Green, Blue... and Read?

Le Jour de Saint Patrice passed through Bayonnais without a glance. No one made an effort to wear green; no anxious patrons waited for the foam on their Guinness to settle; even the traditional Shephard’s Pie was replaced by, well, rice and beans. On the whole, Haitians and Irish have very little in common, save the occasional potato famine and a longing for the shores of Ellis Island, or as it is called today, "Miami".
Likewise, "March Madness" has not taken hold on the western third of Hispaniola. Upon relating the tragic first round upset of the Blue Devils (to Virginia Commonwealth!), my neighbors looked at me curiously and replied "What is a Duke?" (Avid Carolina fans, I presume.) I am able to catch an occasional score on ESPN.com and despite my inattentiveness to collegiate sports in the past six months, my bracket it not doing terribly.
So what is left, after the Irish pubs and Tarheel basketball have been taken out? Books. Hundreds of pages of Times New Roman-lined newsprint bound by glue and stained by highlighter. Over the past several weeks, I have made great friends with Marcel Proust, Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Benjamin Franklin. Evenings consist of discussions with Flaubert about the scandalous behavior of Emma Bovary and conversations with Conrad about the captivating personality of Mr. Kurtz. I told Camus that I found his book a bit strange but I commended Herman Hesse on what I thought was a remarkable depiction of a young man’s spiritual journey. What a loser! I know. Holden Caulfield was disappointed when I told him I had departed a life of debauchery for an affair with literature but I assured him that my partying days were not over.