365 Memories

So, my mention of Irish colcannon in yesterday's Portugal post (both countries have traditional recipes with potato and kale) now has me thinking of Ireland. Ireland brings many memories, some I've already posted on the blog, but one I have not yet mentioned: bushwhacking. In September of 1995, my parents and I visited the Emerald Isle. It was my second of three trips and their first and only. My father made all the arrangements—he is personal travel agent extraordinaire, as I may have mentioned elsewhere—and he decided to rent a car for our travels up and down the rocky western coast. For small group travel through Ireland, car rental is a great way to go, but it does entail some hazards. Actually, this is another thing that Ireland has in common with Portugal: for some years, the two countries have seemed to compete fiercely for the unhappy distinction of having the most traffic accidents in Western Europe. For locals used to the lay of the land, things like extremely narrow...

When I was young, someone told me of a superstition: as when going through tunnels, if you pass a cemetery, you are supposed to hold your breath. I don't remember who told this to me, but I know we were in a car. It made some sense to me at the time. People are (perhaps rightly) a bit squeamish about cemeteries. But—at least while living—I actually enjoy them. Which is not to say that I seek them out in some morbid thrill; I am not in any way obsessed with them. But if I am passing by, especially in a foreign country, I will almost always wander in. And there are some that really do merit a visit for their landscaping and the ornate sculptures of tombstones and mausoleums. The marble cutting is often exquisite. I have never visited The Green-Wood Cemetery in Brooklyn, nor have I been to Woodlawn , which is in the Bronx, although I have driven past them countless times. I do, however, remember two cemeteries that made impressions upon me: one is famous, and people do make pilgrimag...

The pub was McGroarty's on the Diamond; the diamond (in lieu of a square) refers to the town center in Donegal , in northwest Ireland. The "hub" of the pub—at least on April 11, 1998, which was Holy Saturday in the Western church—was a young Irishman named Greg, whom I'd met at a crowded lunch spot that same afternoon. By the end of lunch, he'd invited me out for a holiday pint with friends and family. McGroarty's was a thick sea of people, voices, pint glasses, and cigarette smoke when I arrived at 10:00 p.m. Greg rescued me from looking every bit the lost soul, the interloper—he pulled me into his circle of intimates. Turns out, that meant the whole town. I seemed to have walked into the middle of an impromptu reunion. People who hadn't seen each other in years were calling out, hugging, kissing cheeks. Everyone knew Greg and welcomed him home (he'd made the trip up from Dublin with a brother and sister, the three of them equalling half the clan of...

I went back to Ireland in April 1998. Eleven years ago now being my most recent trip to the Emerald Isle. It had been ten years between the time of this last visit and my first one in March of 1988. This time, in '98, traveling alone again meant having time to reflect on differences, and over a decade there were many in the physical, political, and psychological landscapes around me. The eyes of the world were on Ireland at this time, as well: the Easter Accord was being negotiated, with Bertie Ahern , Tony Blair, and U.S. Senator George Mitchell called to Belfast to broker a deal between the Ulster Unionists and the Nationalist side. The calendar that year mirrored the days of the current 2009 Holy Week exactly: as it is today, Maundy Thursday was on April 9 th in 1998. On that day marking communion and humility in the Christian faith, political ideology took center stage in the news—it was the official deadline day for the settlement talks. I made my way up the northwest coast ...

Whinnying, stomping, snorting, sweet-sweating horses. Horses short or many "hands" tall, sleek or barrel-bellied, good natured or mean tempered, nervous or lazy; horses that would jump or rear, balk or bolt. I loved them all. I first used to ride at Bailey's Stables in Chicago, when I was somewhere between the ages of five and nine. This was in the mid- to late 1970s—a time that may also bring to mind for native Chicagoans the highly publicized disappearance and (it was later ruled) murder of the candy heiress, Helen Brach ; Richard Bailey, stable owner and despicable con artist, was indicted in soliciting her murder and was ultimately sentenced in the mid-1990s to what amounted to a de facto life term in prison, given his age, for a complex scheme of fraud and a trail of sordid crimes that included murdering many horses as well. I shudder to think of what must have been going on behind the scenes of my weekly riding lessons. All I remember was the gentle giant of a hors...

It's Saint Patrick's Day, and if a country could talk, today America would say, "Pinch me, I'm Irish," just as many of its citizens do entreat, whether the claim is legitimate or not. (Here I confess, I never did understand the pinching bit.) On March 17, you may as well just stick an honorary O' in front of your name, call in Irish to work, and set up a pint or two at your local pub. Sláinte !  I am willing to bet that nowhere else in the world could you find a bigger deal made out of St. Paddy's Day, and I can tell you from firsthand experience (details to come) that it's a much greater event (by far) here in the States than it is in the "old country." I'm glad, actually, that this is so. It would seem a bit off-putting—not to mention totally out of an often self-deprecating character—for the Irish themselves, in Ireland, to parade so lavishly on their own behalf. Here, though, especially in my home cities of New York and Chicago (to sa...

Ireland, 1998. It had been three years since my previous visit to the Emerald Isle. Having crossed the Atlantic, and having endured an additional five hours of northbound transport courtesy of Bus Eireann , the fatigue of travel caught up with me at last in Sligo , drugging me to sleep in my hotel on Douglas Hyde Bridge at 6:00 PM. When I awoke, the light was partial, a hint of sun in an overcast sky—a typical morning; it fit with my memories of Irish weather. I looked at my watch: 8:00. When was the last time I'd slept for fourteen hours? It suited my exhaustion. I still felt groggy, but I got up, showered, changed my clothes. I took my morning medication (daily dose of Synthroid , plus a multivitamin) and headed to the lobby, asking at the reception desk what time breakfast was served. They told me from 8:00 to 10:00. As I rounded a turn that led to the restaurant, I glanced out the glass front doors. The streetlights were still on, and the sidewalks quite populated. The streetli...