Once we (Garett, Jeff, and I) got to our first duty station, we found any excuse to explore Germany. As the closest large city to us was Nuremberg, it was our hub for everywhere we would go. Almost every trip would begin and end there, and we spent a considerable amount of time in the city wandering from bar to bar, gallivanting through the moats of the castle, and tripping on mushrooms stumbling down what we called Hunter S. Thompson Lane. While most of the soldiers would hit the bars with other soldiers, we often tried to find the bar off the beating path. None compared to our home away from home P.J. O’Shea’s Irish Pub.
The bar sits in a little ally a block away from the main tourist path that goes down the cobbled streets of Nuremberg, right next to the river. In the summer there is a Biergarden that many of the locals like to sit in and have a pint, but not us, we loved it inside. In the dark, dank, home that was once the royal stables. The stone arches throughout the bar transport you to a medieval time, the wood, antiques, and Guinness signage tell you that you are in Ireland, even if you think you’re in Germany. Two big brass pipes, where they ship the dank in, come down near the taps along a long dark oak bar. If it was just one or two of us, we would usually sit at the bar, if there was a bunch of us, we would get the big round “mafia” table in the back, and every once in a while we would be invited to the family/owners table that sat at the end of the bar.
We became regulars, so regular that we were often invited to hang out with the staff, often after hours, as they would show us all the local haunts that they visited. We were there most weekends and became a regular part of the bar. I still see many of the people who work(ed) here as close friends and family. Jimmi, the patron saint of “Fuck off,” who once you come to understand what he’s saying and you grow thick enough skin to insult him back, he will be your best friend. Jenny, from Galway, my first O’Shea’s crush, who had a voice as salty as a sailor and a bright disposition on life. She actually let us hooligans crash on her parents’ floor in Galway while we drank our way through Ireland. Kerstin, who definitely was a part of saving me once I returned from Iraq, as she helped me see my self-worth and reminded me that I am a good person. Connor and Johnny, the guys who run the mad house. Tony Malone(y), the drunken stoned cook who likes to party more than me, and has always treated me as a brother. Katrin and Roslyn, both who have been such steadfast and amazing friends for the years since I have been out of the military. Them and Kerstin sent me a Christmas Card a few years back that brought me to tears, as it was exactly what I needed in a time when I felt I was in a dark place. I could go on and on with all the names, Gillian, Krasi, Evan, Deggsy… and all the regulars that we became friends with, Sturgis, Karen, George, Gio (RIP), and so many more.
There are far too many stories to tell about this place, from loves lost to drunken fights amongst ourselves. From my mom calling the bar on my birthday from Colorado to buy us all a round of drinks, to every time the old Turkish rose seller would come through I would bargain him to buy all his roses so I could hand them out to the staff and women throughout the bar. If a woman was with a man, I would often try to offer it to him to give to her, for free, but German men don’t like that sort of thing, so we would end up giving reciprocal dirty looks as I would just give the rose to the lady.
So how did this bar save my life? It’s really hard to put into words. It’s like holy ground for me. I’ve visited it a couple times in the past 14 years since I got out of the military. Some of the faces are the same, it looks the same, and while you might think that the feeling would have faded, every time I’m there I am transported back to all those good times. It’s funny because those who have moved on from working there, don’t go back often, if ever. I guess it’s different when you’re on the other side, which I get since there are a few bars that I used to work at that I rarely visit when I’m around. I digress…
Just before leaving for Iraq, I was awakening. My consciousness was shifting, from the small-town Grand Junction mindset, believing all the racist, nationalist, rightwing bullshit that I grew up thinking was fact, to a more cosmopolitan understanding of the world. I now had friends from all corners of the globe, news and information from more than just Faux News, and a hunger for learning about new cultures. In many ways this is due to O’Shea’s, as it was our hub to meet new people, to talk politics, and to process the trips we had been on throughout Europe. Much credit for my growth must also go to Garett and Jeff who were always more to the left of me, as we would argue over many pints of Guinness. And it was here that on a Sunday morning, after a long night of drinking, we would order an Irish Breakfast, and just read a book. I had started reading Howard Zinn and Noam Chomsky before heading to Iraq. All of this made me question whether Iraq was a worthy war. And while out on mission in Iraq, I just wished that I was sitting at that bar, talking shit with the staff. They even sent a couple of care packages to us in Iraq, which of all the care packages I received, theirs meant the most to me.
When I returned from Iraq, I hated myself, I hated my country and the president, I hated the Army, and I hated war. There was a lot of hate and anger. We all returned to O’Shea’s, and they gave us unquestioning love. They knew we were different, and they knew we had been through the ringer. We drank a little harder, laughed a little louder, cried a lot more. There was a thin shell over us that could crack at any minute and they knew it. But it was their love and friendship that would relieve the pressure of what we had just experienced. And while drinking is probably not the best way to deal with post-deployment post-traumatic stress, it worked for us here. They never asked, but they listened, especially when we needed to vent. Perhaps it’s because so many of Irish can empathize, having been a part of a post-conflict society their whole lives, and the German’s who have spent a generation struggling with and coming to grips with the atrocities their country committed. This was a space of healing for me, and the friends and family that I made there were the healers, whether they realize it or not. When I returned from Iraq, suicide had crossed my mind many times, but it was the people at O’Shea’s who treated me so well that told me I could do better and do something different, they gave me the feeling that I was loved, and I will always be grateful for P.J. O’Shea’s Irish Pub.
