Ireland
No work today. Instead I wrote. Here's what resulted:
I read this National Geographic article once about Celts. The author went to parts of Europe where people still speak Gaelic or Welsh or Breton. At one point, he’s sitting in a bar in Scotland or Wales and someone sings a song about the moon. He asks about the Celtic fascination with the moon and the reply is, "that moon is huge, very yellow, and it breaks your heart."
That line always stayed with me. It’s such a Celtic thing to say, and it’s something I intuitively understand. I inherited nostalgia and longing from my mother’s family, who sailed for the United States from Donegal in Northern Ireland roughly two hundred years ago.
I have no idea what they thought of this country, or what this country even looked like then. I know that my mom and grandma are fiercely proud of their Irish roots. When I think of all the things I am, French, German, Welsh, with a trace of Native American, it’s the Irish that I feel the most. So strong is my connection to this one small piece of my identity that I made it a point to go to Ireland while I was living in France.
I went alone, which I basically insisted on. Not that anyone really wanted to go with me; it meant a flight and probably rain and missing classes. So the trip was essentially me, alone, occasionally taking a tour or talking to strangers, ready to wade around in my innate loneliness and longing for something always out of reach.
When I got to my hostel, the woman who checked me in was from Spain. I met a Lithuanian guy my age who spoke perfect English. I kept forgetting he wasn’t Irish. He had been living there for years and we talked for a good while. There came a time in the conversation when I could have stayed with him, which I knew would probably lead to some hostel romance, or I could leave, and continue my journey into solo wandering. I left, which was actually surprising. I don’t know if it was for fear or lack of wanting, probably a little of both.
I was starving and while searching for the pub the hostel worker recommended, I got lost and a little scared (some parts of the town seemed a bit rough). It began to rain. Someone on the street gave me directions and I arrived without mishap. Once there, I ordered a coke and some Italian food. There is a lot of Italian food in Ireland, and it’s really good. Not traditional, more like Northern Californian. An older group of four adults engaged me in conversation, or perhaps it was the other way around. But they were very sweet and thought I was from Australia.
I left the restaurant and called my Dad’s friends, English ex-pats who lived in Dublin. At this point I was starting to feel really lonely, and not in the romantic, melancholy way. I was worried that I might become despondent without some company. They promised me we would get together the next day or the day after, and warned me to stay on the right side of the River Liffey and to watch out for Polish immigrants. The comment about the Poles cooled my desire to see them, but there’s really no cure for loneliness except other people. That, or some coffee and a good book.
Unable to find either in Dun Laoghaire, I took a walk on the boardwalk. The Atlantic was rough and I felt ocean spray hit my face as I contemplated the rocks below. It looked like rain again. I saw a couple, a very Irish couple, who spoke in the kind of brogue that is neither cosmopolitan nor charming, having a conspicuous fight. They were arguing, then the woman walked away, and the man followed her. “Don’t you come near,” she said. I had wanted to see the real Ireland, but this felt a little too potentially violent and well, yes, real than I was prepared for.
I left the ocean and returned to the hostel. I don’t think I have ever felt as uncomfortable as I did that night. The Italian kids were making an elaborate meal and I craved an invitation. It never came. The mid to late 20 something travelers were from a totally different frame of reference than I was and it seemed impossible to make conversation. So, I left to find a pub.
The man who took my order was Polish and extremely affable. We talked a little and I drank my Guinness and read my book. It’s a typical travel scenario, being alone in a bar. But at the time I felt too exposed. I only drank half my beer, but I paid up, left the pub, and went to bed back at the hostel.
Ireland got better the next day because the sun was shining and I found some New York style bagels. I walked along the boardwalk in the now sun-dappled town, and I found the whole thing really lovely. Just great. There were dragon figures on buildings and Celtic crosses and some people were walking on the streets just enjoying the Saturday. I went into a store and bought a postcard for my grandma. The clerks asked me who the card was for and I explained that my grandmother is Irish. They finished my sentence, “and if you don’t send her something, you’ll be toast.” Only they said it in such a beautifully Irish way.
For breakfast I found the bagel place, and a young woman of Chinese descent explained to me, in a definite brogue, that the bagels were flown in from Manhattan. Then she asked, “Where are you from?” with a look of genuine curiosity. I really didn’t understand this. Many people in Ireland stared at me as though they just could not place me. As soon as I opened my mouth I thought my Americanness revealed itself, but apparently not.
