Passenger Swapping in Ireland

Although our little silver Renault was among the first cars driven onto the ferry and--predictably--the last off, our close proximity to the ramp teased us into believing we'd move as soon as the ramp lowered onto the third deck.  However, 15 minutes after the ramp descended with two cars and four nervous people, we still sat breathing car exhaust, watching everyone and their motorcycle-riding, leather-wearing, Austrian brother drive down the ramp and off the boat before us.  I've heard sailors describe "harbor fever" before--the impatience one feels when the ship enters the harbor, and awaits the harbor pilot to steer the ship to port--but I never really felt it before that day. See, worse than wanting to step onto Irish soil was the desire to hug our friends who waited at the first roundabout outside Rosslare Port.

Irish Friend Aside:
Rachelle and I have been friends since the fall of 1989, when her first letter coincidentally arrived at my home in Wisconsin some time during my first trip to Ireland.  I was 17 then and I had worked two jobs to save my money to see my other pen pal.. the one whose mother kicked me out of his Galway home three days after my arrival.. But that's a story for another blog.  

Rachelle is from Dublin and her family would never throw me out of their house. So, aside from adoring her and her family, we root for Dublin's Gaelic Football team over every other... especially Galway.  Now, I'm not saying I don't deserve to get kicked out of a house on occasion and I'm not saying my first pen pal's mother didn't have cause to kick me out in 1989, but if she wants to woo you to her side of the argument, she can write her own blog.  On this blog, I'm the wronged party and she was completely unreasonable!

Gaelic Football Aside:
If your friend gives you a lovely navy blue O'Neills GAA Dublin rain jacket, you should know that wearing it in Wexford, Wicklow, Cork, Tipperary or really anywhere outside of Dublin is equivalent to wearing a Packers jersey in Chicago, or a Red Socks hat in New York. If you think the markings on your jacket are discreet and people can't see the small light blue stripes on the shoulder or the subtle "Átha Cliath" embroidery on the upper left breast, you're wrong.  They won't treat you as badly as Philadelphia fans do when the Eagles are losing--they're not animals, after all--but you may get a few looks you wouldn't expect from an Irishwoman... outside of Galway that is.

So, after every other vehicle left the ship, the only Irish person employed by Irish Ferries motioned us to drive completely around the deck before descending the ramp onto the third deck. We determined that he was just messing with us because we had French plates, but we obeyed him since we were 47% sure he would eventually let us leave... which he did... and after a pleasantly brief encounter with the Garda Síochána (Irish Police), we were on our way to the roundabout.

Driving Aside:
If you're an American driving a French car in Ireland and you have access to an Irish friend, I suggest you take her in your car even if you have to trade your husband to another car to do it.  (For good measure, you should trade your son too.)  This way, you have someone who knows the roads (or at least the language); her husband has a greater incentive in you following his car (one assumes); and--although your husband can see you in the Irish car's side mirrors--he can't hear you complain about him. (Note:  It takes a while to coordinate complaining while wearing a smile on your face.)

Another benefit to swapping passengers is that your friend will yell at you immediately if you forget to stay in the left lane (a husband may avoid your wrath), and her hands and legs will tell you what she's too stunned to say when a truck comes barreling around a well-hedged corner and you're crowding the center line. I admit that this last example makes traveling with an Irish person especially rewarding.  Since two-way rural roads often look like the first picture below, and may look like the second if your GPS has a sense of humor, I was reduced to hysterics at the sight of my friend grabbing for a nonexistent passenger-side steering wheel and slamming down the nonexistent clutch. Laughs were also had when the Irish car scraped a hedge or hit a pot hole full of water with your son's head hanging out the rear window.  To say that Ireland is a more perfect version of home is an understatement!

One last point about driving in Ireland is that after a few days, driving on the left begins to feel strangely normal which makes it feel wrong.  So, the only way to keep things straight in your head is to say "left, left, left" every time you turn a corner which makes singing in the car impossible, and parking lots pretty dangerous since the lack of any real order forces you to jump to the left, then the right when that feels wrong.  In short, expect to annoy a few people on and off the highway, and in and outside of your car.

A few minutes after leaving the Rosslare roundabout, we found a lovely, warm, dark-paneled restaurant... or maybe it was a pub.  In any event, they served food, and everyone spoke English, and it was only a few minutes later that I spied the kids talking enthusiastically across the table with their Irish "cousins" while the boy appeared completely at ease, and really and truly happy.

Here are a couple of landscape pictures in case you're feeling impatient:

I'll talk more about the beauty of Ireland in my next post, but be forewarned that the landscape competes with the people for your time and attention, and the people generally win.  

English Language Aside:

Although the British are unsurpassed at using English as a weapon (it doesn't take long to assess their effectiveness while watching Question Time with Members of Parliament), and most Americans use English as a purely utilitarian device (switching common organizations and phrases into acronyms as often as possible and not bothering to correct each others grammar because if you understood what they said it doesn't matter how they said it), the Irish use English as a play thing, like an intriguing toy that washed up on the beach.  So, bring a notebook with you to write down some of their funnier phrases and insults.  Here are some I jotted down:

"She's got brains to burn." (Apparently she's too smart for her own good.) 

"Paper never rejects ink." (An explanation for inaccurate news.) 

"She's so ugly, the tide wouldn't take her out." (The meaning seems pretty clear.)

Question:  "Did you miss me?"
Answer:  "I wasn't aiming for you."

Now, although the Irish are well known for their ability to spin a yarn, their ability to make shocking words completely acceptable is a testament to their charm. Two sentences of a story that stand out for me are, "So, he said if the lad went near him again, he'd beat the PISS outta him!" He swallowed. "So, that was grand…"

When we finally pushed back from the table and put our notebook away, we found some signs that made us laugh nearly as much as the conversation.  The first picture is from Skibbereen in County Cork.

An unfortunate name for a business situated next to a funeral home.

Alarming, but helpful.

Good advice for any occasion.

Ending aside:

So, I know I promised I would finish this blog before Thanksgiving and I'm clearly not a person of my word because I still need to finish Ireland, the rest of France, and a few spots in Switzerland.  I'm not sure why I'm so slow, but somehow it took a lot less time to write while we were traveling.  In any event, I will definitely be done by Easter!

© 2013 Nicole Wirth
Author of:  Letters to Salthill