IRELAND

 

For several years, my brothers Tim and Pat and I had talked about traveling together to Ireland. Last December, Tim’s wife, Jayne, reminded us that we should quit talking about the trip and actually do it, because we weren’t getting any younger. As if we weren’t already well aware of how old we’re getting. But it was still good advice. So six months later on a morning in early June we found ourselves in gray, wet, chilly Dublin.

As the result of a lucky web search, we were able to avoid staying in a hotel and instead rented a small apartment with kitchen, bedroom and bath just south of St. Steven’s Green. The first of many surprises in Ireland was the discovery that there were several middle-Eastern grocery stores in our neighborhood. Tim is a superb cook, so during the several days we stayed in the city, we skipped eating dinners in restaurants and instead enjoyed Tim’s wizardry with falafel and hummus, beans from Egypt, pita bread from Morocco, kalamata olives and dolmas from Greece, feta and couscous. Perhaps this seems exotic for Ireland, but as far as food is concerned, the country is much more cosmopolitan than we had imagined-- everything from Tandoori to Tex-Mex.

Another surprise was the rich colors of the houses and buildings: orange, fuchsia, lime green, pink, saffron, lilac, sulfur. It was like being in Mexico, except for the nearly constant drizzle and slate-colored skies. Who knows? Perhaps the monotony and dampness of the weather inspires the Irish with visions of rainbow-colored homes.

Our plan had been to rent a car in Dublin and drive where the winds and rains blew us. Pat had reserved a Toyota, but when we arrived at Avis to pick it up, the clerk was apologetic. “Unfortunately, we don’t have the vehicle you reserved,” she said. “But we’d be happy to give you a Mercedes instead. For the same price. If you wouldn’t mind, that is.”

Years ago, I learned a saying that has proved its truth on many occasions: Unexpected travel arrangements are dancing lessons from God. As it turned out, God—whatever he, she or it might be—must have been smiling. Renting the Mercedes was a prophetic blessing for the rest of the trip; the car became our own sleek, silver musical instrument for a dance through Ireland.

Most roads in the countryside were designed for wagons and carts, not automobiles. They’re narrow, with lots of blind curves and, of course, everyone drives on the wrong(!) side of the road, so there were more than a few anxious moments during the first few days as we learned to share small spaces with tour buses and lorries. And later with herds of cows and sheep. Ordinarily, we traveled along the coast. According to the Irish, there is no place on the entire island that is more than 60 miles from the sea, but there are so many lakes, rivers and brooks that, even when we were away from the coast, we felt that we were always in a world of water.

At night we stayed in fishing villages, usually in a bed and breakfast, which we would locate by pulling into town and having a pint at one of the pubs. The barman and the local patrons would tell us where to go and, in a couple of cases, would even call ahead to make sure a room was available. In the mornings, without fail, breakfast was the following: one or two eggs, bacon, two or three different kinds of sausages and a tomato, all fried. (Once, at lunch, we were served three different kinds of potatoes: boiled, fried and mashed-- all on the same plate.) Needless to say the beer was wonderful, the Guiness divine and—another surprise—in every bar and restaurant, no matter how small or remote, there were excellent wines from all over the world—Chile, Spain, Australia, South Africa Argentina, France. (At a wine museum in Kinsale, we learned that, several hundred years before the birth of Christ, ancient Ireland had been trading in wine with the Greeks and Phoenicians.)

Pat, Tim and I agreed, however, that the biggest surprise of our visit was the people. After many trips to Europe, I thought that the Spanish and Italians were the friendliest people I had ever encountered, but that was before meeting the Irish. They were curious about us, and often asked if we were visiting Ireland to track down our ancestors. I suppose this was a natural question, given the number of immigrants Ireland has given to the world. But perhaps it was deeper than that; we certainly saw plenty of people that looked just like our aunts and uncles. Perhaps we looked to them like their long-lost nephews. In any case, we enjoyed most of all their capricious sense of humor. In Dublin, for example, we were crossing the Liffey on the Ha’penny footbridge when Tim noticed a young mother struggling to push her pram up the stairs. To help her, he grabbed the front axle and lifted it easily onto the walkway of the bridge, whereupon, by way of thanks, the young woman told him, “Well, ye may be an old one, but at least yer a strong one.” On another occasion, we were talking about the changeable weather to a guy in a pub and we mentioned that, even though there was rain and wind every day, there had also been a lot of sunlight. “That’s because there are four seasons in Ireland,” he told us. “And sometime they all arrive on the same day.”

Often the humor would pop up at an unexpected time. One morning, after breakfast at a B&B on the Dingle peninsula, we talked with John Currey, the owner, as we were putting our bags into the car, complimenting him on his food, the spacious room, the view of the sea, the welcoming ambiance of his house, etcetera. “Thanks, that’s very kind of you,” he said. “Would you like to buy it?”

He explained that, after 25 years in the business, he was tired, “tired especially of having to wait on—for 365 days a year-- the herd.”

“What herd?”

“The cows and pigs that have two legs.”

We asked him if, instead of selling the place, he had children who would be willing to take over the B&B from him.

“We have a son, but for him, work like this is a form of slavery. Like other young people, he wants a life of luxury, preferably doing the least amount of work possible. He’s in Boston now, studying how computers work.”

He also told us that of all his clients, the best were the Americans.

“And the worst?”

“The Irish, without a doubt.”

“Why?”

“Because when Americans make a reservation for a room, they come. Or if they can’t come, they call and cancel. But the Irish don’t give a damn. If they want to come they come; if not, they don’t phone, they don’t say anything. Imagine! This race of people wants nothing more than to talk, but when it comes to the simple courtesy of phoning to cancel a room reservation, they’re mute.”

Perhaps Mr. Currey was right and the Irish are awful guests. But for us, they were splendid hosts. (And while we’re talking about humor, I just remembered another incident. We were sitting the bar of a hotel near Moone called the High-Cross Inn. We had finished dinner and were having a nightcap when a group of young people—late teens, early twenties—came in and ordered pints. I moved my backpack from the table next to us to make room for them. Even though it’s obvious you’re a foreigner, the Irish may not know where you come from. That is until you open your mouth. Then their response is, “What part of America are ye from?”

We told them, and I asked if they were from around Moone. They all nodded, except for a red-haired kid, who said, “They are, I’m not.”

“Really? Where are you from?”

“Bethlehem. My name’s Jesus.”

We all laughed at this, but there were a couple of nervous glances from his companions: were these Americans going to go along with the joke?

I gestured to the red-head’s friends. “So does that mean that you guys are the twelve apostles?”

More laughter. They decided we were OK and went on with their conversation while we continued with ours. A half-hour later when we got up to go upstairs to bed, they said good night.

”We hope you find your ancestors,” added Jesus.

“Thanks, so do we,” I told him. “And speaking of ancestors, the next time you see Mary and your dad, put in a good word for us, will you?”

I’ll leave the last word to the Irish. Days later, at the end of the trip, when we had returned to the airport in Dublin to drop off the Mercedes, we were passing through the security check. Tim had a bottle of Irish whiskey wrapped in newspaper in a paper bag and was placing it on the conveyor belt of the x-ray machine. As we all know, the security guards in the U.S. tend to be humorless robots. But the Irish guard, knowing very well what was in the bag, took it out of Tim’s hands and carefully, reverently, laid it on the belt. “Ah sure, lads,” he smiled, “we must be very careful when we’re handling the Holy Water.”

Autumn, 2003