I sat down with my tea and my bagel to discover that I had struck gold. Sitting next to me was an older woman telling her granddaughter a joke about St. Peter. Yes. My quest for Irish authenticity had picked up again. She had the brogue, the culture, in short, the goods. But observing culture isn’t the same as participating in it. I wanted to talk to her and ask her questions and hear her speak, but shyness got the better of me and I left without saying a word.
On the DART people stared at me. I was good and tan from the Provencal sun but I look a little Irish so I guessed they were confused. I got off near Trinity University, where I took a tour and saw the Book of Kells.
For lunch I chose Italian and I met an Irish couple who told me I looked like the people who live in the South, near Limerick, whose ancestors commingled with Spanish pirates. The lady and I were like long lost kindreds, while her husband, Pat, looked increasingly uncomfortable. They left the restaurant soon after eating. I didn’t take it personally, I know from my mom’s family that some people, and especially from a place like Ireland, just have a hard time talking to strangers and being social in general. It’s kind of an American thing.
But still, at that point my attitude had turned from “this is ok, a little different maybe, but ok,” to, “screw this!” I was lonely and it was raining again and the whole thing had become a little unbearable. I had wanted to be alone and a self-sufficient female nomad but I was tired and longed for my life in France where a Sicilian host mom kept me in coffee and pasta. In France the sun shined 300 days out of the year. I blended in more there than in Ireland. I had some great American friends and gelato and pizza were the cheapest food available.
I felt a little bit like a failure. Ireland was supposed to be my home away from home. I was supposed to achieve a communion with my deep introspective longings. Instead I was depressed and frustrated.
I was more than I little pissed off when I arrived at the tourist information center in Dun Laoghaire. I approached the pretty travel agent and said, in my best imitation of a cynical New Yorker, “I have a day left in Ireland. Some people have told me to go to Galway. What do you think?”
Her face softened into compassion. She was a mom, I could tell, and I think she knew that I’d been through a rough time. “Ah no,” she said, “There’s not enough time for you to enjoy Galway. Why don’t you go to Glendalough?”
Glendalough was amazing. I had to take a train and a bus to get there and I traveled with some boisterous Italian tourists who tried to tease me in bad English but I think that Glendalough redeemed the trip for me. Glendalough means, “the place where two rivers meet” in Gaelic and it was the site of one of the first monasteries in Ireland. It’s in an idyllic meadow and populated by ancient stone buildings. While I was there a man read signs to me in Gaelic and then translated them into English. The day was sunny all the while we were outside, and rained on our café break. I met some French tourists and felt at ease.
The train and bus rides were the most scenic I’ve ever taken. As I looked out my window all I saw was green and green and mountains of green and sometimes the ocean. It was the Ireland of myths.
It was time to go home, and by home I mean France. On the way to the airport I met a cabbie who helped me understand Ireland. He said that the people who stared at me thought I was Italian probably, because so many Italian tourists came through there that time of year. He explained that the Polish immigrants had come because the flexible economy created thousands of crappy jobs without good benefits and someone had to work them. I liked him a lot, so much so that I was a little disappointed when he said he wanted to live in France after his dancer girlfriend came home from Argentina. He didn’t want to go to university, which his parents didn’t like, he just wanted to drive his cab and move to France. What a guy.
There’s more about that trip that I don’t remember, some things I remembered for the first time while writing this, and probably tons of things I got wrong. I think growing up is about the breaking and reforming of ideals. Discovering Ireland, with all its contradictions and rugged beauty, was one of the most uncomfortable experiences of my adult life. It was heart-breaking, but it also woke me up to the reality that no place is how you dream it. That no one can live up to your idealized version of who they really are. That sometimes when a charming Lithuanian man asks you to eat dinner with him, you should just do it instead of wandering self-indulgently.
I still feel it, the inevitable pull to Ireland. My escapist fantasies often center around a little village somewhere, where it rains all the time, and I have a deeply introverted and spiritual life. But I remember that Ireland isn’t what I think it is. My nostalgia is more likely a result of me being my brooding father’s daughter. Our book-worm selves are meant for a life of longing. My mom, after all, is the joyful one. The lucky, crafty Irish one.
