An American in Ireland

When I first meet people in Ireland and they find out I didn’t move over for a job, they ask the inevitable question, “Did ya move here for a fella?” Considering most American women I’ve met here did in fact follow their Irish husbands back to the homeland, I can understand why people would assume such a thing. When I tell them there is no fella and that I moved here to experience a new adventure, they usually ask if I A) want to meet a man and B) if I want to have children.

Of course it would be great to meet a fabulous, intelligent, handsome, funny, adventurous, foodie-type who loves to travel and is well-versed in current events/literature/etc. (or at least someone who possesses a few of these traits!). As for the kids question, my answer typically elicits a double-take of shock and disbelief, as if I was a three-headed alien or a talking dog. I don’t know if I want to have kids and to be honest I’m pretty sure that I probably don’t though I’d never say never. Most Irish people I encounter cannot seem to wrap their brains around the concept that a woman might not want to bear children, and I’m getting used to retorts like, “Oh you’ll change your mind – just you wait!” or “But of course you do, you just haven’t met the father!” Once, an acquaintance introduced me as, “Clare, and she says she probably doesn’t want children – can you believe that?”

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Summer in Ireland means two things. The first is that there will be more rain during this season than nearly any other (but I think I’ve written enough about the weather so we won’t focus on that right now); second is that there are a myriad of outdoor festivals to choose from all season long. Clearly the two don’t mix, but one thing I’ve learned about the Irish is that they don’t let a little rain stop them from enjoying their summer activities. If they did, they’d never leave their homes!

Since I’ve moved here, we’ve had the Drogheda Arts Festival, the Samba Festival and last weekend the Prawn Festival. The latter used to be an annual event in the neighboring fishing village of Clogherhead, but due to the recession has been on hold for the last several years. Well this year it came back with gusto and three days chock full of events and activities. One of the main attractions was breaking the world record for most people buried up to their necks on the beach, a record previously held by the French with 324 people. The locals all came out with shovels in hand and smashed the world record with an astonishing 524 people! See official photos here. Other event activities included a golf classic, parade and live music.

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I’m not going to lie: Sometimes Ireland gets to me, and not in a good way. Lately I’ve been feeling quite cranky, to be rather polite, and it seems every little thing gets on my nerves. Whether it’s a silly thing like the lack of “plain” clothing I can find (what is up with this country’s obsession with bows and floral patterns?) or something more serious like the blatant sexism I witness on a weekly basis, there are times when I feel like Drogheda itself is squeezing every last bit of sanity right out of my soul. The constant hay fever, the zillions of greenfly in the air and lackadaisical approach to customer service drives me nuts. The other day I had to go to three grocery shops just to find the ingredients for a pretty basic meal. As I searched yet another store for fresh basil, I found myself muttering under my breath like a crazy old bag lady, “What is wrong with this place?!”

The weather doesn’t help either. While we’ve had a relatively mild summer so far, the last week brought monsoon-type rain showers that made everything more difficult. The other day I was walking to the store when another downpour suddenly occurred and I had to struggle to get inside the shop because customers were all standing in the doorway, waiting for the rain to subside. I wanted to physically push them aside but I value my freedom so I refrained. We had 5 days in a row of lashing rain with no letup in sight and even though I was warned about the Irish summers before I came, it’s nearly pushed me over the edge.

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Amazing what havoc this little piece of hardware can wreck!

I don’t embarrass easily. When I was 12 years old, I was the unsuspecting victim of a terribly random incident so deeply humiliating that it was just all uphill from there.

It was after recess (that’s the mid-morning break during the school day) and everyone was running back into the classroom, eager to get into their seats before the second bell rang. I, too, was in a hurry – I was lagging behind for whatever reason and realized I was only seconds away from that final bell. I first scampered into the coatroom, which was a walk-in closet inside the classroom, to hang up my jacket. I then turned quickly and sprinted toward my desk, but something suddenly and quite violently yanked me back. What happened was the bolt fixture (see photo above) had fishhooked the little gap between my blouse buttons and due to my rapid speed had literally ripped the shirt completely off my back. My arms actually flung back from the force – imagine Michael Phelps doing the backstroke – and within a split second I was standing there in my training bra in front of the ENTIRE class of students, some of whom were hit in the face by flying buttons. It was rock bottom as far as embarrassing childhood moments go.

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