Stranded in Tipp Town -- Emly, Ireland

I’m starting this post from my comfortable bedroom on the second floor of George’s country cottage. The birds seem optimistic as they welcome the morning. The cacophony of delicate tweets makes me think I could look out my window and see a gangly, cartoon fawn, or perhaps a twitter-pated skunk prancing through the sea of buttercups.

Morning sounds

But of course, there are no skunks in Ireland. Not a lot of deer, either. I’ve yet to find any of the animals Robert has assigned to me and am beginning to feel discouraged about my prospects. The only butterflies I’ve seen have been as pale as Irish milk/skin, I’ve glimpsed nary a fluffy squirrel tail, and I believe the exotic red deer only exists in zoos.

Perhaps I will see the animals when I am with Roisin or Cathal.

I think it is the dull white of the sky that makes the grass appear so very green. As I look out my window at George’s front lawn (to which I administered a buzz cut two days ago), I am more aware of the brilliant emeralds and limes. Roger McCoy says that equals cancel each other out in painting. Perhaps a breathtaking azure sky and a glistening emerald field simply cancel one another out and the scene becomes monotonous and stagnant. 

I think it will be a soft day (that’s what the Irish call a day of incessant drizzle).

George and I drove to the Lidyl in Tipperary Town yesterday to do our shopping for the week. I had made a list with the ingredients for several Moroccan dishes and the lentil stew he enjoyed so much last time I was here. However, both of us assumed the other had grabbed the list, so we exchanged the "not my fault" blank stares of in the parking lot and continued shopping without our handy reminder.

The only thing we forgot was George’s Orange Squash. None too shabby.

As we passed through the rest of town, I noted, “Tipperary hasn’t changed much since November of 2011. Still looks exactly the same to me.”

George nodded, “Tipperary never changes. Zhis is a good sing for old people like me who do not like change, but zhere are no new jobs created for za young. So zhey haf to mofe avay.”

After shopping, George dropped me off a block away from the Tipperary Internet Café and drove home to put the groceries in the fridge. Now, when I say Internet Café, I do not want you to think of a cozy coffee shop with tasteless art, dubious looking couches, and the sounds of clanging espresso machines and hipster coffee shop radio stations. I want you to think of six computers lined up in a small, cold, undecorated room with a hefty price tag of three euros fifty an hour.

So. I knew that this was likely to be the only way I could access remotely regular speed internet while in Tipperary, but I decided to ask about anyway. I had time. George needed to take equipment to be repaired in Cork, and wouldn’t be back for four or five hours. It was eleven o’clock, cold, breezy, and dreary. I meandered down the main drag of town, shamefully taking pictures here and there, aware that my hefty iPhone lenses marked me as a tourist.

Which is something I’m loath to be, for one reason or another.

After popping in and out of a few shops (mostly to warm up), I decided it may be best to return to the uninviting Internet Café. On the way up, I noticed a quaint little café off to the right that boasted sandwiches, tea, coffee, and ice cream.

Sounds like a promising place for Internet, I bee-lined toward the shop. Poking my head inside, I queried politely, “Good morning, do you have any internet here?” 

“No, no, I haven’t got any, any internet here, so,” the middle-aged fellow minding the register stammered apologetically.

“Thank-you,” I turned around to leave.

“But would ya stay, stay to have a cup o’ tea, free o’ charge, would ya now?”

“I would love a cup of tea!” I thought how nice it would be to hold the warm mug between my chilly hands. When I think of regular tea, I mostly think of warmth, not flavor.

Irish tea I drink for warmth and out of a desire to be sociable, as I find the taste boring and bland and headache inducing.

The fellow must be mighty lonely, I thought as I sipped my free cup of tea and the shop owner leaned up on the counter, twiddling his thumbs. Might as well start a conversation. Be good for ya to hear some Irish accents, it would, so. At dis rate, you’ll leave Rland wit a German accent and no Irish at all. Wouldn’t dat be gas, now?

“How long have you been open?” I offered as a starter.

We talked for about an hour. He ended up giving me his name and phone number and asking if he could take me to see Kilarney.

I told him I’d have to talk to George, but I put his number in my purse.

“I will hear from ya, won’t I?”

“Sure.  I’ve got to get going to that internet café now, though. Thanks for the tea.”

I never know how to leave those sorts of situations tactfully. I always have much better ideas in retrospect. 

I mournfully handed over ten euros at the café, thinking about all the handcrafted cheese that money could have bought. Ach. C’est la vie. I paid for my internet and I uploaded five blog posts and two yoga videos. I expected George to pick me up around four or five, but six thirty (and closing time) rolled around, and still no George. I was hungry and lonely and tired of that dank little room. I’d had one conversation with an Irish boy about his action figures. His mum was in the store for work, and he sat next to me with his toy spiderman and two other action figures I didn’t recognize.

“I like your toys,” I ventured.

“Two of dem are bad,” he waved the sinister green and the bulky black figures in front of me.”

“What about that guy?” I pointed to Spiderman.

“No, dat dere’s Spiderman. He’s good.”

“Still looks scary to me,” I returned to looking through my pictures from Morocco.

“Leave the girl alone, can’t you tell she’s working?” his mother chastised from across the room.

“It’s fine, I’m happy for the company,” I quickly demurred. “Do you like pictures?” I asked as he wedged himself between my chair and the wall to best see my photos from Morocco.

He nodded.

“You’ve found a real nice lady,” his mom had finished her work and was approaching, “But now we’ve got to go. Sorry for bodering ya.”

“No trouble, really. I was feeling a bit lonely. I’ve been here all afternoon and don’t know where my ride is... so it was good to have someone to talk with.”

“Where is it yer goin’?” a young lad behind the counter chimed in.

“Just a few km before Emly.”

“I’d be goin’ dere after work, like. Dja tink you’d want a lift? Round half six?”

“Yes, thank-you so much. That would be wonderful. Otherwise I’d have to sit out on the stoop until my friend arrives.”

“Tis no trouble at all, now.”

So I caught my first ride in Ireland. People here can be so helpful and friendly.

Although I don’t think I’ll be going to Kilarny with the ice cream man.

I’m going to format these blog posts a bit differently, for the sake of consistency. I’ll start each post with a blurb about color, and end each post with an update on challenges/preconceptions.

So.

Preconceptions:

Ireland still suffers from religious repression: CONFIRMED. Almost all the schools here are catholic and funded by the state. Abortion is illegal, even if the mother’s life is in danger. Most women who need to have abortions travel to England. Others (like this woman: ABORTION) die in Ireland from complications that could have been prevented with an abortion.

Challenges:

NONE. I keep asking people about the idiom “to be thrown for a loop” and “what do you say when you’re caught off guard?” but they all get confused expressions and say, “Well, I can’t tink of it now, sure.”