Physically Assaulted in the Motherland

I often think of the writing of my grandma, and only posthumously did I learn of its existence. Shortly after she died, I encountered a poem she wrote: “An Ode To Bars.” In the most beautifully simplistic prose, my grandma perfectly encapsulated one of life’s most precious experiences: alone in a bar, drinking, and reading. I have always associated my grandma with words and wit, at her house we would play bananagrams and scrabble, and she would always complete the morning crossword. She was and continues to be, my ultimate standard of feminine beauty and intelligence: poised, well-dressed, and sharp. I have fleeting memories of her final years, made even more detached by the brutal, rapid war that alzheimer’s raged within her, but my grandma in Ireland will forever reign vividly. There is a photo of all of us, the cousins, the aunts, the uncles, in Irish gear in front of a pub, and my grandma is smiling so widely she may very well be laughing. This extended family trip to Ireland at 11 years old is one of my core memories; I felt like we belonged in the country the same way I do now. The streets welcomed us as the American descendants of famine and limerick, and we proudly heralded our half-Irish blood as birthright. 

Now, at 21, a decade later, I have finally made my return. I flew into Dublin late at night, everything was damp but it wasn't raining. I wandered for some time, naively hoping I would find toothpaste and face wash available to purchase past 11pm, then frustratedly sat on a stoop and smoked a consolation joint. I watched a slug crawl across the pavement for about ten minutes, then attempted to fall asleep in my stuffy, majorly-male hostel room. Unsurprisingly, hostel living is not for me. It requires a unique combination of extroverted audaciousness that I simply cannot procure. After checking out, I walked to the James Joyce Centre two blocks away. I paid my respects, sent an overly-sincere, cringe-inducing email to my Joyce professor, then sat at Trinity College and considered what life might be like if I had committed to Ireland at 18 as opposed to sequestering myself to Wisconsin. Would I be just as insane? Probably, and like New York, the destination will also only become sweeter with time- there is a graduate school application brewing. 

After a dutiful visit to the National Gallery and subsequent pub lunch (unfortunately Guinness is still undrinkabley bad in Ireland), I began my way back to the airport for my second stop, County Kerry. My thoughts were wholesome and tranquil, with thoughts of my grandma gently flowing around my beer-saturated brain (never let purchased alcohol go to waste). I never could have foreseen what was to come, as up until this very moment Ireland had welcomed me with open arms and happy memories. Out of nowhere and without provocation, an elderly woman rushes up to me, winds her arm back, punches me with all her might in my shoulder, and then walks away without a word. New York has trained me well and I don’t look back or pause, but she has completely derailed the mental trajectory of my afternoon stroll. A couple walks up to me to ask if I’m okay, I laugh it off. Now, the only thing I can think of is this ridiculous altercation’s significance. Already, I look for signs from the universe in the most mundane ways (random 8’s and morning cat encounters bring good luck, whereas unsuccessfully counting backward from 100 or missing class is bad luck) but this interaction was abrasive and sudden, screaming at me to interpret it. A problem arose: I could not logically make sense of it. What in me, in my face, in my outfit, provoked her so? Did I look like a former lover? An estranged daughter? Or does my demeanor suggest criminality? The longer I think about it, the less certain I am. Ultimately, however, I feel lucky to be her chosen attackee. It is so bizarre and comedic that it felt personally merited, like a special moment just for me. She must have known this altercation would mean as much to me as it did her.

Oh it's lovely to be in Kerry, where my past associations contain only the elevated mindset of a prepubescent splendor. Even better to be alone in Kerry, where I’m lonely enough amongst the vast green to write my novel and believe that it's good. I landed in Kerry to more wetness and a bus that never showed. In the rain, I walked along the highway until I made it to the train station, where I waited outside and prayed that the trains here would follow schedule. There were no benches. With my phone at 5%, I sat on the ground under a canopy and entertained myself with only my thoughts. Just when things were looking bleak (the weather and my mind aligned), a train approached going in the opposite direction to Tralee. I stood back, careful not to be enticed by the warm interior, to show that I would not be boarding. Seconds later, the conductor de-boards and approaches me. “Where are ya travelen tuh?” he asks in the best accent I have ever heard. “Killarney?” I reply, unsure of how I’ve already been made for a foreigner. “Well, get on then” he invites, “they’re the same train. I turn around. I wouldn’t want you waiting out here in the cold.” Eager to charge my phone and be dry, I board. 

I think I am well suited for Ireland, where centuries of catholic guilt force descendants to wear their heart on their sleeves and you can smoke cigarettes until the day you die without judgment. And fuck is pronounced “fook.” I bar hop until I find live music. The Melodies and banjo send fizzes to my brain just like the beer, and all of a sudden it feels like my heart is wearing the wool sweater that I am. Everyone is singing and stomping and dancing- it's like Hollywood has never exaggerated a single Irish scene. I feel like I could relocate immediately if it wasn’t for the state of the teens on the street. It’s like the state fair midway, and like my own mother, I refuse to raise a whore. 

I have never had more luck than at an Irish bar. I walk into a pub after dinner, and a man waves me over as if greeting an old friend. He embraces me, saying he saw me earlier at a restaurant and I left before he could say hi. His wife tells him to buy me a drink, then a new group of locals finds it hilarious that I have brought a book to the pub and I join their group. Getting men to buy me drinks is something I am usually capable of, but not without conscious effort. In New York, it requires a performance. In Ireland, I’ve barely spoken a word and pints of beer are being siphoned off to me in rapid succession. After one walks me home and I repeatedly remind him he is not to spend the night, I close the door on him as he tells me he loves me. Good god, I think as I prepare to kiss him to coax him into leaving, when will someone say that and actually mean it! I am not a beer girl. With 4 Gin and tonics, I can flirt and sleep. 4 beers, however, I feel pregnant and wish to be punctured with a needle. Crisis ensues at the airport when I miss my flight and have to sleep on a bench, but a balding man behind the desk waves the $500 change fee with a wink and shapeshifts into a leprechaun.