*Somehow* we ended up with Boston Symphony tickets on St. Patrick’s Day.
“This is just about the least Irish thing we could be doing,” I said to Mr. P as we mingled in Symphony Hall with our pre-show glasses of wine (beer is not served). “It’s about as Irish as growing bananas.”
We were surrounded by the usual seething crowd of moneyed gray-hairs as they relentlessly hobnobbed in the minutes before the start of the concert. “We’re spending St. Patrick’s Day with people who probably made their fortunes while oppressing Irish. We’re listening to Mozart and Brahms. And I’ve only seen one green tie out of all the 100s of ties here! And look at that guy! He’s wearing an orange tie! In Boston, that’s a political statement!” I said, pointing with my eyes at a particularly dour gent wearing a gray suit with an orange necktie. “I’m going to punch him.”
“Pinch him?” asked Mr. P, who had just this morning learned that non-adherents to the St. Patrick’s day dress code get pinched.
“No, punch! With my big fat Irish fist!” That’s an exaggeration. My fist is neither fat nor Irish. In fact, as far as I can tell from my known lineage, I’m more Scottish and German than Irish. But being trapped at the symphony with my fellow WASPs really riled whatever inner Irishness I do have. I am, after all, Green at heart.
