The bus ride into Cork was long and dismally uneventful. I was looking forward to seeing some of the countryside on the three hour + trip, but was thwarted by the low-lying clouds and relentless rain. Nothing was to be seen beyond the luminous white lines on the sides of the road.
But I suppose that’s Ireland for you.
Roisin’s father was supposed to pick me up at the bus station and walk me to their house. It wasn’t until I arrived at the station in Cork that I realized I had absolutely no idea what Roisin’s father looked like – or what his name was, for that matter. I had Roisin’s phone number in my journal and I knew that she was just an Internet café email away, so I didn’t panic. I felt incredibly silly for not asking for a picture or a name, but I kept my hopes up and assumed that Roisin had showed her father my picture, and that he would be able to pick me out of the crowd of equally un-enchanted, exhausted bus Eireann passengers.
So what do you do when you know you’re supposed to meet someone but don’t know how to go about it? Yes. You wander around with your massive suitcase trailing behind you and a crazed, desperate, lost expression on your face. This is an expression I have absolutely perfected through the years (it takes a good deal of finesse to get it just right), so Harvey walked right up to me and said, “I’m Roisin’s father, Harvey. You must be Aimee.”
I’ve decided that no one actually needs to have names or pictures. Just an expression that says you sure wish you did.
Harvey lives at the top of a very steep hill, and since he is every bit a gentlemen, he immediately offered to carry my large suitcase the entire way back to his house. I protested feebly at the generosity of this stranger, but was dismissed with a wave of the hand that seemed to say, “this is simply the way things are and there’s no use trying to fight them.” Their house is enormous, old, and decorated in the same meaningful fashion as their Dingle cottage. Upon leaving the mudroom, I was greeted by an almost disconcertingly intelligent terrier/border collie mix, a bouncy, chubby, affectionate terrier puppy, and Roisin’s mother, Ailish – a woman nearly too welcoming for words.
I wiled away a couple of hours chatting with Ailish – who, within the first ten minutes, told me I was welcome to stay as long as I liked, borrow various articles of clothing during my visit, and leave my behemoth bag in the spare room during the rest of this three week adventure around Ireland. I thanked her as heartily as I could, but no amount of, “My goodness, thank-you!” ever seems to be sufficient in the face of such hospitality. So after a fair few of the above, I just got a bit red in face and mumbled awkwardly under my breath about how dreadfully wonderful she was being. I told her I’d be happy to cook dinners while I was staying with her, and she greeted this offer by presenting me with a whole chicken. I decided to use my fallback recipe of white wine chicken, which is my celiac version of the typical American “Beer Butt Chicken.” I prepare this white wine variety by pulling the skin away from the chicken and rubbing between the meat and skin with herbs, garlic, and olive oil, and then putting about 8 oz. of white wine into a beer can (cut in half) inside the cavity. I stuff more herbs and lemon slices down the throat, and place a couple of lemon slices inside the breast. When the chicken cooks, the wine evaporates up into the chicken – doing an excellent job of keeping it moist and flavorful.
Roisin got home from her art class around 2:00, and after a hurried lunch, she took me for a quick jaunt around Cork. She showed me a couple of shoe shops (I lusted after the boots, per use), and then walked me through the English Market.
The English Market used to be aimed towards the wealthier residents of Cork, but is now aimed towards just about anyone. The Queen of England visited this market on her trip to Ireland (I’m not sure when), and everyone I’ve spoken to thus far about the market has made sure to mention her presence that fortuitous day. The English Market seems to have everything I’d want out of a market – fresh and dried sausages, a wide variety of cheeses, freshly caught fish, wines, veggies, and sweets. If only it had fresh figs.
After a quick drink in a pub down the street, Roisin and I changed into our yoga attire, loaded Roisin’s mats and blankets into the boot, and climbed into her van for the half hour drive to her yoga studio. After helping prepare the room, I had to retire to a different building to contact a potential host in France via Skype. The conversation went very well, and I now have a place to stay in Cote d’Azur, 800 meters from the beach. The work schedule is very light, and I love that it’s so family oriented. I’ll be cooking dinners, cleaning around the apartment, and playing with Alessandro – Caroline’s three year old son. I’ll have my own room and bathroom, be given a bus card so that I can get around on my own, and even be given a calling card so that I can have a social life in my off-time. I was looking forward to the possibility of going back to Italy to learn some Italian, work with kids, and make a few euros, but this opportunity seems almost too good to be true, and I am not going to pass it by.
Things happily settled with Caroline, I returned to Roisin’s yoga class and was able to participate in the last half hour. I was thoroughly impressed with her teaching abilities; articulate, warm, and humorous, she capably leading her class of 9 through a well-designed routine. It was my first class since yoga training in Spain, and it was a lovely experience.
We arrived back at the house around ten, and after a bit of Internet confusion and a chat with a friendly neighboring couple, I retired to Roisin’s sister’s old room for the night. Before the warm bed and glass of wine lulled me into a contented slumber, I noticed that Ailish had even set out a pair of slippers for me for the morning.
My goodness, thank-you.
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| Roisin's puppy is redeeming dogs for me. |
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| Cork, Cork |
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