Archives

March 2002

Spotlight: Ireland

An Irish Welcome
by Sandy Summers

How I learned to pray again, in an Irish Pub
by Bridget Haggerty

Dun na nGall (Donegal)
by Ruth Mark

Ireland's Many Graces: A Photojournal
by Ellen Kamilakis

Tricolor Nights
by Ruth Mark

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March 2002—Spotlight: Ireland

An Irish Welcome
by Sandy Summers

Mother Nature messed with my plans. I was scheduled to leave Charleston, meet some friends in Atlanta and fly overnight to Shannon, Ireland. An afternoon storm system formed a barrier between Charleston and Atlanta, canceling flights in either direction.

Since there is just one Delta flight a day from Atlanta to Shannon, I returned to Charleston only to repeat my packing and good-byes the following day. This meant I was alone on the flight to Shannon—my friends already sleeping off their jet lag and haunting the pubs. This also meant we landed in Dublin first (an every-other-day event), then Shannon, throwing me off my expected arrival time. We were delayed in Dublin when the drug dog, sporting a stylish green Irish wool sweater, scrambled beneath all the seats, six hundred feet raised in unison as if in compliance with an invisible vacuum cleaner.

During the short flight to Shannon, I reached into my backpack and pulled out Culture Shock!: Ireland by Patricia M. Levy and Danny Gratten. I flipped through, highlighting interesting facts about Irish culture: dress, drinking, driving, divorce - ethnic groups and ecumenism. I delved into the Language chapter, reading about their accents, their basic vocabulary. I stopped at the phrase, "How long are you here for?" which to the Irish means, "When did you get here?" not how long will you be in Ireland. Strange use of words, I thought.

Shannon is an old war hangar-type airport that was used during the Second World War for refueling. In post war times, royalty, screen stars and politicians stopped there en route from Europe to the United States. Now, it serves as a gateway to the West of Ireland. There is no city of Shannon, just four lanes from other cities converging at the airport. It was a bleary 8:30 in the morning when we landed, so I decided caffeine was in order before my journey to Galway City to meet my friends. I wandered through the airport, assimilating its foreign-ness, as I often do in a distant country. I stopped in the Estuary Cafe with its scenic overlook of the check-in area and its panoramic view of the Shannon estuary. I sipped coffee and people-watched. I didn't suspect that my lazy entry into Ireland would cause me to miss the bus to Galway.

I walked to the covered bus stop and knew immediately that the bus had departed without me. It was empty except for one lone young American backpacker. I peered at the timetable posted. The backpacker looked around nervously, and I reasoned that he boldly made the decision to transverse Ireland while in the safety and comfort of his suburban U.S. home—that the realism was a tad bit scarier. He looked at me with wide eyes, but said nothing. Finally, when I had deciphered the bus route that would take me to Galway by way of Ennis, I asked him where he was going. Relief flooded his face as he said he was going to Galway by way of Ennis, but he hadn't figured out how to read the bus schedule. Was I a mother figure? An American figure? A non-threatening figure? Whatever I was, he remained my traveling companion for the four-hour journey to Galway City.

Finally a bus arrived, but it was not the bus number listed on the posting in the bus stop. The driver opened the door, the epitome of all that I thought of as Irish—ruddy complected with red curls cascading below his tweed tam—broad, friendly smile. He would help me find my way. I poked my head in the bus door. "Sir", I said, "are you going to Ennis?"

"No," he replied, "How long are you here for?"

Hah! I knew that answer. Puffing up, I said, "I just got here, but I seem to have missed the bus to Galway. Where are you going?"

"For coffee, madam, would you care to join me?" he said with a decided Irish twinkle in his eyes.


Other articles by Sandy Summers:

Schmoozing in the Smokies

Falling For Charleston

Key West

 

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