25 Years, One Week and A Day . . .
I suppose since I waited 25 years for my honeymoon to Ireland, I could wait another week (all plans were booked exactly 25 years and one week from the date of our wedding) but that last day NEARLY got the best of us!
Visions of ancient castles, charming villages, fields upon fields upon fields of shamrocks, rainbows, leprechauns and pots of gold danced through my dreams for a quarter of a century. Knowing that I was REALLY going to be there on June 27, 2018 catapulted my happiness through the stratosphere! I was floating in a beautiful outer space that I knew was right next to Heaven!
Bob arrived 15 minutes early to drive us to LAX. We had allowed 2 hours lead time, but 2 hours and 15 minutes was o.k with me! I’d been packed and ready to go before the sun rose!
“I’m going down through the Arroyo,” said Robert looking at the map on his phone, “there seems to be an accident on the 110 Fwy. at Bridewell. I’ll just take some back streets and avoid it.”
“What a conscientious driver!” I thought.
No sooner had we entered the freeway beyond the accident site when traffic thickened and ground to a standstill.
“This is just the usual morning rush,” said Bob, “it’ll be like this for awhile. I don’t know why, but L.A. traffic has gotten so much worse over the past two years!”
“That’s why I always leave home before 6:00 a.m.,” said Carl, “I HATE traffic!”
We continued to crawl toward downtown alongside two other lanes of frustrated drivers constantly glancing at their phones, undoubtedly checking Waze and Google for possible alternate routes.
A small pang of panic arose in my gut.
“If this is usual morning rush hour traffic,” I began, “then ALL these people are late to work! There HAS to be something more to this.”
“Nope,” assured Bob, “as soon as we pass Hill, it’ll open up. We’ve got plenty of time.”
And so we sat. And sat. And sat, inching along, commenting here and there about maybe getting off the freeway, heading East to catch the 5 to the 10 to the 110, but rationalizing that the gridlock was just about to clear.
Forty minutes later and no closer to the Hill exit, Bob elbowed his way through 3 lanes of traffic just in time to access the Academy Road exit.
“I don’t know what’s going on up there, but now my map shows blockage all the way to Wilshire! We’ll go the back way through Elysian Park and bypass the mess.”
O.K., good idea. But LOTS of people had that same idea! Now, not only was there gridlock on the 110 Fwy, there was gridlock on Academy Road and ALL the other circuitous routes through Los Angeles! EVERYONE was frantically frustrated.
My small pang of panic increased to medium high. My two selves began their usual internal bickering:
“Uh oh! This is just GREAT! I’ve waited 25 years to get to Ireland and now we’re going to miss the plane because of L.A. traffic? UnbeLIEVable!”
“Shush! Don’t be negative! It’s just a little slow down; we’ll be alright! Just relax . . . You’re being a brat!”
I noticed several police helicopters whizzing about, but figured since we’d just passed the Police Academy, there must be graduation or something and they were hovering above the Class of ‘18 in celebration. However, I couldn’t have been more wrong!
“Oh my gosh!” cried Bob checking his phone again, “the 110 Freeway is now CLOSED! There’s some guy standing on top of a freeway sign at Sunset! He’s protesting pollution and . . . a mob of people protesting against Trump’s immigration policy has also flooded the freeway!”
A wrecking ball plummeted through my stomach, destroying all traces of delightful anticipation of my long-awaited trip to the Emerald Isle. My head was spinning. Waves of nausea crashed through my entire being.
“Look!” said Bob, “there he is! SWAT teams have been dispatched. Get a load of all those helicopters!”
By this time, we were sitting, stopped in traffic on side streets in front City Hall and all the government buildings. Bob, obviously nervous about getting us to the airport on time, began to make idle conversation.
“Is this your old courthouse, Judge?” he asked.
“No, I was over at CCW at Olympic and Commonwealth,” Carl answered.
“Oh! That’s where I had my child custody hearing,” he said.
“Why would you have a custody hearing in a complex court?” I asked, trying to contribute to a conversation I had absolutely no interest in.
And so Bob explained that he had a bad habit of choosing crazy women, yadda yadda yadda, and if he were put into a room with 100 girls, he would find the crazy one.
