The weather turned cloudy on Friday but, as we were planning to spend the bulk of the day indoors, that hardly matter.  And it would take more than some Irish rain to dampen my spirits; this was the day of The Guinness Tour, the day I might find the answer to the question that had been burning in my mind since my first visit to Ireland.

It was a short walk from our hotel to the Guinness Factory.  We knew the way, having ridden past it on the tour bus the day before.  Somehow, from the top deck of the bus, we had overlooked how depressing the area was.  On foot, we found ourselves surrounded by Dickensian dreariness; you could practically feel the poverty leeching through the tiny, grey stone houses. 

On the front stoop of one house we passed, a bedraggled couple were sharing a bottle and singing in slurred but merry tones.  It was barely half nine in the morning, so it was either a late night or a very early start.  From the looks of them, I wondered that they hadn't started on St. Patrick's Day and just kept rolling. 

For all its popularity, the Guinness Factory Tour, or Guinness Storehouse, is not very well marked.  There are signs pointing the route through the impoverished neighborhoods to the factory but, once you're there, you're on your own.  A kindly guard showed us the door we had to go through and we suddenly found ourselves in a vast, modern and very slick tourist trap.

We were the first to arrive, so we by-passed the cattle chute and walked directly to the counter.  The tickets were €14.00 each but I think they were worth it.

The Guinness Storehouse is a masterstroke of marketing genius.  The self-guided tour is contained in a huge Plexiglas and steel structure built in the shape of a barrel.  It has seven levels, and from the upper levels you can, in places, see through to the levels below, which can be quite disconcerting for someone with vertigo. 

Level I is all about Guinness itself; it's conception and creation. It's also a self-congratulatory hymn to the Guinness founder. The very first exhibit gives an overview of Guinness and what it's made of--water, hops, barely, etc.--but notes that there is also another ingredient, the most important one. 

"You can't see it," the sign reads, "you can't feel it, but it's all around you, in the wood, in the water, in the very air you breathe, it is . . . Arthur Guinness!"

From there we were treated to episodes from his life, how he had begun the brewery with a mere £100 inheritance, and the crafty deals he had made over the years.  The brewing process itself was explained in loving and almost reverential detail at exhibits featuring sound, sights and smell.  The exhibits themselves were numbered and it was obvious they were leading you along a path of enlightenment, sort of like the Stations of the Cross. 

By the time you approach the final station, you are fully aware of the miracle that is Guinness and the wisdom of St. Arthur.  Then you enter the semi-circular room and find yourself facing a 20-foot glass of Guinness.  At this point, it's hard to know whether you should prostrate yourself, genuflect, or both.  The only thing missing is the tomb of Arthur Guinness so you can kiss his feet.  It's all so over the top that you have to wonder if the Guinness people aren't taking the piss out of themselves. 

From there, each level is devoted to a different aspect of the Guinness phenomenon.  There are sections on transportation, advertising, barrel making and the like, most of which we found quite interesting.  The penultimate level was another masterpiece of self-promotion--a do-it-yourself exhibit featuring a circular wall of messages from visitors, along with a stack of specially designed cards and a tray of pencils. 

We spent a good deal of time there, enjoying the various notes from people around the world.  Many of them were of the "Greetings from New Zealand" variety, but others were more clever:

"€14.00 for a long commercial and a free Guinness!  It better be a bloody good pint!" read one.  Another said, "For Sale: Labrador puppies, black, pure bred, Call . . ." which I thought really adopted the self-promotional spirit of the tour.  And another terse message said merely, "Too bad it tastes of piss in England!" 

That's when I realized my question had never been answered.

And so it was with a renewed sense of purpose that I climbed the last flight of steps to the Gravity Bar, a large, cylindrical glass room billed as Dublin's highest pub.

Despite our being the first to enter the tour that morning, the pub was fairly crowded with smiling husbands holding up pints of Guinness while an equal number of long-suffering wives photographed them against the backdrop of Dublin's murky skyline.  I guess a lot of people skip an exhibit or six in their zeal to claim their reward, but that's cheating; it's every bit as bad as ordering one of those dodgy University diplomas off the Internet and then including it on your CV. 

We took the last vacant table and I brought our tokens to the bar for our free pints.  While they were settling, I asked the barmaid The Question. 

"Why does Guinness taste different in Ireland?" 

The answer: "It doesn't." 

When I assured them it did I was told that maybe it didn't travel well, the States being so far away and all.  I told them I'd been living in England for the past year and it tasted the same there, too.  Was the Irish Sea really that much of an obstacle?  Well, maybe they aren't using nitrogen, different gases can bring on a bitter taste, you know.

Defeated, I returned to the table with two pints and merely a hint at The Enlightenment: