Lotsa Kielbasa: Irish Small Talk

           Almost four months removed from Ireland and it’s become quite painful reminiscing the days spent lounging on shorelines, journeying through vast greenery, and sipping freshly brewed Guinness. A part of me was left on that magical island, along with a pair of boxers, a pair of shoes and many, many euro.

           More importantly though, were the cultural teachings I brought back with me. Much of my enlightening came from being immersed in the incredible scenery and gorging myself in the tasty food, but the true understanding came from conversing with the countless Irish natives I came across and listening to their stories.

           Before the trip I once thought that Ireland survived a famine eating nothing but potatoes, that they drank nothing but Irish car bombs, and that they all loved to brawl on account of the "fighting Irish" in their blood. Not only did I find these assumptions completely backwards, but I also discovered how offensive they were to those I was objectifying.

           I soon realized these misconceptions lead me down a dark, judgmental path. The best decision I ever made was seeking the answers to prove myself wrong. In order to do so I tried to leave my ego and expectations in whatever bed I woke up in each morning. I quickly discovered that the Irish were a proud, energetic, humorous, cunning and selfless race of people. One thing they taught me was that you’ll never know what kind of insight people can pass on to you if you’re not open to it.
           My second to last night in Galway I was talking with a young lass at Kelly’s Bar and after informing her I was American, she replied, “Nothing against you, but I just can’t stand American girls and their ‘oh my gosh, my great grandmother’s from Ireland, so I’m totally Irish too!’”

            I explained to her we don't  all have that mindset, but she contended those were the type of Americans she ran into all the time. She then asked me why I was drinking a five euro beer when the Fosters on tap was only two. I ended up saving a lot of money that night, which is beyond the point. The point is, just as my outlook on Ireland (and beer) was one-dimensional before I came, their outlook was similarly skewed towards Americans.

          In the pub water closet not seconds after that encounter, I exchanged small talk with a paddy my age, during which he inquired about my obvious accent. 

"So where are ya from?" He asked.

"The states," I replied.

"Ya? which one?"

"Philadelphia."

“Philadelphia!? Haha! I know someone from Philadelphia.”

“Who?” I asked.

“The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air!”

(Side note- The Fresh Prince theme song is played at least twice a night at any hip Irish pub)

I asked him a similar question, “You know who I know from Ireland?”

“Who?”

“You!”

           To this day, there's no shot the guy ever remembered our conversation, and that's the way most pub talks go. Though the Irish have a very general outlook on American culture, they'll never ask anything from you, they're just looking for a good time, a good laugh, some shared joy. If your lucky however, on a plane ride back from your free weekend in London you could sit next to an Irish chap your age and have a real, sober conversation.

           His name’s Sean, a twenty-three year old butcher who works right down the street from where you’re staying in Cork. He went to college just like you, studied business systems, but when the American stock market plummeted so did his entire savings. Dropping out one semester shy of graduation didn’t phase him though, he’s just as happy chopping meat and getting higher then a kite after work everyday.

           You ask him where he’s coming from, “Holiday,” he says. “Just packed my bags and left a week ago, didn’t even leave a note.” You wonder how he could’ve left home without telling anyone, even his girlfriend. “She’ll be waiting," he says. "The trip to San Sebastian was totally worth it, you can even smoke weed in the streets, no one gives a damn!”

           You ask Sean about the whole "luck of the Irish" thing and he says it’s a sack of shit and that he's a perfect example. On his layover to Spain, he stopped at London like you. His brother lives there now, but when he called him his brother answered and said he was back in Ireland that week. Whoops, Sean didn’t leave a note, remember?

           Go ahead, tell him he’s stubborn. He'll admit it, all the Irish are he'll say (they’re also kind-hearted). Later in the conversation you tell him your planning an upcoming fourth of July party and he'll tell you to come by for some kielbasa sausages. His stand is in the gigantic farmers market you walked through yesterday. In fact, he just turned the newspaper your holding into a map with scribbled down streets names and dive bars;  a guide to the best pubs in town. You can’t wait to tell your friends about all the cool shit they won't find in their Eyewitness travel guides.

           After you depart the plane and exchange pleasantries, you’ll start wondering whether this was an empty conversation, whether you just spent the last hour and a half in a meaningless gab with Irelands biggest stoner. 
           It turns out everything he said was true, your friends were awed with the sweet pub you took them to and he did end up hooking you up with those kielbasa sausages (some wings too).

