Slainte!

Today is St. Patricks Day, but you wouldn't have guessed it if you were on the L train this morning. I was the only passenger in my car who seemed to have made a conscious choice to wear green today (albeit paired with black pants, black boots, and a black leather coat). My grandfather is a first-generation, Irish-American who once worked in NYC as a lawyer, but now resides in an assisted-living facility in Florida. He is my only grandparent who was not born in the States, which makes me about a quarter Irish--and gives Ireland more of a genetic presence in my blood than any other culture (I've also got a bit of Swedish and Eastern European blood flowing through my veins).
At the 8th Avenue station where I transfer, and often (this morning included) head above ground to my gym for a pre-work workout in between, I had only three green sightings--all of which seemed to unintentionally coincide with the holiday. An elderly Chinese women wore a lime green quilted jacket. A black man carried a forest green backpack (note: there are "Black Irish," but the term doesn't always connote skin color). And a bright green Sprite bottle poked out of a teenager's half-open backpack.
The predominate color choice among passengers today was black, followed closely by blue--as in blue jeans. With variations of each in a distant third (e.g. black jeans, denim jackets).
The only sign it was St. Patrick's Day was just that: a sign on the tiled wall of the subway station, marked by a green clover, that encouraged riders to use public transportation to get to and from the St. Patrick's Day parade and other festivities. (An advantage of living in a city with excellent public transportation is not having to worry about drinking and driving--the downside is that you may have to share a subway car with a bunch of drunks... see below).
On the sidewalk, I spotted one potential Irishman with color-coordinated olive-and-blue striped scarf and matching cap (this was Chelsea after all). And at the gym, a strawberry-blonde, freckle-faced woman deliberately (I hope) sported gratuitous green shoes beneath a black pants suit.
Not very impressive though, for a city that boasts the most residents of Irish descent (2.1 million, at last count, though I don't remember anyone asking me) of any major U.S. metropolitan.
I was beginning to wonder where the Irish had gone? A century ago, most of them would be found in the Lower East Side tenements inside the notorious Five Points area, immortalized--if slightly misrepresented--in Martin Scorcese's "Gangs of New York."
These days, they're spread out all over the five boroughs. I'd bet many of them were still sleeping (the parade didn't start for another two hours). Or they were already lined up to watch, or participate in, the parade. A significant portion of New York's finest and bravest (a.k.a. police and fire departments) are of Irish descent. And many of them march in the parade--with the notable exception this year of an estimated 1,000 firefighters who are protesting a new ban on green berets (wearing them has been an annual tradition for this heavily Irish firefighting unit since 1975). There's the spirit.
And speaking of spirits (and stereotypes)... On the C train, I finally spotted some parade-goers. I wouldn't have known them by their attire (they were wearing--yes, you guessed it--black and denim). But by the telling (and unusual, at 10 in the morning) stench of alcohol that surrounded them. They'd apparently gotten a head start on the fesitivities, and were already--loudly--mapping out the bars along the parade route as the rest of us looked on enviously, thinking about all the work we had to look forward to at our destinations.
But they also got me thinking about the tall glass of Guinness I'll by raising tonight to celebrate my heritage (and the end of the work day).
Slainte!
** Correction: As my (non-Irish) husband reminded me, the gaelic toast is spelled slainte, not sleinte, as I'd initially written (sorry, grandad).