Our hackney driver tipped his head to the right. "Saint Shtephen's Green," he said in a lilting brogue. "Firsht enclosed in 1664. Twenty-two acres of manicured lawn, ponds, and quiet in the middle of Ireland's busiest shity."

Cute accent, but he could use some speech therapy for the lisp.

"Remember that statue a Molly Malone?" Nana whispered, referring to the shapely bronze sculpture we'd seen on an earlier walk down Grafton Street. "Why do you s'pose they made her so bosomy? Did you see the cleavage? I bet she was wearin' one of them push-up brassieres. Probably where she got that nickname, 'Tart with a Cart.'"

"Wait a minute. I wear a push-up bra, and I'm not a tart."

Nana patted my knee. "Of course you're not, dear. You marry the men you sleep with. I think that's very commendable. Oh look! A double-decker bus. I've always wanted to ride in one of those. Haven't you?"

I'd never given public transportation much thought. What I really wanted was to be one of the great stage actresses of the century. Windsor City boasted only a small community theater, so the odds were against me, but I remained optimistic. Entering a new century had given me an extra hundred years to make a success of myself.

"Easy, Nell." Our driver steadied his horse as she chafed against her traces. "She's frishky today. To your left is the Shelbourne Hotel." He guided us past the elegant, redbrick building where our tour group was scheduled to spend our first night in Ireland. "Built in 1824. They sherve a brilliant afternoon tea in the Lord Mayor's Lounge at half-three."

The wrought iron railings and flower-glutted window boxes reminded me of the quaint little hotel where Jack and I had honeymooned so many years ago, and, recalling our wedding night, I smiled. Poor Jack. He'd possessed the extraordinary good looks of a Greek god but the brain chemistry of a Greek goddess. And it had only taken me two years to figure it out. Am I a quick study or what? I hope he'd found happiness with his partner, living in upstate New York, laying kitchen tile, but that didn't seem the kind of existence that would make him happy. Jack was happiest when he was onstage, sporting layers of pancake makeup and eyeliner. But he was probably happier now than when he'd been married to me. And so was I. Mostly because I didn't have to share my underwear anymore.

As we rounded the north corner of St. Stephen's Green, I sat back in my seat, soaking up the Dublin atmosphere. The hordes of people. The crush of traffic. The blare of horns. The stench of diesel fumes.

"Do you smell that?" Nana asked suddenly.

"Diesel. Must be the fuel of choice over here."

"That's not it. Smells more like"--she inhaled deeply--"alcohol." She plucked her guidebook out of her Golden Irish Vacations Tour bag and flipped through the pages. "I remember readin' there's a Guinness brewery nearby, and they give away free samples at the Hopstore."