An American in Ireland

Few things are more humbling than moving to another country on your own. After the novelty wears off and the dust settles and you realize just how far away you are from home, it knocks you back a bit. And God knows I needed to be knocked back a bit.

To be honest, I’ve never been the humble type. When I was younger, I said everything that came to my mind and put my foot in my mouth on a regular basis. I often think about an incident from back when I was a lowly newsroom assistant in my early 20s. My editor, a wiry, pencil-thin woman named Jondi Ward, was someone I decided right away I didn’t like. She was good at her job but was absolutely stone-cold to me no matter how well I performed my duties and was fiercely critical when I fell short of her expectations. I never approached her about my concerns, because at that age being right was more important than a resolution. I chose to talk smack to anyone who’d listen, particularly to the night-desk crew. This was the group of guys who’d stumble in for their 2 p.m. shift, bleary-eyed from another late night of putting the paper to bed topped off with a few (or several) nightcaps. The night-desk chief, Grant Condy, a slightly gruff, mid-40s man with a soft-center of a heart, was my go-to ear for my Jondi b*tch-sessions.

I always went for shock value when speaking of my ill-feelings toward Jondi; I’d pepper my rants with the “c” word and other colorful insults. In my immaturity I felt very punk rock about the whole thing and was convinced I was a crusader, the Brave One, someone willing to speak out (though never to Jondi herself!) about the mistreatment I had to endure – oh how the world revolved around me back then! Grant always responded with empathetic nods and a few neutral yet wise words of wisdom like “Just hang on in there!” Though he never partook in the sh*t-slinging, I felt he understood. He just got me.

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The other day while out to eat with my friends we got into a discussion about colcannon, the much-beloved traditional Irish dish of mashed potatoes and cabbage, spring onions or kale, depending on how your mam prefers to make it. Sinead and Earnan recalled how as kids, they always had a very specific way of eating their colcannon. They and their siblings would create a little volcano with the potato mixture and then put a lump of butter in the middle, resulting in a butterlicious lava flow that churned out from the center of the mash mountain. No one remembers who started the trend but they both recalled with great affection this small but crucial colcannon custom.

I am always impressed at how close my Irish friends keep their childhood memories; whether we’re drinking at the pub or taking a spin around town, the entertainment is often tales from their childhood, always told with smiling eyes and a kind of pure giddiness that’s usually limited to children themselves.

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Really hilarious drunk girl I met while out in Dublin one night; the root of all that is good and evil in Ireland.

The other night I tuned into the magical hour of television programming that is Boozed Up Irish Abroad. As the title quite obviously reveals, the reality show follows a group of young Irish tourists who party their way through the nightclubs of Majorca, the Spanish destination popular with a variety of white-trash European holiday seekers. The program highlights the fighting, vomiting, blathering and sexual exploits of these young Irish as they see who can achieve liver failure and/or get arrested first. It’s a real gem of a show really, and gives even the worst American reality shows (Real Housewives, Tiaras and Toddlers, etc.) a run their money.

With the exception of a small group, it’s not exactly a positive or accurate portrayal of the Irish. The show got me thinking about what my notions of Ireland and Irish people were before I moved here, and if particular media portrayals gave me certain expectations of what I would find in this country. I suppose since my introduction to the Irish happened many years ago when I lived with a group of them (read about them in this post) back in San Francisco, I felt relatively familiar with the culture and attitudes of Ireland before coming here. So I had to go further back than that…did I have any preconceived ideas before I met them?

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A while back, I wrote a blog post about What I’ve Learned since moving here to Ireland. Now, on the six-month anniversary of my move here, I’d like to present what I love about Ireland and about living here.

*High visibility jackets: I know you think I’m crazy right about now. OK, I don’t really love the high visibility jacket in and of itself, but I love what it represents. About a month into my relocation, my friend and I took a walk down a country road sometime in the early evening. It was still quite bright outside, but as we walked we were stopped by four separate people asking us why we were not wearing high visibility jackets. These people literally pulled their cars over, rolled down their windows and gave out to us (as they say here).

“You’ll get hit by a car!” said one. “The sun is going down and it’ll be dark soon, what are you thinking?” asked another. Even a week later my friend’s cousin, who was one of the people who’d stopped us, scolded me again saying, “I still can’t believe yous (<– slang for you girls, you guys, you people) were out on the road with no high vis jackets!”

I found all this fretting about high visibility jackets touching, really. Out in rural Ireland it gets really dark at night and therefore everyone who lives there owns one of these jackets. It’s as essential to the country wardrobe as Wellies and rain slickers. Whether you’re walking your dog or changing a flat tire, if it’s anywhere close to dusk you’ll be sporting one. In Los Angeles, the only people wearing high visibility jackets are road crew workers and night-time cyclists. I’ve never owned one (or even uttered the words “high visibility jacket”) my entire life. I remember that was the day I understood I was in a totally different place.

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When I was visiting my friends in Collon last September (this was the trip that basically got the wheels turning about moving to Ireland), I noticed red and black checkered flags all over the village. Pubs, houses, telephone poles – they were everywhere. I soon found out that these flags bore the colors of the Mattock Rangers, the local Gaelic football club, and that the team was close to securing a spot in the 2009 finals. The anticipation and anxiety of the village was evident in the bits and pieces of conversation I overheard during my visit. It was as if the entire population of Collon was holding its collective breath, careful not to jinx a victory by too much talk while at the same time silently agonizing over the thought of a loss.

I went back to America before the final match but heard from friends that the Mattock Rangers clinched the championship the following month. I saw video and photos of the three-day celebration around Collon village, and it looked absolutely mad. The guys were jumping on tables, the team paraded through the streets on the back of a huge flat-bed truck and it seemed the entire village was out partying for those three days and nights – kids, moms, dads, grandparents, the whole lot. I didn’t quite understand the passion and, most importantly, the significance of the team and what they meant to the community until I saw that evidence. For the village of Collon, the Mattock Rangers represent its hopes and dreams; it’s not just a football team, it’s a way of life for many in the community.

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Illustration credit: Suat Eman/FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Whenever my friends and I go to the pub, something strange occurs. Though we all go there together, the second we arrive there is a separation of the sexes: the women sit at one table and the men at another. It’s kind of like the Red Sea, but instead of Moses it’s a peculiar, old-fashioned standard that parts us.

I suppose no matter the culture, women have their bond with other women and men with men but I still find this automatic, consistent division very hard to understand. While I’ve never been one to pay much attention to social expectations or opinions, I feel self conscious when I move over to the men’s table (and I find I’m almost always the first to make the crossover!). As the evening goes on people eventually mix but there’s always the core male table and female table enforcing the divide with talk of football on one side and babies, handbags and clothes on the other.

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