OUR LOCAL

On Sunday, Larry burst into our local (pub) as if his pants were on fire and boomed, “Where you’ve been, you beautiful creature from hell?!” Everyone seemed to feel he was talking to them; even Tiger reached up to be swooped into Larry’s arms, but it turned out he had eyes only for Tanya. Tanya who, in her fifties, has but six teeth to her name.

As I watched their reunion unfold at Kiely’s, though, I was taken by how Tanya’s demeanor and body language changed. Suddenly, I glimpsed the fetching girl she must once have been as she giggled and shied away from and slapped at the veteran hands Larry offered. Quite a pair.

Just around the corner from where I live, Kiely’s, a famous rugby bar in Dublin that’s just down the road from the Leinster Team and the Bective Rangers Club for which my father played, boasts many a colorful character. Most of whom prefer the old-style Ciss Madden’s, a traditional pub which serves as Kiely’s sitting room.

On any given Sunday afternoon, Tiger and I head to Ciss’s for the papers, cappuccino, a Ribena and toastie for my son (black currant juice and a melted ham and cheese special with tomatoes and onions), or an Irish coffee for me on a particularly brutal winter’s day. (And winter lasts a long time in Ireland. Wet as Lake Michigan and bone-marrow chilly, the cold so permeates your entire being, your senses cloud over, frosted. It’s no wonder whiskey is the country’s preferred elixir; nothing else will melt you.)

Back to Ciss’s. It’s a classic neighborhood haunt and Sunday is no exception. Vera and Ian, a widow and son duo with a love of lattes, are usually stationed in the corner and eager to visit with me and Tiger, as we are with them. We talk cruises, house happenings, work, family and a smidgen of delicious Donnybrook gossip. (Long ago, Vera and her husband had a favorite table at Ciss’s. When he passed away, the pub gave the table to his wife as a keepsake.) A true Gentle Ben, Benny often comes in, fumbling for a bit chat. According to one source, Benny had a twin who got all the brains and “he got none of them.” But I find that Benny possesses a certain and solid knowingness. Last week, Tiger wasn’t with me. “Where’s Timmy?” he asked. “What do you mean?” queried Vera. “Oh, he means Tiger,” I replied. “Taidgh is the Irish for Timothy.”

“Tiger, Tiger, come here boy-o and give us a hug!” chimes Stephanie who often works the bar. With her sleek black hair and huge green eyes, she’s a fetching colleen and has become one of Tiger’s favorite babysitters. In fact, she’s now one of our favorite people in Dublin. Then there’s Jonathan, the pub manager, known for his warmth and jiving and over-the-counter freshness with the locals. He’s also known for his inimitable ways with danger, always narrowly escaping death himself while leading others to near-destruction. Last spring, in the Wicklow Mountains, our friend Scorch took a mad tumble off a bicycle when Jonathan braked unexpectedly to a full stop. Scorch hit a tree, flipped over a ditch landing upside down, and broke assorted pieces as Jonathan looked on innocently.

And on an early Friday evening, many of my neighbors and shopkeepers (the cobbler, the barber, the beggarman/thief) can be found toasting life as we know it in Ciss’s nooks and crannys. Adam also hangs out during happy hour. A Ryan O’Neal lookalike, he’s got a way with the ladins (Irish diminutive for lad, of course). “Howza (How are you?), you little beast? What’s your mummy done to you now?” he wants to know, dangling a ripe set of keys in Tiger’s face. My wee one leaps with particular joy.

I won’t go into it here right now, but fair warning: When a rugby match is on, whether it’s an All-Ireland game or a European match, Kiely’s and Ciss’s are what my friend Teresa calls “heaving.” Bursting at the seams with boys and girls, men and women, in a frenzied state of hullabaloo. They spill, just as their pints do, into the mean streets, assuring the entire neighborhood of ruckus and rawhide.

Yes, Ciss’s has been home to many a scene in the years I’ve lived in Donnybrook. This past year, Tiger has often been with me. But before he was with me, about 18 months ago, I was talking excitedly to Jonathan about my impending trip to Kazakhstan to adopt a son. The father of two young boys, he nodded and smiled, adding, “Ah sure now, if he’s any trouble, just bring him ‘round here and we’ll rare him.”

Hmmm. Tiger being reared in our local? That he is, in a way. The locals have so welcomed him to the neighborhood, embracing him with gusto and good cheer, fuss and fondness, casting Tiger under their spell once and for all. My ladin who came from so very far away to become family.

Kenya, Here We Come...or Irish Logic is an Oxymoron

Here's the rub: In seven weeks, my adopted two-year-old son Taidgh, nicknamed Tiger, and I will be moving to Kenya from Dublin, Ireland. This blog, which I plan to update weekly, is really a toddler's tale of all the adventures/misadventures which ensue for us and those, for better or for worse, who surround us. (As for the subtitle, From Kazakhstan to Kenya, that is also my son's domain: He was born in Kazakhstan to Russian parents, holds both Kazakh and U.S. citizenships, currently resides with me in Ireland, and has already traveled around Europe, America and East Africa.)

Back to the matter at hand. Such a trip! Crazy, you say? Crackers? Nuts? Leave the first-world amenities for third-world chaos? That's what my good pal Mark in Mt. Kisco, NY, thinks. And, I admit, he's one smart cookie.

Here's a recent email exchange:

Mark: Buying a fuel-efficient car makes sense. Locking your doors at night makes sense. Taking vitamins makes sense. Moving to Africa? Doooo tellll...

Susan: How's this: Limited income; great way of life; full-time nanny $150/month; fab friends of 20 years; gorgeous country; wildlife; dashing safari guides; terrific weather (sun, sun, sun vs. rain, rain, rain -- and some of it horizontal!); fluent, Swahili-speaking son; more than fun for visitors; adventurous for me; time and means to write a book and more; perfect cottage on secure grounds in which to live; learning to drive Land rover stick shift on heinous roads; African culture; being a minority (good lesson for anyone); beautiful people in general...not to mention, time to get outta here.

M: Sign me up.

A week later in a phone conversation, Mark reneges. "There's famine and civil unrest in Kenya right now!"

"Well, I guess that's why it's so affordable," I insist.

"Affordable! That's quite a rationale. I don't get it."

I then explain patiently to my pal that Irish logic just doesn't exist (my father was from north Tipperary, so Ireland is half my homeland). One of my favorite gems from a man of the sod is, "Just because it isn't true, doesn't mean it didn't happen." Having lived here for six years, that sums up the nation's thinking for me.

"Besides," I confide in Mark, "Taidgh will have a magical childhood there. And so will I."

He snorts, somewhat appreciatively.

As for my darling son, Tiger's new favorite word these days is Hello. I believe that he extends that welcome every single day to the world at large, wide and wonderful and willing as it is.

Watch out. Here we come.