It’s a good birthday when you wake up in the morning in
Chicago and put your head to bed at the end of the day in Ireland.
I’m not a nervous traveler, but I realized several weeks
ago that this would be the first time I had flown alone in almost 20 years,
and, while I know I am capable of finding where I’m headed on my own, Chris
usually navigates busses and trains and routes and paths for the both of us.
Kristen and I talked about the new Stephen King television romp Under the Dome on the way to the airport
and her thought that Archie should maybe read it as his introduction to King instead
of just watching it. Succumbing as I do to the power of suggestion, I downloaded
it before the flight and began it once I boarded the plane. And I boarded the
plane quickly because people who had only personal items and no carry ons were
encouraged to board second only to first class which is appropriate and fair
since they have the word “first” right in their title. And, while of course I missed him, this was
when I realized some parts of the journey are easier on my own than with my
beloved husband—who is always carrying 132 things with him, some of which has always
already spilled here and there. In any case, I boarded easily, settled in and, by
the time I got through the first several chapters in which there is a terrific
and terrible plane crash, I was already up in the air and on my way. Six and a
half hours plus a six hour time change later and I was in Ireland.
The next leg was a bus ride from Dublin to Limerick and,
ever the gentleman and decent husband, Chris sent ahead information about where
and when to get the bus. Throughout some of our past travels finding the bus
has been a bit of an adventure in and of itself… is the “bus” that station
wagon? Is it that minivan? Is it that chicken bus? A lot of people are sitting
in the back of that pickup truck; is it that? Everything is easier in a first
world country where there are signs and designated bus stops and benches. That
said, Chris told me to look for a red bus and the bus that arrived for me was
white; I got on anyway and it took me where I wanted to go. You cut across the
country from east to west going from Dublin to Limerick and it is ancient and
green and beautiful.
A gentler attitude than I am used to was apparent even on
the bus; a young man got on, paid his way to some destination, and a mile or
two down the road told the driver he had changed his mind. He explained that he
had been too impulsive when he decided to make his trip that day. The driver
let him off and told him to use the ticket another better day.
Chris was waiting for me at the University of Limerick bus
stop, and I’m glad. The most confusing part of the journey was navigating
campus. The university is sprawling and
the Shannon River runs through it. Chris tells me that the river also divides
the counties so while we are staying in Limerick, his classes are across the
Living Bridge in Clare. The architecture here is stunning—modern, but with a
clear mission to blend into and complement its natural setting. Chris has been
too busy with classes to take pictures here on campus, but tomorrow I’ll bring
the camera with me while I walk the grounds and see if I can’t capture a little
of what makes it charming. I can’t imagine how stimulating and soothing it
would be to have this as the backdrop to my education, so special. It’s a bit old fashioned here though; when Chris
paid for my accommodations on campus he thought he was just arranging for me to
join him in his room. When he picked up the extra key, he realized that it was
a key to a separate room entirely. Blas
is keeping my virtue intact, at least on paper--the guy told Chris he didn’t
care where anybody slept but we were paying for two rooms.
After traveling all afternoon and all night and all day
again, I was exhausted and napped while Chris was in class but woke in time for
dinner in the pub—a heaping mound of curried chicken—and then one of the
sessions Chris has been telling me about. Last night there was a subtle
transition from people sitting around having a pint to playing music. First, a
young man and woman got out their instruments and started playing and then
another woman joined them, then another. Over the course of the next few hours,
people moved in and out of the circle and the circle grew and at one point
there were two Irish flutes, an Irish banjo (which has only four strings and
not quite the same twangy echo as an American one), a concertina, two mandolins,
a drum, a guitar, a host of fiddles and several vocalists. Songs are played in
cycles of three and transitions between them are fast, as are the melodies. It’s
dizzying and hypnotic at the same time and I look forward to this evening when
I’m less sleepy and can hold on longer, since Chris told me on our way out last
night—even after hours of being there—that it was just getting started. There
is also the music of language. The people in Chris’s program are here from the
world over: Ireland, Sweden, Finland, Denmark, France, Israel, Holland,
Scotland. There are those languages and English, too, and Irish. Chris tells me
that the Irish call their own language Irish and aren’t quite sure why others
call it Gaelic.
It was a grand introduction to Ireland and a nice way to
spend my birthday, which somehow—what with travel and time change—ended up
stretching from one day to two, something I would recommend to anyone who
enjoys a good celebration.
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