I read this National Geographic article once about Celts. The author went to parts of Europe where people still speak Gaelic or Welsh or Breton. At one point, he’s sitting in a bar in Scotland or Wales and someone sings a song about the moon. He asks about the Celtic fascination with the moon and the reply is, "that moon is huge, very yellow, and it breaks your heart."
That line always stayed with me. It’s such a Celtic thing to say, and it’s something I intuitively understand. I inherited nostalgia and longing from my mother’s family, who sailed for the United States from Donegal in Northern Ireland roughly two hundred years ago.
I have no idea what they thought of this country, or what this country even looked like then. I know that my mom and grandma are fiercely proud of their Irish roots. When I think of all the things I am, French, German, Welsh, with a trace of Native American, it’s the Irish that I feel the most. So strong is my connection to this one small piece of my identity that I made it a point to go to Ireland while I was living in France.
I went alone, which I basically insisted on. Not that anyone really wanted to go with me; it meant a flight and probably rain and missing classes. So the trip was essentially me, alone, occasionally taking a tour or talking to strangers, ready to wade around in my innate loneliness and longing for something always out of reach.
When I got to my hostel, the woman who checked me in was from Spain. I met a Lithuanian guy my age who spoke perfect English. I kept forgetting he wasn’t Irish. He had been living there for years and we talked for a good while. There came a time in the conversation when I could have stayed with him, which I knew would probably lead to some hostel romance, or I could leave, and continue my journey into solo wandering. I left, which was actually surprising. I don’t know if it was for fear or lack of wanting, probably a little of both.
I was starving and while searching for the pub the hostel worker recommended, I got lost and a little scared (some parts of the town seemed a bit rough). It began to rain. Someone on the street gave me directions and I arrived without mishap. Once there, I ordered a coke and some Italian food. There is a lot of Italian food in Ireland, and it’s really good. Not traditional, more like Northern Californian. An older group of four adults engaged me in conversation, or perhaps it was the other way around. But they were very sweet and thought I was from Australia.
I left the restaurant and called my Dad’s friends, English ex-pats who lived in Dublin. At this point I was starting to feel really lonely, and not in the romantic, melancholy way. I was worried that I might become despondent without some company. They promised me we would get together the next day or the day after, and warned me to stay on the right side of the River Liffey and to watch out for Polish immigrants. The comment about the Poles cooled my desire to see them, but there’s really no cure for loneliness except other people. That, or some coffee and a good book.
Unable to find either in Dun Laoghaire, I took a walk on the boardwalk. The Atlantic was rough and I felt ocean spray hit my face as I contemplated the rocks below. It looked like rain again. I saw a couple, a very Irish couple, who spoke in the kind of brogue that is neither cosmopolitan nor charming, having a conspicuous fight. They were arguing, then the woman walked away, and the man followed her. “Don’t you come near,” she said. I had wanted to see the real Ireland, but this felt a little too potentially violent and well, yes, real than I was prepared for.
I left the ocean and returned to the hostel. I don’t think I have ever felt as uncomfortable as I did that night. The Italian kids were making an elaborate meal and I craved an invitation. It never came. The mid to late 20 something travelers were from a totally different frame of reference than I was and it seemed impossible to make conversation. So, I left to find a pub.
The man who took my order was Polish and extremely affable. We talked a little and I drank my Guinness and read my book. It’s a typical travel scenario, being alone in a bar. But at the time I felt too exposed. I only drank half my beer, but I paid up, left the pub, and went to bed back at the hostel.
Ireland got better the next day because the sun was shining and I found some New York style bagels. I walked along the boardwalk in the now sun-dappled town, and I found the whole thing really lovely. Just great. There were dragon figures on buildings and Celtic crosses and some people were walking on the streets just enjoying the Saturday. I went into a store and bought a postcard for my grandma. The clerks asked me who the card was for and I explained that my grandmother is Irish. They finished my sentence, “and if you don’t send her something, you’ll be toast.” Only they said it in such a beautifully Irish way.
For breakfast I found the bagel place, and a young woman of Chinese descent explained to me, in a definite brogue, that the bagels were flown in from Manhattan. Then she asked, “Where are you from?” with a look of genuine curiosity. I really didn’t understand this. Many people in Ireland stared at me as though they just could not place me. As soon as I opened my mouth I thought my Americanness revealed itself, but apparently not.