“Not only would I find the Crazy One, I’d take her home with me!” he quipped. “They just seem to find me!”
Silence. Each of us growing more anxious. Three blocks and 25 minutes later the turn signal flashed green, but we still weren’t moving! A filthy dirty, toothless woman with glazed over eyes, draped herself across the front of our car. She gazed straight into the windshield, muttering unintelligibly, clearly NOT intending to budge.
“Boy, you weren’t kidding about the crazy women finding you, were you?” I said to Bob. Despite his honking his horn, she remained glued to the hood.
“Just RUN HER OVER!” I screamed.
By and by, Bob’s new girlfriend lifted herself off the car and staggered away, but we were still no closer to LAX.
At long last, we reached the terminal, jumped out of the car, raced to the SkyCap with 45 minutes to spare.
“I’m sorry,” said the airline rep, “we can’t accept your luggage! You’re too late!”
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN ‘WE’RE TOO LATE?” I gasped, “THE PLANE DOESN’T TAKE OFF FOR ANOTHER 45 MINUTES1”
“Yes, Ma’am, but the system won’t accept your luggage. You’re too late for that. And you can’t get on the airplane unless you’re luggage is on that same plane!” he explained.
No matter what we said, no matter HOW rationally convincing Carl was in trying to explain our situation and no matter HOW WRONG this all was, we simply were NOT ALLOWED to check our bags. Our phones even buzzed us information about the flight being delayed, but the ticket representative STILL refused our luggage.
“Screw this!” said Carl, “Let’s just go through TSA, take our luggage with us and check it at the gate!”
Under the gun and the minutes clicking down on the clock, we navigated through security, enduring the indignities of Carl having a “pat down,” and confiscation of his tube of toothpaste, and arrived at the gate, a little winded but still within 5 minutes of take-off.
“You’re LATE!” admonished the agent, “the doors are closing!”
“But . . . “ and Carl explained the harrowing details of our morning commute, the flight delay, etc, etc. all to no avail.
“I underSTAND what you’re saying,” barked the officious airline officer, “but you weren’t HERE (he said pointing directly at the floor) 15 minutes before boarding. We’ve given your seats away. When you’re coming from Pasadena, you should KNOW to give yourself a little more lead time, that’s all! I suggest you go over to the American Airlines Customer Assistance Desk just beyond Gate 51-Alpha over there (pointing to the left). I’m pretty sure your tickets are non-refundable, but maybe you can find another flight. Bye-bye.”
And with that, he pivoted on his shiny patent leather heels and whisked himself down through the boarding tunnel.
“Now what do we do?” I cried, totally deflated. “Let’s just go home. Maybe I can still get into the Lady Swan at Lakeside next week.”
“HELL NO!” barked Carl.
The poor agent at the Customer Assistance Deck had NO WARNING about what he’d get when he said, “May I help you?” As hard as he tried and as much as he clicked the keys on his computer, he could NOT find any flights with two available seats for us for the next 2 days! While he searched and researched, Carl did the same. Eventually we booked a flight (a red-eye) on Virgin Atlantic through London-Heathrow with a connector on Aer Lingus to Shannon. Our first-class status on American Airlines was forfeited for two economy class seats (not together) on Virgin Atlantic. Those were literally THE ONLY seats available . . . AT TWICE THE COST OF OUR FIRST CLASS TICKETS: “last-minute traveller” fee!!! Wow! Talk about the fleecing of America!!
With 7 hours to kill in the terminal, we hung out for awhile at one of the bars in the food court before claiming two seats near the departure gate. While I texted about our plight, Carl fielded a few business calls. One return incoming text suggested that we go to the American Express Lounge. It sounded like a good idea, but at that point, whatever COULD go wrong WOULD. We decided to stay put, close to the departure desk, constantly checking to see if we could upgrade from economy to ANYTHING else. While waiting, something went wrong with something mechanical in our area. A loud, high-pitched tone blasted through the rotunda for at least 25 minutes. At about the point when I couldn’t tell the difference between that REAL noise and all the screaming in my head, it stopped suddenly, the entire population of travelers bursting into cheers and applause. Boarding for Flight # VA-142 began, with us having to wait for Group Y (better than Group Z, I guess!)
