Luck of the Irish

I'm going to skip the part where I apologise for, once again, letting an entire month go by without posting anything about my travels. 

Instead, I'm going to move right along to St Patrick's Day.

It seems one thing Banff knows how to do (other than be blisteringly cold) is celebrate holidays which have nothing much to do with the town or Canada itself. Much like Australia Day, St Patrick's Day is celebrated with all the green gusto Ireland has to offer, thanks to its community of Irish ex-pats. In fact, it's incredible the amount of people of sudden Irish-descent who crawl out of the woodwork when this holiday rolls around every year.

However, it seems celebrating the shamrock is as good an excuse as any to wear as much greenery as possible and drink until your thirsty again, no matter what your citizenship.

And if it's one thing the locals of Banff feel comfortable doing it's getting dressed up, getting drunk and ultimately making fools of themselves.

Which, of course, is exactly what we did. I wouldn't want to mess around with tradition now.

After a few beers at Bruno's (it was a Thursday night afterall and therefore my musical duties were required. I wore a hat in the shape of an over-flowing pint especially for the occassion), we headed to the ever lovely HooDoo nightclub, a hot spot frequented by old men with bloodshot eyes and roaming hands who've confused themselves for being 30 years younger than what they are. The old men were few and far between once us young-ens took over the dance floor with all the bravado of Michael Flatley. Lucky for my housemates and I, we had practiced our best Riverdance kicks in the comfort of our own kitchen before leaving the house.

Okay, so it was under the supervision of a few vodka-cokes.

Fiddle-dee-dee potatoes.

Ciao for now. xo