By Michael Ledwith

November 6^th, 2026

Four years ago, John Kass asked if I wanted to write for his new venture, John Kass News. About politics, I asked? About anything, he answered.  So, I wrote a story about Yank meeting a pretty Irish girl in Bweeng Cross, Ireland.

He liked it. His readers liked it. Everyone wondered what happens next?

‘What happens next’, became several more ‘An Irish Fable’ contributions. The last one ended as they said goodbye in Cork, with a wildly improbable, impossible agreement to meet in Athens on September 1.

When I thought about what could happen, I heard this:

“After three drinks at the bar in the Hotel Grande Bretagne, he asked her to marry him. Ah, Yank, that’s the drink talking. I’d bet you don’t even know my birthday!”

Well, that didn’t happen, but scroll down to read what did:

The Hotel Grande Bretagne Athens

She had driven him to Shannon, substituting for her fiancé who had broken his wrist trying to fly off the roof of Molly Looney’s pub in Bweeng Cross ,Ireland.

One thing had led to another and as she said goodbye to him just before he boarded the ferry from Cork to Swansea. She said, ‘I’ll meet you at the bar in the Hotel Grande Bretagne in Athens on September 1. Six o’clock sharp.’

Two months later, he walked up the steps of the grandest hotel he’d ever entered, made his way to Alexander’s. The Concierge stopped him from entering. The American was wearing jeans, Addidas shoes, and his prize Yater surfboards t-shirt.

He had been wearing the same clothes since Cork. Rotating the Yater, with Hobie, and Surfboards Hawaii t-shirts.

Sorry, sir, the Concierge explained, a gentleman must wear proper clothing in Alexander’s, and in the restaurant.

A distinguished, well-dressed, older Greek man, just walking past, asked why he wanted to have a drink at Alexander’s Bar in the famous Hotel Bretagne when there were a hundred tabernas within walking distance of the hotel?

I promised a very pretty girl I’d meet her for a drink there, the Yank answered.

Ah, he mused. How pretty?

Pretty enough for me to hitchhike from Amsterdam to Athens to be here on time, he answered.

Ha! The older man cried and slapped the young man on the back.

Go out the front door of the hotel, turn left. Walk two blocks down, go into any of the pawn shops in the alley and buy yourself a suit, tie, dress shirt, shoes and socks.

Come back, properly dressed. I’ll meet you at the bar and buy you a drink.

He put a $20 bill in the Yank’s hand. Now go. If a beautiful woman shows up asking for a Yank, I’ll buy a bottle of very cold champagne and we’ll wait for you at the bar.

As the Yank walked out to find a pawn shop, the Concierge asked him how he knew Mr.  Manga?

I don’t, the young American answered.

An hour later as he walked through the entrance past the registration desk. The Concierge stopped him. Looked him up and down. Spun him around and snorted.

You look like a CIA Agent. They’re waiting for you at the bar. A very pretty girl, young man.

She looked stunning in a summer dress. Tan. Leggy.

She stepped away from the bar and smiled.

Yank! She called and shook his hand.

Nicos here said he’d never seen a more American in his life. Even after spending two years traveling though the States after the War building his oil company.

Shook his hand?

He took her in his arms, crushed her to him and kissed her hard. She softened and let herself go. They became one.

Mr. Manga applauded. The bartender applauded. The concierge applauded.

It felt like has been a year since he had lain awake with her in her aunt’s house near the ocean. Awake in the dawn’s light listening to the big waves boom breaking on the reef through the open window.

A foot of quilts piled on top of them. A peat fire going. She must have snuck out of bed to start it while he dreamed he was surfing giant Irish waves.

She told me your story. Mr. Manga said. Just missed the war. Could feel it though.

I was in the big war. In the mountains. Then, during the Civil War here, in Athens.

I didn’t miss it. I’m happy you did. I’m happy you met this girl.

Very romantic. She’s staying at a pensione with her girlfriend.

Is only in Athens for two days. Due back in Cork Saturday for her wedding.

What a woman, Yank!

