, so I don’t ever get to be the foreigner with the cool accent. Bummer, but cheers Kid.
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