Ladylike behavior...

There was a time - six months ago - where mere title impressed me.

That's the president of the Senate? I would think, inching myself closer. I have to talk to them!

That guy published a book? We must chat!

I would stumble in the presence of power. Mumble incoherently in their range.

That girl, however, was long buried as I stood in the U.S. ambassador's house in Phoenix Park in Dublin on Sunday. I saw the pictures of James Kenny and the Bush's, admired the lavish decorations, even watched, with detachment, as he strode by. I could, I suppose, elbow my way through the throngs of admirers to make a four-minute and utterly forgettable introduction . Or, on second thought, I could stand in the corner with my friends, nurse this never-ending glass of wine, and corner the market on those bacon and pineapple hors d'vours. And seriously, once you've ridden an elevator with Ross Perot, is there really anything more to be impressed by?

Jon, Kerry and I headed back to Dublin on Sunday for a 3 o'clock recital at the ambassador's house. All the Mitchells had invitations so we met the group a few hours beforehand in downtown Dublin. As the hour neared, half the crowd went to get taxis to Phoenix Park (a massive park that houses the Irish president, among other people and the Dublin Zoo). The other half, Jon and I included, opted for a pre-recital pint instead. After all, these things never start on time and there's bound to be a pre-recital period of wine and cheese, anyway.

We grabbed a taxi with just 20 minutes to go, dropped 'The U.S. Ambassador's Residence, Phoenix Park,' like it was no big deal, and drove to his house. It was hard not to get a little awestruck as the security guard waved some sort of bomb-sniffing arm-stick thingey beneath the undercarriage and as we were checked off 'the list.' As the car neared the house, er, mansion, I knew my destiny.

I'm going to be an ambassador.

It's as simple as that.

A huge, ornate house on acres and acres of green grass overlooking the Dublin hills. A big, burly security guard outside your door. A bomb-sniffing arm-stick thingey .

And let's be honest, what do you actually have to do? Especially somewhere like Ireland?

We were ushered into the house by a stout little lady with a finger to her lips.

'Thread lightly,' she whispered, shooing us into the sitting room. 'On your toes! On your toes!'

In fact you do miss the start of the performance if you're late to these sorts of things, we discovered as we sank down into the sitting room couches. And they punish you by sticking you in a side room. And by punish, I mean, reward, because our seats were far superior to any in the room and the acoustics were fine.

When the Apple Hill Chamber troupe finished - a fine performance of classical music, I must say - the crowd emptied into our room for the usual standing around with wine glasses and hor d'vours. Giddy with wine and tired of being slammed by passers-by, Jon, Kerry, Jay, Geoff, Markus, Brittany, and I retreated to a corner of the estate. We only left to watch Jon snap a picture of a picture of Dubya and the ambassador leaning in for what could only be described as a pretty hot kiss. We had so much fun as the tiny sausages and crackers floated by that we hardly remembered the time.

'Ben, dear,' one of us finally sang out. 'Head to the front and call us a taxi.'

Nearly 45 minutes until the last bus left Dublin for Derry. No worries.

Famous last words.

Twenty minutes later, I was doubling over with laughter as our crowd - boys in suits and girls in heels - went barreling down the ambassador's driveway, desperately trying to flag down the approaching taxi van.

'WAIT!' We screamed as it roared past, just narrowly missing Jon standing in the road. 'You came for us!!!'

Taxis, apparently, are a precious commodity in Dublin so, when we all finally caught up to the taxi van in front of the house, we piled in and screamed, 'Bus station, NOW!'

Then, as we all caught sight of Mike debating whether or not to join us on the outside, someone grabbed his lapel as we screeched, 'GET IN NOW!'

Hardly behavior befitting Mitchell Scholars at the ambassador's house but it wasn't nearly as bad as it sounds.

At least not to us.

Needless to say, we missed the bus. And the last bus to Belfast. So, tired and frustrated, we bought tickets to Letterkenny ( a town just across the border from Derry) and took a taxi into town. Nearly 30 extra euros to make it home.

Still, however, it was a delightful trip. How often, after all, can you talk about running amuck across the lawn of a U.S. ambassador?