Ireland; a story
In honor of St Patrick’s Day, I want to tell a story about a time I went to Ireland.
A friend of mine was getting married in Ireland, and I assumed there was no way, just no way, that I could go. It was a month before, and I started looking at tickets. Just checking, because maybe.
Round-trip tickets for $400? I’ll go.
I brought two friends. On the plane, I slipped an eye mask on as I swallowed my sleeping pill, and as I did, I heard a low, guttural moan. My friend was rising out of her seat, as she had a seizure. A doctor happened to passing by just as that happened, and he was on her immediately.
There was an overabundance of medical assistance on the plane, so while they made sure she didn’t swallow her tongue, I fretted. I tried to block out the dirty looks I was getting.
A flight attendant sat us by the door.
“You need a drink?”
“I’m fine.”
“For free.”
“Screwdriver, please.”
They rerouted the plane.
Long story short, two of us ended up in Ireland 24 hours after we meant to, three extra plane rides, one bus ride, and one crappy hotel attached to a hospital later. The other girl ended up on the East Coast in a random hospital.
We got sick.
I never get sick. I simply don’t accept it (I will die of massive cancer, suddenly).
We ended up in a small town, Dingle, and gulped down foul-tasting cough syrup. My remaining friend choose to sleep those two nights, but I went out to the pubs, because I was in Ireland, damn it, and I was not going to let a cough stop me.
The second night I was there, I was picked up by an old man.
When I say picked up and old man, I mean that I was sitting, sipping hard cider and watching a band, and a man approached me, told me I was the only young American not taking pictures of him.
“Why are they doing that?”
I shrugged. He was the epitome of Ireland, like James Joyce carved him out of memory, and he was in town, celebrating his eighty-first birthday.
He asked me if I wanted to go off to another bar, and I went. I don’t make a practice of leaving bars with strange men, but there were only three bars, and he was small and frail.
We ended up in the backroom of bar, watching two New Zealanders rock out. There were a bunch of young people dancing, but I felt I had to stick with my old man, and I stayed seated.
As I watched them, they switched over to a song that thrilled me. An international hit by hometown boys who did good, boys I saw play when we were high schoolers dreaming. And they made it.
A guy came over to talk to me, and it was so loud that he had to put his arms on my shoulders and lean into me. I leaned back, swaying a little under the excitement, and he asked me, “What part of Ireland are you from?”
“I’m not from Ireland! I’m from Chicago! Like Oprah. I’m from America!”
“I thought you were Irish! I’m from West Cork!”
And there I was, a dumb kid in a tiny town in Ireland listening to two Kiwis play a song from my hometown while an Irish boy mistook me for one of his people.
At that moment, the world felt simultaneously tiny and huge. Travel is so important, and so amazing.