Monday, February 12, 2007
Ireland
With an air as aggressive as the Scottish and a Sea as dramatic as a young lover refused, Ireland is the country where I lost my will.
I felt it go, like a tendon snapping, as we sat on the bus to the ferry to Belfast. If I were a cell phone, I would have started doing that warning beep that the battery gives off when it is about to die. Don't get me wrong, I was greatly anticipating Ireland, I was, but somehow the cold and the exhaustion and the disappointment in the male gender housed in my cousin's tears just became heavier than even I could carry on my back. Slowly I became bus sick and then ferry sick and by the time I was in Belfast I knew I was coming down with the cold/flu that I successfully avoided pre-Christmas. That is the thing. I didn't even really fight it. Like a wave looming, I have just allowed it to crash down upon my head.
And I now, I can't stop sneezing.
Belfast was intense. Yes, because I was suddenly sick, but also because it carries on its back so many years of political unrest and dis-ease. Still, It will be the location of what might become one of my favorite memories. Friday night lean and I made our way to Fibber McGees, a pub we were told by a local that was located at the back of a restaurant, off a back alley, that would assure us of some real Celtic music. With a balled up Kleenex in my fist, I slung on my rain proof pants and coat - I know, sexy - and braved the weather for this Irish experience.
It did not disappoint. It was packed packed packed and reeking of second hand smoke. Within the first 10 minutes a neighboring table that I had been eavesdropping on (you gotta LOVE those accents) found us some spare stools and invited us to join their table, smack dab in front of the band. We pretended to understand what they were saying to us while accepting free drinks and swayed back and forth to the musical revelry filling the room around us. It was fantastic. It was as stereotypical as one could imagine and I was happy, drippy nose and all. Then, just as we were about to leave the pub, the band played a medley of songs including You Are My Sunshine which I sang at the top of my phlegmy lungs. Suddenly a microphone was shoved in front of my mouth and I obliged, screaming over the din in the room - YOU MAKE ME HAPPPEEEEEEE, WHEN SKIES ARE GRAAAAAAAAY. The band raised their eyebrows because they could hear that I could actually sing and wasn't just a drunken Canadian in a bad wind breaker. After the song ended, they introduced to the packed pub that they were going to get the Canadian girl up to sing a song. I was stunned. The pub was afire. Leanne was laughing and nudging me up to the stage and the next thing I knew, I was standing in front of a pub full of plastered Irish folk. "I don't know what to sing!" I implored and the bass player asked me "What would you sing at kareoke?"
At kareoke, in a room as crazy as this, I would sing I Will Survive. So, ladies and gentlemen, that is what the band started playing. And that is what I sang. I came from Canada to Ireland to sing I Will Survive with a live Celtic band in a pub off a back alley in Belfast. It was unforgettable. Totally. The crowd sang along, so loud you could hardly hear me, but isn't that the whole point? God, the community, god, the alcohol. Lee and I left immediately afterwards and I feel asleep reeking like smoke, sinuses pounding and grinning under my umpteen covers.
The Giant's Causeway must also be noted, as it was breathtaking. As for Dublin yesterday, I spent the day in bed, not moving, allowing Leanne to be entertained by an enamoured James down visiting from Glasgow. Tonight, we are in Galway and It has a lovely, slower energy which I look forward to experiencing tomorrow. By Thursday I will be in the home of Jax's parents in Glouster, allowing their parent-ness to keep me going and soothe my battered self and then, in nine days, I will be home.
Nine Days.
Beep.
Beep.
Beeeeeeeep.
I felt it go, like a tendon snapping, as we sat on the bus to the ferry to Belfast. If I were a cell phone, I would have started doing that warning beep that the battery gives off when it is about to die. Don't get me wrong, I was greatly anticipating Ireland, I was, but somehow the cold and the exhaustion and the disappointment in the male gender housed in my cousin's tears just became heavier than even I could carry on my back. Slowly I became bus sick and then ferry sick and by the time I was in Belfast I knew I was coming down with the cold/flu that I successfully avoided pre-Christmas. That is the thing. I didn't even really fight it. Like a wave looming, I have just allowed it to crash down upon my head.
And I now, I can't stop sneezing.
Belfast was intense. Yes, because I was suddenly sick, but also because it carries on its back so many years of political unrest and dis-ease. Still, It will be the location of what might become one of my favorite memories. Friday night lean and I made our way to Fibber McGees, a pub we were told by a local that was located at the back of a restaurant, off a back alley, that would assure us of some real Celtic music. With a balled up Kleenex in my fist, I slung on my rain proof pants and coat - I know, sexy - and braved the weather for this Irish experience.
It did not disappoint. It was packed packed packed and reeking of second hand smoke. Within the first 10 minutes a neighboring table that I had been eavesdropping on (you gotta LOVE those accents) found us some spare stools and invited us to join their table, smack dab in front of the band. We pretended to understand what they were saying to us while accepting free drinks and swayed back and forth to the musical revelry filling the room around us. It was fantastic. It was as stereotypical as one could imagine and I was happy, drippy nose and all. Then, just as we were about to leave the pub, the band played a medley of songs including You Are My Sunshine which I sang at the top of my phlegmy lungs. Suddenly a microphone was shoved in front of my mouth and I obliged, screaming over the din in the room - YOU MAKE ME HAPPPEEEEEEE, WHEN SKIES ARE GRAAAAAAAAY. The band raised their eyebrows because they could hear that I could actually sing and wasn't just a drunken Canadian in a bad wind breaker. After the song ended, they introduced to the packed pub that they were going to get the Canadian girl up to sing a song. I was stunned. The pub was afire. Leanne was laughing and nudging me up to the stage and the next thing I knew, I was standing in front of a pub full of plastered Irish folk. "I don't know what to sing!" I implored and the bass player asked me "What would you sing at kareoke?"
At kareoke, in a room as crazy as this, I would sing I Will Survive. So, ladies and gentlemen, that is what the band started playing. And that is what I sang. I came from Canada to Ireland to sing I Will Survive with a live Celtic band in a pub off a back alley in Belfast. It was unforgettable. Totally. The crowd sang along, so loud you could hardly hear me, but isn't that the whole point? God, the community, god, the alcohol. Lee and I left immediately afterwards and I feel asleep reeking like smoke, sinuses pounding and grinning under my umpteen covers.
The Giant's Causeway must also be noted, as it was breathtaking. As for Dublin yesterday, I spent the day in bed, not moving, allowing Leanne to be entertained by an enamoured James down visiting from Glasgow. Tonight, we are in Galway and It has a lovely, slower energy which I look forward to experiencing tomorrow. By Thursday I will be in the home of Jax's parents in Glouster, allowing their parent-ness to keep me going and soothe my battered self and then, in nine days, I will be home.
Nine Days.
Beep.
Beep.
Beeeeeeeep.
« Blog Home