I sat down with my tea and my bagel to discover that I had struck gold. Sitting next to me was an older woman telling her granddaughter a joke about St. Peter. Yes. My quest for Irish authenticity had picked up again. She had the brogue, the culture, in short, the goods. But observing culture isn’t the same as participating in it. I wanted to talk to her and ask her questions and hear her speak, but shyness got the better of me and I left without saying a word.
On the DART people stared at me. I was good and tan from the Provencal sun but I look a little Irish so I guessed they were confused. I got off near Trinity University, where I took a tour and saw the Book of Kells.
For lunch I chose Italian and I met an Irish couple who told me I looked like the people who live in the South, near Limerick, whose ancestors commingled with Spanish pirates. The lady and I were like long lost kindreds, while her husband, Pat, looked increasingly uncomfortable. They left the restaurant soon after eating. I didn’t take it personally, I know from my mom’s family that some people, and especially from a place like Ireland, just have a hard time talking to strangers and being social in general. It’s kind of an American thing.
But still, at that point my attitude had turned from “this is ok, a little different maybe, but ok,” to, “screw this!” I was lonely and it was raining again and the whole thing had become a little unbearable. I had wanted to be alone and a self-sufficient female nomad but I was tired and longed for my life in France where a Sicilian host mom kept me in coffee and pasta. In France the sun shined 300 days out of the year. I blended in more there than in Ireland. I had some great American friends and gelato and pizza were the cheapest food available.
I felt a little bit like a failure. Ireland was supposed to be my home away from home. I was supposed to achieve a communion with my deep introspective longings. Instead I was depressed and frustrated.
I was more than I little pissed off when I arrived at the tourist information center in Dun Laoghaire. I approached the pretty travel agent and said, in my best imitation of a cynical New Yorker, “I have a day left in Ireland. Some people have told me to go to Galway. What do you think?”
Her face softened into compassion. She was a mom, I could tell, and I think she knew that I’d been through a rough time. “Ah no,” she said, “There’s not enough time for you to enjoy Galway. Why don’t you go to Glendalough?”
Glendalough was amazing. I had to take a train and a bus to get there and I traveled with some boisterous Italian tourists who tried to tease me in bad English but I think that Glendalough redeemed the trip for me. Glendalough means, “the place where two rivers meet” in Gaelic and it was the site of one of the first monasteries in Ireland. It’s in an idyllic meadow and populated by ancient stone buildings. While I was there a man read signs to me in Gaelic and then translated them into English. The day was sunny all the while we were outside, and rained on our café break. I met some French tourists and felt at ease.
The train and bus rides were the most scenic I’ve ever taken. As I looked out my window all I saw was green and green and mountains of green and sometimes the ocean. It was the Ireland of myths.
It was time to go home, and by home I mean France. On the way to the airport I met a cabbie who helped me understand Ireland. He said that the people who stared at me thought I was Italian probably, because so many Italian tourists came through there that time of year. He explained that the Polish immigrants had come because the flexible economy created thousands of crappy jobs without good benefits and someone had to work them. I liked him a lot, so much so that I was a little disappointed when he said he wanted to live in France after his dancer girlfriend came home from Argentina. He didn’t want to go to university, which his parents didn’t like, he just wanted to drive his cab and move to France. What a guy.
There’s more about that trip that I don’t remember, some things I remembered for the first time while writing this, and probably tons of things I got wrong. I think growing up is about the breaking and reforming of ideals. Discovering Ireland, with all its contradictions and rugged beauty, was one of the most uncomfortable experiences of my adult life. It was heart-breaking, but it also woke me up to the reality that no place is how you dream it. That no one can live up to your idealized version of who they really are. That sometimes when a charming Lithuanian man asks you to eat dinner with him, you should just do it instead of wandering self-indulgently.
I still feel it, the inevitable pull to Ireland. My escapist fantasies often center around a little village somewhere, where it rains all the time, and I have a deeply introverted and spiritual life. But I remember that Ireland isn’t what I think it is. My nostalgia is more likely a result of me being my brooding father’s daughter. Our book-worm selves are meant for a life of longing. My mom, after all, is the joyful one. The lucky, crafty Irish one.