Ten cramped hours later with a headache the size of Chicago, we made our connection through London and touched down in Shannon . . . On the Emerald Isle.
We’re back on track today, looking forward to our honeymoon . . . 25 Years, One Week and A Day late!!
Oscar, Lucky, & Rick O’Shea
Michael arrived at 9:00 a.m. on the button to transport us from Shannon to our first destination, Old Head Golf Links just outside of the village of Kinsale. During our 2 1/2-hour drive, Michael delivered a colorful history of each local village as we passed through. He kept apologizing for traffic on the highway, (a 2-lane D road!) clearly not realizing what the word “traffic” really meant . . . particularly for the two of us who had just missed an airplane due to the entire City of Angels being paralyzed with gridlock and a lunatic!
Old Head Golf Links sits on top of a peninsula of high cliffs, each hole enjoying an ocean vista (and all the hazards inherent with cliffs, wind and rocks). Ruins of a 6th century light house sit immediately adjacent to its modern replacement. The facility resembles an ancient Irish structure but more like a long 2-story stone castle. Only 14 guest suites are available to accommodate those who are lucky enough to secure a reservation! Usually fog and wind prevail around this peninsula but Ireland is experiencing a once-in-every-100-year heat wave this week! The sun is out, the air is hot, the sky is blue and the sea is calm! It is spectacularly warm and gorgeous! I think Ireland is rolling out the red carpet for me!
Following a short warm-up on the driving range, we met our caddy, Jack, and our playing partners, Tim and Gavin (in from London for the weekend to visit Tim’s mum).
“Typical,” I thought, “Tim’s here to visit his mum, but . . . he’s brought a friend, left his wife and kids at home, and is playing golf! Poor Mum!”
“What’s that?” I asked, pointing to an iron sculpture marking the 1st tee.
“Oh, that’s Oscar,” confirmed the Starter, “Old Head has so many wild hares on the property. This one is Oscar. He represents all the hares.”
Now, I know everyone knows that “hare” is just another word for “rabbit” or “bunny,” but these “Oscars” are definitely NOT rabbits and certainly not anything like bunnies! It wasn’t until we made the turn that I met Oscar. While reloading my pockets with fresh tees and remarking my ball on the 10th tee, heavy rustling in the bushes startled me, catching me off guard. The noise was so fierce that I fully expected a herd animal, perhaps a sheep or a goat, to make an appearance from the dense thistle. Rather than that, however, a hare hopped out, long strands of highland grass sticking out of each side of his mouth, whiskers twitching. The shock at seeing each other in the small clearing of Tee #10 surprised us both! I gasped and he hopped away down the fairway, so heavy was he that each bound of his feet could be heard thud, thud, thudding on the ground! His leaps I’m sure registered at least 4.0 on the Richter scale!
“Holy Smokes!” I cried, “what in the world was THAT?”
“Oh, I see that you’ve just met Oscar!” smiled Jack approaching the tee. “Big, aren’t they?”
And here I was, thinking that the jack rabbits up at Cordeval were the biggest rabbits I’d ever seen. They are gnats compared to these Irish hares!
“Yea,” began Jack, “one time I carried a bag for a particularly difficult client, so I decided to play around a wee bit. I told him that one of the hares is friendly and that he will actually allow himself to be petted if you approach him slowly and quietly.”
“No way,” I said, “what happened?”
“Well, ya see,” continued Jack, lighting a hand-rolled cigarette as we marched down the fairway toward my ball, “I told the guy that the hare’s name was Lucky. ‘There’s Lucky!’ I’d tell him, and he’d hand me his club and slowly try to sneak up on it.”
“And?” I asked.
“Well, of course the hare hopped off, darting this way and that as fast as he could go!” he answered in his thick Irish brogue. ‘Oh! I guess that wasn’t Lucky,’ I’d say, ‘but don’t you go worryin’, I saw him just yesterday! We’ll find him . . . He’s usually somewhere along the Back Nine.’”
I made a mental note NOT to trust Jack if he started telling stories!
The cliffs along the golf course, while dramatic and beautiful, are also very, very, VERY steep. Anyone getting too close to the edge could easily slip to his peril. Signs are posted on each hole warning golfers that “absolutely NO ONE is to search for a ball outside the red hazard line.” But wouldn’t you know it — rules are made to be broken and we found just that person!
