Happy Christmas...

They say all things are forgivable if you take some sort of lesson from them.

(OK, who is they? I don't know.)

The only lesson I could glean from my last day on the Habitat worksite was that I should never, ever attempt a pub crawl the night before a work day.

That blasted Geoff Swenson.

After my triumphant return to Derry on Monday, I headed to Belfast on Tuesday for two days on the Habitat site. Thanks to the inconsistency of the bus system, I arrived an hour late the first day.

'Ahhhh, out hitting the pubs again, love?' Danny, of the site supervisors said, as I stumbled up.

And so, over my protests, that's how the story went for the rest of the day. Carie, that inconsistent Yankee, got trashed and missed the early morning bus to Belfast.

Fine, I thought, as I moved rocks across the yard (a task, I'm convinced that was total busy work. I have no doubt that anther American girl arrived at some point and was told to move them to the other side of the yard), let them believe what they want.

Other than the nasty rumors, however, my Habitat workday was a blast. There were no families working, just the normal staff, myself, another long-term Habitat volunteer, and two American volunteers from LA. (One was originally from SC and showed up in a Duke sweatshirt so we gabbed about life in the Carolinas for much of the day.) I finally started to feel like part of the team though I wished I could banter with the supervisors like the LA girls, who had been volunteering with Habitat on several occasions. All in good time I supposed.

I left the worksite and headed to meet Geoff for dinner and a pint at The Globe. Since I'd been in America for a week and he'd been in London, we had plenty of gossip to catch up on. The best part of my friendship with Geoff - who is quickly becoming my closest friend in Ireland - is that we never seem to run out of things to debate. And by things to debate, I mean gossip to dissect and rumors to spread. He's got the asshole factor of Thushan and the wit of Rachel Rosenberg. It's nice to be able to make snide comments and hear, 'I KNOW! But did you ever think about...' and not, 'That might be true but he's a really sweet person and I don't think we should say that.'

After all, it's all in good fun.

Dinner down, we began our usual pub crawl, eager to knock a few new places off the list. This time, however, we had reason to celebrate. Geoff just learned that he got into Stanford Law School - a sign, I'm convinced, that Yale and Harvard will follow suit.

From the Globe, with some breaks for Internet, we hit Katie Daly's (a small, dark, chill pub filled with Christmas lights and an eclectic crowd -- I loved it), the John Hewitt (which, I later discovered, boasts a clientele of journalists by day and creative writers by night) and Fibber Magees. We took a small detour and walked through the 'Happy Christmas' Christmas market at one point, a delightful tour of Christmas lights, food stalls, and Christmas trees. As Christmas tunes belted out over the loudspeaker, it was hard not to be in the Christmas spirit.

Call it the spell of Christmas or the banter of good conversation but six hours later, Geoff and I were meeting Mike in the Crown for our last pints. (The Crown is one of the most touristy pubs in Belfast, known the crown by the door that you can wipe your feet on. I like it because their booths have doors so, if you time it right, you can have your own mini room.)

By this point, of course, I was in good form. I spent about 30 minutes unloading my own personal thoughts and insights about Mike's love life. I dug deep into the archives of 'Carie's darkest secrets' to tell Geoff. And I went on a long rampage about my flatmates' dating lives.

Later, this would all make me cringe.

But, as I skipped back to Queen's (stopping, of course, for some chips, curry and sausage along the way -- prime proof that Geoff takes advantage of drunk girls), I didn't feel too sick or beligerent. Sure, I was chatty. OK, the truth serum was in effect. But I wasn't stumbling. I wasn't sick. And I wasn't blacking out or slurring my words. I couldn't be that drunk.

I might not have been that drunk but I was, I'm afraid, that hung over.

It didn't hit me, of course, until the next day when, I put down my paintbrush, stumbled past the tilting earth to the tin can bathroom on the Habitat site, and clutched the walls, silently praying not to get sick. I didn't but the dizziness, nausea, and headache continued for much of the day.

Funny, however. No one on the worksite said a word. (Meaning that I was either quite convincing or there's some sort of code I didn't know about.)

I left after lunch to make it back to Derry for class whereupon I collapsed in my bed.

Never again...