An Irish girl about to get married to someone else. And a Yank who hitchhiked three thousand kilometers on a whim. What did the old Irishman say in the movie?

Homeric! Impetuous!

A grand gesture at a port. Four months later, after a visit to a pawn shop, a drink at the best bar in Greece. In Europe. In the world.

He spoke rapidly to the Concierge.

The Concierge smiled and left.

The bartender brought a magnum of champagne.

Poured flutes for all eight people at the bar.

The Greek gentleman toasted the Yank and the Irish girl in Greek and English. Everyone shouted Opa!

Then shots of Ouzo of course.

The Yank leaned into the older man. Can I pay for this with American Express checks?

Ha! He cried. No! Don’t be silly. Where are you staying in Athens?

The youth hostel in the Plaka.

Bunk beds, asked Mr.Manga?

A dormitory?

Well, I didn’t know if she would show up and hotels are expensive.

The concierge arrived.

Here Mr. Yank, he cried, beaming, a key in his hand.

You’re staying at the Grande Bretagne!

Mr. Manga’s favorite suite.

Booked for a week.

What, the Irish girl cried! I can’t! Ive got to be in Cork in four days!

The rehearsal dinner is Saturday!

Everyone looked at each other…

The Yank cried! Opa, and raised his champagne

Nichos Tsipras raised a fresh shot of Ouzo and cried, Opa!

The bartender and the concierge holding their shot of Ouzo cried Opa!

There was a moment. What they call a pregnant pause.

Opa! Cried the Irish girl!

They all drank and smacked their lips.

She didn’t marry Brendan.

Many years later I heard a story about an older couple, handsome craggy guy, beautiful tall woman with great legs who had been a dancer. They came into Tapas Barcelona in Evanston once every few weeks. Sat at the bar. Ordered martinis. Tapas. Did complicated toasts that always ended in laughter.

The bar at Tapas Barcelona

Most older couples, when they have dinner in restaurants, sit in silence.

In polite separateness.

The ‘date’ night.

Thirty years in, with little to say.

Kids gone.

Friends dead or dying.

Mortality and sickness blotting out the stars in the night’s sky.

Not them.

Books. Movies. Politics. History. Old stories told as if new and never heard.

Somebody named Miguel and Spain.

Gary and getting drunk in bars listening to Van Morrison.

Christopher, Harry, and Jock in London and golf.

Other couples near them at the bar would lean in and try to hear the stories, catch the pure joy of their lives. After a while the listeners would catch their spirit and talk to their companion as well. Checking shared details of their lives together. Arguing about when? Who else was there? Which the song had been playing? The bar would almost become jolly and loud.

And, on lucky nights, if they got there at the right time, they could drive with the Yank and the Irish girl from Molly Looney’s to the Dingle. Athens to the Temple at Sounion. Her getting off the plane at Kennedy and taking a huge, yellow taxicab with him to the Plaza.

They kissed in the back seat all the way.

Two days later, the Yank driving her across America from NYC to San Francisco.

Waking up one morning in Chicago a year later and deciding to go downtown and get married.

Her first Bears game. Drinks with Jimmy Stewart at Claridge’s.

Surfing Honolua Bay. She watching him run with the bulls on the bloodiest morning in Pamplona’s history. Sleeping along the river at Roncesvalles Pass, then watching the bullfights in the afternoon.

Always, before they left the bar, they bought a very cold bottle of Cava to go and bought shots of Ouzo for everyone there that night.

She would shout as they walked out: You girls! If a handsome Yank asks you to drive him to the airport anywhere in the world, at any time…do it!

Opa!

-30-

Frequent contributor Michael Ledwith is a former bag boy at Winn-Dixie, who worked on the Apollo Program one summer in college. A former U.S. Army officer, he ran with the bulls in Pamplona and saw Baryshnikov dance ‘Giselle’ at the Auditorium Theater. Surfer. Rock and roll radio in Chicago. Shareholder, Christopher’s American Grill, London. Father. Movie lover—favorite dialogue: “I say he never loved the emperor.”