I have to admit, 2006 got off to a rough start. Or rather, it began with a wonderful party, and I welcomed the new year a little too warmly.
So I woke up on New Year’s Day with a hangover. The kind where the tears come without asking and self-pity settles in like weather.
I was in Tramore, a small town in southeast Ireland. The air smelled of turf smoke, earthy and sweet, an ancient aroma drifting over the rooftops. I was determined to find a decent caffè latte.
I didn’t. The man at the pub looked at me and asked, “Do you mean coffee with milk?”
No, that was not what I meant. But it was clear I wasn’t in a big city.
So I walked grumpily up and down the beach, three or four times, with a mild, comforting breeze and the grey sea for company. Then I gave in. Back at the pub, I ordered coffee with milk, two Cokes and some food.
The room held me and four men, all past sixty, each in his own corner. We glanced at each other now and then, the way strangers do on a quiet morning. I could almost hear them wondering who the blond woman on her own was. A radio show debated the future of the IRA while I ate mashed potatoes, carrots and gravy. A beer was the last thing I wanted. I was quietly grateful that the smoke had left Irish pubs for good.
Back on the beach, I felt a little more like myself. The food and coffee had done their work, and the breeze cleared my head. I dug my camera out of my bag and caught this.
Then I went back to the house, met up with my friends and later caught the bus back to Dublin.
Here’s to 2006, and to proper lattes.