At Home in Ireland

I was at the pub last night when an older man came in. This is what I love about Ireland: it wasn't 15 minutes before we were trading stories and jokes. your man was 83 years old, at least that's what he claimed. Yet he didn't look a day over 60. The secret to his success? According to him, "good eating, a little drink every day, and a lot of sex whenever you can get it."

There may not be many things in the world better than trading sex jokes with a man in his 80s. If you have the means I highly recommend it. Although, I will say that this guy told perhaps the worst jokes I have ever heard in my life, at least those that I could understand. As an example, he told me one about a man and his wife going into the delivery room. She was quite adamant that only 'Johnny' could touch her in her 'queer place.' I swear I am not making this up. The doctor explained that they needed to shave her as part of the prep for delivery. But she would only let Johnny do it. And when he did, she had to stop him because it hurt.

"What are you doing," she asked through the pain.

"I'm trying to get the wrinkle out," says your man.

Apparently this passes for humour here. Or at least it did last night. I hope that when I am old and unfunny young bucks will have the same patience with me. He did have the endearing habit, which I have noticed among quite a few older folks here, of starting a story or joke by saying "come here," as in, "c'mere, I got one for ye." You don’t actually have to move, though. It just means listen up.

As the night progressed, I noticed that the staff was nice enough to not ask me to leave. I say this not because I was being a pain, but because after closing time, the staff did ask everyone else to leave, except me and two other regulars. Much after I was sure I had worn out my welcome I excused myself to go home. As the barman went to the door to unlock it and let me out, he said "good to see you." As the words hit my ears I thought, nice of you to say, but it's just not so; you're happy to get rid of me more than anything else. But when I turned to say thanks, an earnest hand was pressed into mine, accompanied by a big smile and "Patrick, it was a pleasure." And although I can be a cynical American much of the time, I believed him.

On a barely related note, as I was walking home, I was reminded of a professor I had in undergrad. He was big on Freud in particular and German in general. One day he got going on the German word that gives English the word "uncanny." I don't remember what the German word was, but his point was that we had lost the meaning that was supposed to go with 'uncanny.' In German, uncanny meant to have both a normal and an abnormal feeling or sensation at the same time. In a way, it meant that only the familiar could really make you feel uncomfortable. So, as I crested Taylor's Hill, I had to stop and look twice at the road that I had walked down so many times. It just didn't look right. After a drunken second I figured it out. The mixture of a clear night with a lot of moonshine and a red stoplight against the street surface produced an eerie purpleness on the road. At the risk of sounding effeminate, I'd say that it was quite pretty. And in that moment, I realized that I wouldn't have noticed this unless I was familiar with the road; I did get that uncanny feeling that my professor was talking about. Part of it, I think, was the idea that I have come to know certain parts of Ireland as my own, but all the same I am not from here and never will be. It was both familiar and unfamiliar at once.

I didn't have my camera with me, but here is a picture of a nice recent sunset here.