Ireland (Part 2)
7/9/2008 10:21 AM
The Irish in Americans

The remainder of the flight went well. “Well” in the sense that we didn’t bicker across the blue yonder for 6 hours. In a short time we we’re soon plied with booze and a cookie. It was also the best kind of booze…the free kind. I have noticed something among flight attendants in my travels. It’s happened on more than one occasion. If they drop a bottle of alcohol they immediately gift it to the nearest passenger. It’s like a ball gone into the stands. “Oh well, fairplay” It adds a bit of excitement to the flight. And with the rising costs “fumble drills” or notorious Cub fan “the Bartman bobbles” will begin to break out more and more in the air as bottles of Jim Beam tumble from the beverage chariots that move solidly up and down the aisles. Speaking of which those carts are truly one of the irresistible forces in the universe once it starts its track down the airplanes aisle it cannot be stopped. The flight attendants, with fear in their eyes, when a passenger enters the aisle give a helpless look saying “You fool! The cart has taken to the aisle…Run, damn you, run!!!” It’s an over bearing, yet well stocked, giant. They could be glacial, if a glacier dispensed peanuts as it passed. In all the years and the advancements of the airline industry this behemoth remains unchanged. It rattles and rumbles its way back to front as passengers are alarmed awake from gentle slumber. That aside we arrive without incident, moving quickly through baggage and customs. Walking into Ireland in April is like walking into Wisconsin in April. The sky is grey…the kind of malaise. It’s good you are listening to the Cure or reading Sylvia Plath (coincidently I haven’t done either since my second year of college). Its about 40 degrees and sky matches my sleep deprived mood. Norb gets on the business of the rental car while I navigate the Celtic banking system. The ATM’s in Ireland are different than the states in that you place your card into the slot and keep it there until the leprechaun inside can read your name and decide if you are good enough to get some money. Then after a few moments you slide your card out. Failure to do any of this will make the leprechaun and any members of U2 who are now lining up behind you very angry. You hear the rumbles of “tourist” and “American” and you run scared with whatever cash you are able to steal from the leprechaun. It’s an interesting process. Oh and you don’t get a receipt. The machine tells you so. “Listen, I know your mum always told you to get a receipt but seriously…you’ll take it and wad it up into your pocket or slip it into your wallet where it will stay well into the next millennia. Let’s just go to the trouble and NOT give you that useless piece of paper. You’re happy, I’m happy, now be on your way” . Well maybe not that “exactly” but that’s the flavor. We get on board our rental transport with a driver who should in NO way work in area related to tourism. For our 10 minute ride he is one breathless rant about Ireland.

“Oh the government…can ye canne trust them…”
“The price petrol will kill you here…”
“Can ye believe this weather…horrible?”
“I don’t know why anyone would wanna come here”

…and WELCOME TO IRELAND! After arriving to the rental car agency and filling out the appropriate paperwork. Much to our surprise we were released out onto the public roadways of Ireland. My companion was familiar with driving in Ireland being a previous visitor. However, as we raced out to the open road to the subtle reminders of “left side, left side, LEFT SIDE!” we began to question the car rental agency. They didn’t question our experience or even if we had any question on how to drive in Ireland. “There you go boy-o; we’ll be seeing you in a couple of weeks!” And indeed we spent the first 10 minutes trying to locate the subtle features of the car like the, lights, windshield wipers and the 4th gear. We had a mid-sized car. In America a mid size means a Taurus or Monte Carlo. In Ireland a mid-size means you probably won’t have a suit case on your lap. We soon left the comfort of the wide freeways of Dublin entering the countryside of Bray. We were under the guidance of our GPS which is good because its brain power was probably double of ours combined. It also had a knack of announcing our turn about 100 yards after we had passed it and announce with its condescending tone that it was “recalculating”. This phrase soon began to irritate our tired minds and attitudes. Typically we would take this out on each other…but instead we railed Quixote-like against the GPS.

“Swear to god…if you don’t shut up and start contribution to this trip you’ll wind up on the road and eventually we’ll run over you.”

After some prime navigation between GPS and expensive book store map (I never took a moments pause to think Ireland MAY sell maps of its roadways outside of Borders or Barnes and Noble.). We found our way to Powerscourt Falls (when I say “find” …I mean Norb followed the signs while I was neck deep in my 1:1 ratio relief map of Ireland.

Powerscourt Falls.

The tallest water fall in all of Ireland! The day matches our mood. Grey. Battleship grey. Ingmar Berman grey but “thankfully” its nearly 43 degrees out. We are waved in via caretaker who seems kindly enough but still has the withered appearance of a villan from Scooby Doo. He waves us but as we pass I’m sure I hear some comment about “meddling kids”. Grunts and nods are exchanged to each other as we disperse among the rocks that bed the floor of the waterfall. Not to take away from the falls, they are an impressive sight with a comic history to them. In 1821 in order to impress his English King, owner, Richard Wingfield (a great name…“Dick Wingfield, nice to meet you!”), had the falls dammed and a viewing platform installed to impress him with the might of the torrent above. Quite honestly t is impressive enough on its own. But the king had run out of time for his and departed Powerscourt which is just as well because the dam broke and the ensuing deluge washed away the viewing platform. The falls now are white and wispy, the water falling along way over stretches of old, bare rock. We clamor wearily over the rocks doing what pretentious photographers do. Lay on the bare ground, stand ankle deep in cold water and grab one lens…think, grab another lens, think again and then put the first lens you had back on. Then usually the grimace from realizing through all your planning your lens cap is still on.