           This on the fly conversation solidified for me a crucial life lesson: never believe in empty conversation, especially with someone you don’t know. By setting your ego aside and opening yourself up to the unknown, you'll find life a whole lot more interesting and enjoyable. Through simple conversation you can, and most times do, learn something new about yourself and your surroundings. The best part of all, you don't have to be on a plane ride from London to do it.

“Everyone you ever meet knows something you don’t”

-Bill Nye

Who but W.B. Yeats

July 25, 2012

“Hey man, are you from Sweden?”

“Nah, I’m from Amsterdam, can’t you tell?”

“No way! ...I’m Eoin (Owen) and this is Kelly, what do you think about the underage drinking scene in Dublin?”

           This was the conversation that started after two teens approached me as I was sitting next to the W.B. Yeats monument in St. Stevens Green, a public park smack dab in the middle of Dublin city. It’s a gorgeous looking park at that, with lush stretches of manicured grass surrounding two different ponds, each lined with towering weeping willows and filled with countless ducks and swans. There’s even a local man who shares a deep, deep empathy for the swans. Yet, with all this beauty there remains a hidden, dirty side to the park, one that can be found in the same Memorial Garden where the Yeats monument is held.

           It isn’t much of a garden; mostly stone ledges surrounded by dense trees, perfect cover for rambunctious youths to take refuge. I began walking up the stone steps to the monument around 2pm. At the top, a posse of teens were gathered clutching pounders of Coors Light and puffing hand rolled cigarettes; vintage tees and dyed hair trended pretty hard. I hadn’t been sitting by myself for more than five minutes  when Eoin and Kelly came up and introduced themselves; they weren't what you would call shy.

“You know why we drink?” Said Eoin.

“I have no idea... why?” 

“It’s so we can get laid easier. You know? Kelly's DTF”

“Hah, is she?”

“Yeah she is, tell him.”

           Kelly had a sulky look in her eyes, that same look a little kid who knows they've done something wrong has. She went on to tell me stories how her vulnerability was a product of her unrestricted upbringing. I felt sympathetic, and at the same time pretty awkward because I had no legitimate response. That didn’t stop her from asking me half a dozen questions ether. She asked where I was from, why I was there and whether or not I was an architect (at the time I was carrying a cardboard poster tube with me). I could’ve went with an enticing Amsterdam designer back story, but decided against it.  Apparently Eoin hadn’t heard me explain I was actually from the states, because when he came stumbling back into the conversation, aztec pattern sweatshirt and all, he asked:

“Do you smoke weed?

“Not for a while man" I said.  "Plus I haven’t any euro. I don’t–”

“Hold on for just a second! Let me grab us some.”

           Eoin ran across to the other side of the garden and disappeared into the crowd of tipsy misfits. In a sudden turn of events, a Garda (copper) appeared over my left shoulder and begin shouting orders at the crowd, “Hey you with the bag, you! Fuckin’ stop, STOP!” The funny thing was almost everyone had a bag, and at the sound of the officer’s voice no one stopped.

           About half the teens left their bags on the ground when they bailed and the cop ransacked all of them. He threw out beer cans, water bottles and who knows what. I found the whole situation rather amusing and took a few pictures to document the fiasco. Kelly, still sitting next to me, told me this happens all the time and that it’d be wise to put away my camera. I told her I didn’t think the Garda would mind; after all I was only there to see the W.B Yeats Monument. 

           After everyone left Kelly gave me a kiss on the cheek (I somehow deserved it?) and we parted ways. I began reminiscing about my own underage drinking days, and how it was exactly the same, minus the dyed hair. I came to the conclusion that kids are kids wherever you go, always looking for an escape, a place to call their own, a causal hook up. Most times to overcome the cruelties of growing up we find ways distract ourselves and forget about reality completely. Booze can be, and often is that temporary fix. I just wonder what Yeats would’ve thought about this whole debacle. Actually, I do know:

A Drinking Song

Wine comes in at the mouth  

And love comes in at the eye;  

That’s all we shall know for truth  

Before we grow old and die.  

I lift the glass to my mouth,

I look at you, and I sigh.

-William Butler Yeats

Return of the Scallywags: Part II

   July 20, 2012

       

           ..and indeed our paths would cross again, at Kellys bar window sessions on this Friday night. It's called the window sessions for obvious reasons; the stage is set up behind four large windows at the front of the bar, this way passer byers get a live glimpse of the action. Like many other Irish pubs, if ya like what you hear then you can walk on in for a free show. The house was packed this night and the Scallywags were bumpin’ so I wanna say many people did just that.

