365 Memories

The pub was McGroarty's on the Diamond; the diamond (in lieu of a square) refers to the town center in Donegal , in northwest Ireland. The "hub" of the pub—at least on April 11, 1998, which was Holy Saturday in the Western church—was a young Irishman named Greg, whom I'd met at a crowded lunch spot that same afternoon. By the end of lunch, he'd invited me out for a holiday pint with friends and family. McGroarty's was a thick sea of people, voices, pint glasses, and cigarette smoke when I arrived at 10:00 p.m. Greg rescued me from looking every bit the lost soul, the interloper—he pulled me into his circle of intimates. Turns out, that meant the whole town. I seemed to have walked into the middle of an impromptu reunion. People who hadn't seen each other in years were calling out, hugging, kissing cheeks. Everyone knew Greg and welcomed him home (he'd made the trip up from Dublin with a brother and sister, the three of them equalling half the clan of...

I have never understood why, in English, we call today's religious event "Good Friday." It is most counterintuitive . Yes, we know how the Christian story ultimately ends; we know that Easter Sunday is around the corner, and with it new life. But today, Friday, is somber in tone. It commemorates what exactly? Humiliation, pain, death. What's so good about that, other than the fact that it had to happen in order for the rest to follow? In addition to this explanation of why the crucifixion of Christ might be called "good" (his sacrifice being for the greater good of humanity), there are other theories that are less theological or philosophical and more linguistic. I have come across references to the word "good" having archaic meanings of "holy" (giving us Holy Friday, as the day is in fact called in other languages) and also "God," such as in the word "good-bye," which is a way of saying "God be with you" upo...

I went back to Ireland in April 1998. Eleven years ago now being my most recent trip to the Emerald Isle. It had been ten years between the time of this last visit and my first one in March of 1988. This time, in '98, traveling alone again meant having time to reflect on differences, and over a decade there were many in the physical, political, and psychological landscapes around me. The eyes of the world were on Ireland at this time, as well: the Easter Accord was being negotiated, with Bertie Ahern , Tony Blair, and U.S. Senator George Mitchell called to Belfast to broker a deal between the Ulster Unionists and the Nationalist side. The calendar that year mirrored the days of the current 2009 Holy Week exactly: as it is today, Maundy Thursday was on April 9 th in 1998. On that day marking communion and humility in the Christian faith, political ideology took center stage in the news—it was the official deadline day for the settlement talks. I made my way up the northwest coast ...

Paris, 1991. I was twenty-one years old that spring, living in the City of Lights, working a "stage" (internship) at a software-publishing association, and learning what is arguably the most romantic language in the world. I had left a serious boyfriend back in New York State, in the Hudson Valley, and I was at least technically faithful to him (flirtations don't count for anything in Paris). I don't remember when it was exactly, but for nearly a full week he took a vacation from his job (he was nine years older than I and owned his own business) and came to visit. I had found us a modest, clean hotel: the Hôtel du Danube in Saint Germain. It is now a refined three-star accommodation that I wouldn't recognize except for the warm, wood paneled part of the facade where the hotel's name is spelled out in raised gold letters. At the time, though, we could've stayed almost anywhere minimally decent, and I would have been happy. Because it was a romantic visi...

This afternoon, after school, my husband and I took our kindergartener to New World Aquarium on East 38 th Street so that he could pick out his first-ever pet: a three-dollar betta fish. The fish he selected (and he didn't take much time deliberating; he bonded immediately) is a lovely one. It's a red veil-tail betta , with iridescent purple and blue patches. It is a relatively lively fish, unlike some others in the store that looked like they were sulking at the bottom of their tiny display jars. My son picked him out, the aquarium employee bagged him, and we got him home where we started the acclimation process of easing it into new, treated tap water. His name is Mr. Macintosh. This milestone has me thinking back to my own childhood pets—quite a menagerie over the years, but none of the animals staying with us as long as they should have. How should I say this? New homes were usually found for them by my mother. She was never an "animal person," at least not in ...

(a farce in three acts, with epilogue) It's a rainy Monday in New York, and my head's in a foggy, transitional space. Having flown back from Toronto on Friday and having passed the weekend in, well, weekend activities, today's the first day of the back-to-work routine. Maybe, then, what with the rain and travel and a dose of escapism on my mind (which always comes when I'm processing monthly bills), it makes sense that the memory arising now is a legendary—and very watery—family story from our New York/Pan Am days. Go back in time to the mid-1980s. I can't get a better fix on the year than to say it was probably in the 1984-85 range. There's been some dispute as to whether, at the time of this story, we were living in a New York apartment (a company owned one-bedroom at Museum Towers on West 53rd Street) or whether our farcical round-trip airport excursion was made from a NYC hotel (which I think would have been the InterContinental ). In any event, my parents a...

Can you ever really talk candidly about a difference in aesthetic taste, if the difference is between you and your spouse? More precisely, if the difference lies between you, your spouse, and an "object d'art " that you would rather see at the bottom of the ocean than anywhere in your living space? How do you debate taste without sounding like a snob or a dictator, a person with no tolerance for difference at all? Can you really ever convince someone that the item they liked enough to purchase with their own hard-earned money is totally hideous and inappropriate? It's just your opinion, after all. It's your taste against theirs, so who's to say who's "right" (even if you are the one with exposure to fine art, art history, and so forth)? I will admit up front that yes, of course, we should all be able to like what we like without being criticized for our preferences. To each his (or her) own; or, as the French say, " Chaqu'un son gout....