I am not much for New Year’s Eve. I am nervous around those who can’t hold their liquor. I don’t like crowds. The evening, for me, is more conducive to reflection, and perhaps even grief, than one of mindless revelry. It’s my pessimistic (I prefer to call it “realistic”) outlook.

However, there is one New Year’s Eve party I will always remember. It was in Dublin, the New Year’s Eve of the millennium. And yes, I know that 1999 into 2000 was not REALLY the millennium, but to the entire WORLD it was, so what the hell, I participated. It was at the height of the Celtic Tiger, pre-economic crash. My friend and I had met up with two guys earlier in the day, and they invited us to a closed party at a pub, an Irish-only no-tourists event. A small group. Maybe 60 people. The chaos was controlled, in other words. One of my favorite nights. It ended badly, when a guy from the party – NOT the oft-mentioned Tom below, more’s the pity – but, tragically, we got separated in the melee following the events told below and never found each other again – anyway, some OTHER guy, who had clearly liked me from afar in the bar, was maybe jealous watching Tom and I hit it off like gangbusters, followed me through the streets back to my B&B (unbeknownst to me, until he appeared at the last minute) and he attacked me on the steps of the B&B, shoving his tongue down my throat as I frantically rang the doorbell, spitting him off my mouth and getting his octopus hands off me. I was shouting “NO. NO. NO.” Clearly because I “consented” to Tom kissing me, and this dude probably saw it, he thought I was Open for Business for all. Finally, the proprietor opened the door and I raced inside. It was all in a New Year’s Eve’s work! But up until then, the night was MAGIC, and the magic is all I really remember.

The Midnight Bells of Dublin

“When the clock strikes midnight, we have to go outside and hear the bells of Dublin!”

This is shouted at me in the chaos of Sean O’Casey’s, a smoke-filled pub off O’Connell Street, on the eve of the millennium.

By this point, I have danced a jig with a jolly toothless 70-year-old man. I have belted “Sweet Caroline” at the top of my lungs with the rowdy throng (reliving my experiences at Fenway Park). I have flirted single-mindedly with a big meaty bloke named Tom for the entire night. We laugh and drink and share stories. He tells me the story of Cúchulainn (I am not making this up), touching my arm at one point, and saying with blatant lascivious intent: “Cúchulainn was a big ladies’ man, if ya’ know what I’m sayin’, Sheila.” I do know what he is saying, and it is fantastic.

The snotty bartender insults me out of nowhere – I didn’t do anything wrong – and his tone is so hateful it’s a gut-punch. I’m here with Tom. I’m not Irish but I was invited. Or I’m here with my friend and I have no idea where she has gone. Maybe off with Ciarán, but I can’t be sure. The place is packed. I tell Tom about the bartender’s insult and he offers to beat him up for me, in the same friendly tone he used when offering to buy me another drink. “Want me to take care of ‘im for ya?” Nah. Fuck him.

Tom and I talk about Ireland’s economic rejuvenation and the ensuing problems such rejuvenation brings. For the first time, people are not leaving Ireland, but flocking TO Ireland. There’s lots of resentment about this, but Tom thinks it’s healthy for the country. He says to me, familiar after hours of talk, “Well, for so long it’s only been about us. And our problems. ‘Us alone’ and all that.”

I’m tipsy with flirting and drink. I say, knowing where this will go, because I am in sync with him: “Well, island cultures are always self-obsessed.” It is deliberately obnoxious, especially because I say it in a comforting “Don’t worry, it’s normal” tone, but I can already tell he will enjoy the fight that will follow, as will I.

Tom makes a big display of pretending to be angry by my generalization, as I knew he would. “Self-obsessed?” he shouts, playing his role to perfection. “What do ya’ mean by that?” he demands … as he lights a cigarette using a lighter covered in Irish coats of arms. It’s a tourist’s lighter. But he owns one.

Silently, I point at the lighter. He stares at his self-obsessed lighter for a blank second, and then starts laughing so hard tears fall down his face. It was such a perfect bust. I could not have scripted it better. Swept away by the moment, he grabs me and kisses me passionately. We are madly in love. We met 3 hours ago.

I have not paid for one drink.

When the countdown to 2000 is complete, ten men hug me at once. One hug is so feisty a Guinness splashes into my face. Tom kisses me again, tasting the beer on my mouth. Guinness is good for you, after all.

Tom pulls back and says, amidst the clamor, “We have to go outside to hear the church bells ring.” Oh. Okay. That’s what we’re doing! I’m in! The entire bar hustles out into the dark side street. I stand on the sidewalk, shivering, a satellite view in my head of people all over the world celebrating in different timezones, different landscapes. We’ve been watching them on television the whole night. Dancers on the beach in Papua, New Guinea. The British flipping out around the Millennium Dome. New Yorkers clustered in Times Square losing their collective minds. Fireworks over Sydney Harbor.

In Ireland, we huddle in the alley, freezing our asses off, waiting for church bells to ring.

The loud bells start to clang. They cut through the wintry air, piercing, rich with associations and history.

Staggered up and down the cobblestones, like black paper cut-outs, are numerous tall Irish men, standing separately from one another, all wearing long winter coats. They are all on their cell-phones. They all begin dialing before the twelve chimes have struck. I then hear each one saying, in counterpoint with each other, in counterpoint with the bells, “Mum! Happy new year, Mum! Is Dad there? Put him on! Happy new year, Da!”

Calling their Mums and Dads at the dawn of the new millennium, each and every one of them.