           To truly understand the depth of this Irish band I knew I needed to witness them at an actual venue. Dim lit Kelly’s with their shaky hardwood floor and ground level stage was the perfect spot to do so. The amount of energy they brought to such an intimate venue was contagious; everyone caught the jive bug this night, including a group of girls celebrating their friend’s 27th birthday. The Scallywags played an impromptu song for the birthday girl that included lyrics like, “To show you I care, I’ll kill a koala bear, (and) if you don't take me out I'll sell drugs to girl scouts". Brilliant.

           As the show went on, I realized you couldn’t possibly clump this band into one genre. If I had to guess, I would call them a mixture of alternative rock, blue grass, folk and a label I once heard a person describe them as; storytelling. The versatility in their gig was impressive to say the least. At one point they even covered a punk rock band from Belfast. The following video captures that song. 
           The Scallywags taught me that where ever in the world you travel good music is out there, you just have to find it. Better yet, stumble up on it.

Return of The Scallywags: Part 1

July 20, 2012

           Flew solo on our last (Friday) night in Galway. The group was recovering from a pub-crawl I had opted out of the night before, and the only other person  considering going out with me was a Hungarian girl I met busking in the streets earlier that day. Though she was busking the night too, we managed to exchange favorite bands and she told me about her own, The Tits, an all girl group definitely worth a spin or two.
           I was adamant about hitting the town this particular night because Mikey and the Scallywags were playing down the street at Kelly’s bar. From previous posts you may remember hearing about past encounters with this busking band; I had literally run into them three separate times before this show, once at the Aran Islands, once around the Galway area and the third while I was walking into the Kebab House at 2am this past Sunday morning.

Kebab Pita

        I don’t remember much of what was said (for obvious reasons) during the last run-in, but I do remember nostalgically explaining to Fergus, their stand in - stand up bassist how I used to play the fiddle in middle and grade school; I told him I quit because I was the only guy in my practice group, plus it was considered un-cool at the time; I used to leave my school books at home so I could fit the violin case in my book bag while I skateboarded to school down a busy two lane street, naturally. He sympathized with me by giving me a fry and then asked if I would remove my hand from his shoulder. I obliged and we went our separate ways, little did he know our paths would soon cross again...   

All Worn Out

July 20, 2012

Before I went to Kelly’s Bar for our last night in Galway some commemorating was in order. I decided to retire the ragged shoes I climbed Croagh Patrick with by tossing them over some telephone lines South Philly style. I purchased the Nike trail shoes while they were triple discounted four years ago at a Modell’s I used to work at. Sometimes it can be tough to predict the life cycle of our shoes. 

Talkin' To The Sun

July 16, 2012

     I drew this sketch halfway up Croagh Patrick while sitting along the cloud line. I kept thinking how epic it’d be to swim from one island to another in the far off distance.  At this point the sun was still shining as a thick fog was beginning to form around us. You can see how my sketch looks completely unlike the actual view! Neat. 

Legendary Stratus

July 16, 2012

“I conquered Croagh Patrick”. This was the saying on the shirts in the gift shop. My soaked shorts and muddied socks were all the proof I needed to gain the claim. Ten others including myself climbed Crough Patrick Mountain’s 2,500 ft. incline to the summit yesterday during a day trip to County Mayo.

The climb itself was physically demanding, scaling most of the way on loose gravel and jagged rock. The weather alone made the trek mentally demanding; as one gained elevation up the mountain storm clouds, heavy rain and 15mph+ wind gusts came out of nowhere. This differed dramatically from the bottom of the mountain, which was clear and sunny at the onset of the hike. Like any other place in Ireland, weather in one area couldn't predict weather in another, especially on a mountain. 

By the time we reached the summit, a small white church blurred on every side by a hazy white fog was there to greet us. Unable to see any view at all, we settled for the satisfaction of conquering this beast of a mountain. There were several notable look outs on the way up though, including a natural lake lined with rock-writing, a steep abyss with wild sheep along the edges and a mesmerizing view half way up of the surrounding islands.
           What locals told us would be a five-hour hike up and back took most of us just under three and a half hours. Some wore ponchos, some brought walking sticks, and one went shoeless (congrats Curtis). Popular legend behind the mountain tells the tale of St. Patrick, who once climbed the mountain barefoot in the 5th century. Once he reached the summit, St. Patrick fasted for 40 days, after which he threw a silver bell down the side of the mountain knocking the she-demon Corra from the sky and banishing all the snakes from Ireland. Although most say the snakes are a metaphor for early pagan faiths in Ireland, I still haven’t seen one slithering amphibian. It's a nice change from dodging rattlers on Hawk Mountain in Pennsylvania.