“Hi!” I screech with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. I hate any kind of familial emotional displays.

My mother thrusts herself forward, blocking the exit for anyone else who might be hoping to enter the country today, and throws her arms around me. I gasp at her unexpectedly vice-like grip and try to maneuver her away from the exit doors so that people can pass us.

“Welcome home, Erin! Céad míle fáilte! A hundred thousand welcomes!” she yells.

My mother was actually born in the States, but since moving back to Ireland, she has taken up learning Irish, or gaeilge. She reminds me of those religious converts who always have to be even more pious than the regular religious folk. Frequently, she’ll announce proudly that she’s more Irish than the Irish and speaks as gaeilge at every opportunity. For those who don’t understand — that is, most of us — she follows with an English translation.

At the height of her Irish mania, it was decided that I would be sent to an Irish-speaking school. I spent the first three months listening hard for my name amidst all the guttural diarrhea that was spoken at me. It was a strict school and you could get into trouble without even knowing what you’d done wrong. I was in a fight-or-flight state for all of my thirteenth year and yet was reminded daily how lucky I was to be fluent in our mother tongue. The name Erin means Ireland in Irish.

Much hugging and back slapping ensues. While my mother is one of two children, my father comes from a very large — read: Catholic — family, and most of them and their offspring have turned out to welcome me home.

“Ye better not have forgotten your roots,” says my Uncle Miley as he grabs me in a bear hug. “None of that ‘garbage’ and ‘to-may-tow’ bullshit, do ye hear me?”

I try to nod, but my face is pinned to his chest. He smells of stout; Guinness, to be exact. I’m not one for pushing the ‘Oh, but don’t the Irish love a drink’ stereotype, but my Uncle Miley really does like a drink. Several in fact. He was on a one-man mission to drink as much Guinness as possible so as to save the company from being sold to a foreign company back in the nineties. It seems he succeeded because the Guinness factory is still there.

My Aunty Geraldine steps in to save me. “Put the girl down, Miley!” She pulls me to her and grabs hold of my cheeks. “Don’t they feed ye over there? You’re all skin and bone!” This is clearly bullshit. I am most certainly not ‘skin and bone’. It is just a pre-text for Geraldine to feed me every time she sees me. She’s a feeder.

The love keeps comin’ from all directions until I finally see my father at the back of the crowd. He is waiting patiently, leaning against a wall. I go over to him.

“How’re ye, Dad?”’

“So, you decided to come back to the auld sod finally, did ye?”

“I haven’t had much money for air fares, Dad.”

“Aragh, don’t give me that crap, Erin. Ye know we’d have flown ye home for a visit.”

“Margaret needed me.”

At this my father actually guffaws. “Ay, like a hole in the head.” He looks at me for the longest minute before pulling me in for a hug. I hug back hard. “Well, you’re here now. That’s all that matters. And who’s this young lassie?”

I look up to see Ridlee standing in a sea of fancy luggage, a huge smile plastered on her face. She’s holding a card in her hands. Her whipping boy from the baggage claim is walking away grinning, suffering what I call ‘the Ridlee effect’.

“Ahem!” she clears her throat.

My father looks on bemused while my mother smiles encouragingly. That’s all Ridlee needs.

"Dia daoibh!" she hollers.

God, that girl’s got balls. So that’s why she wanted to know how to say hello in Irish. I cringe for her. Strangers are smiling at her indulgently, the way you do when a child or a handicapped person attempts something challenging, as they maneuver around her.

"Dia 's Muire dhuit, God and Mary be with you!” answers my mother, rushing toward my friend.

I break away from my dad and try to save Ridlee from my mother, sliding my arm round her shoulder before Mum can get her in a vice.

“Everyone,” I announce, “this is my good friend, Ridlee. Ridlee, this is everyone. Literally, everyone. The entire family.”

“Dia daoibh,” she repeats, arms outstretched. Her head is bobbing and she’s beaming benevolently at the entire O’Neill tribe. Think Buzz Lightyear meeting the aliens in Toy Story 2.

“Knock it off, will ye.” I guide her to the bar while her bags are now being ridden by my seven-year-old cousin, Danny.

“Does he know that they’re Globe Trotters?” she asks, craning her neck in the direction of her luxury luggage as I lead her away.

“I doubt it.” I push her more firmly toward the bar.

My dad saves the luggage and my other aunts and uncles take Danny and the other kids off to school, saying a quick goodbye and telling us to have a pint for them. I kiss them all and promise to catch everyone for a knees up soon.

“It’s obligatory to have a pint of Guinness upon landing. No arguments,” I explain to Ridlee, who seems perplexed that we mean to start drinking before breakfast. The Dublin airport bar is more or less empty, but then it is still only nine a.m.

“Pints all round?” asks Uncle Miley, nodding to the barman.

With the others all gone it’s just Ridlee and me, my parents, and my Uncle Miley and Aunty Ger.

“My lovely brother will sort ye out, Boss,” says Uncle Miley to the barman, somehow managing to lift six pints of Guinness off the bar at once.

This is typical Miley; he orders and carries the drinks, but someone else pays. Usually my dad.

“Would you like a tray with that?” asks the barman, winking knowingly.

“Ah, Jaysus, don’t ye think I’ve enough to carry!” retorts Miley, with a wink of his own. He brings the drinks over to our table and sets them down without spilling a drop.

“Would’ya give us a job in yer pub over there in Boston, Erin, would’ya?” he asks.

“In a heartbeat, Uncle Miley. In a heartbeat.” I take my first sip of the black stuff, and God, it tastes good. I look at Ridlee who is staring at her pint glass.

Everyone’s watching her as she tentatively takes her first sip. “Mmm, yummy!” she chirps, but you can tell she doesn’t think it’s yummy at all with the way she winces after. Guinness is definitely an acquired taste. Still, plenty of time for that. Aunty Ger arrives at the table with an armload of cheese and onion crisps.

“So, Pet, ye’re the proud owner of a pub, are ye?” asks my dad.

“Half a pub,” I mumble into my glass while taking a slug of my Guinness.

“What’s that?”

“Half a pub.” I look up from my drink. My mother, father, and my aunt and uncle are staring at me.

“The old bint didn’t give the whole thing to ye?” asks my father, his voice rising. “After all the work you put in?”

“Jack! Keep it down. And don’t talk about my mother like that. It’s wrong to speak ill of the dead.” The last part my mother says under her breath.

“It’s just a legality. We’re gonna fix it.” I smile confidently in Ridlee’s direction.

My father looks from me to Ridlee, and back to me again. “You and ... I’m sorry, what’s yer name again, Love?”

“Ridlee. As in Scott. Like ‘Alien’ but with an ‘E’. Well, another ‘E’. Two Es, really.”

My father does his pirate face — one eye cocked, mouth askew — and turns to me. “Is she right in the head?”

“Ridlee’s a lawyer, Dad.”

“Oh,” is all he says, taking another swig of his pint.

“So, what’s the story with yer granny’s pub then, Erin?” asks my Uncle Miley, shifting his stool closer to the table.

“Well, she seems to have left half of the pub to someone called Padraig Flanagan. Ridlee and I are going to find him and buy him out. For a fair price of course.”