The fivesome in front of us held us up on most holes. They not only played slowly, they’d also brought along a professional photographer who snapped action play shots! And if that weren’t annoying enough, after the hole was finished, he also staged the players into position for posed photos! We’d just come up to the 12th tee box to wait yet again. This particular 3-par clung along the steep left-side of a cliff. Thick thistle grew immediately off the fairway the entire distance of the hole, a red hazard line in place and a very clear warning sign NOT to search for balls outside that line. Wouldn’t you know it, one of the golfers went in search of his errant tee shot and was knee-deep in this thistle, well beyond the hazard line.
“Ooooooh, that’s dodgey!” commented Jack. “Where’s a marshal when you need one? That guy would be expelled from play immediately if anyone saw him!”
Why anyone who’d traveled the distance and paid the expensive fees to play Old Head would risk his life for a $3 golf ball is beyond me, but . . . life is stranger than fiction, I guess.
Curious to know the meaning of dodgey, I asked Jack. Now some people are just born teachers, but Jack isn’t one of them. He DID teach me a few Gaellic words, but he couldn’t explain what dodgey was:
“Dodgey is . . . well, . . . Dodgey is . . . Just dodgey, that’s all!” he said with total exasperation.
“That’s not doin’ much for me, Jack!” I protested.
“O.K. then . . . Dodgey is when . . . If I said, ‘I’m not sure if you’re ball is in the thistle or in the rough . . . It’s dodgey,’” he tried again.
“So it means ‘iffy,” I clarified.
“YES! You’ve got it! It’s dodgey!” he confirmed smiling from ear to ear as if he’d just explained the origin of the Universe. “You can take that home with you!”
“Oh, I’m going to take a lot of things home with me . . . You want to come?” I teased.
As usual, Carl and I had a match going and as usual, every time Carl hit a bad shot something unexpectedly helpful happened. Early in the round, his ball flew directly toward a deep pothole bunker which lifted my spirits! I thought I’d have a chance at winning the hole! Wouldn’t you know it . . . the ball heading straight for the sand hit the ground, bounced favorably just a “wee bit” and kept on rolling just far enough to avoid it! Again and again and again, his ball escaped disaster.
On Saturday, we were paired with a couple from Holland, Margaret and Rude. They, too, challenged each other to a match keeping three scores: Stableford points, match points and putts. Carl and I are competitive but there’s not enough time in the day (or enough lines on the scorecard) to get that involved. Carl’s ball enjoyed Day 2 of Irish luck! Every error turned into a gift — the wind gently blew his ball out of harm’s way or it hit a rock, careened back onto the green and rolled to almost gimme distance to the hole. It was just too much for me!
“I see you’ve brought your playing partner with ya again t’day,” said Jack.
“Who’s that?” asked Carl.
“Rick O’Shea!” replied Jack.
Ya. He did!!!
Today was a travel day . . . No golf. Michael picked us up at Old Head, destination Killarney, less than a 2-hour drive away. However, we spent the entire day taking in the sights, the Blarney Castle, the village of Kinsale, Paddy Quill’s Irish Weave factory, the Titanic visitors’ center, the Lusitania Memorial and many other quaint towns and villages. Of particular note was The Kinsale 9/11 Garden of Remembrance. A woman in Kinsale owned a vacant field. After the 9/11 attack on the Twin Towers in New York City, she planted one tree in her field in remembrance of each firefighter who paid the ultimate price in that disaster, many of whom were Irish. On the 10th anniversary of her memorial, she invited all the fallen firefighters’ family members to a ceremony in honor of their loved ones. Many of them brought uniforms and other memorabilia with them and hung them from their special tree. Shortly thereafter, the lovely woman passed on but her family still maintains the memorial. Quite moving.
We’re off to explore the streets of Killarney in pursuit of someplace to have dinner, then it’s off to Tralee in the morning for another round of golf. I’m just hoping that Rick O’Shea will play with ME this time!
Lather, Rinse, Repeat
I just realized that the best advice I’ve ever gotten in my entire life was on a bottle of shampoo the whole time: Lather, Rinse, Repeat! Every single day here has been perfect. Each golf course has exceeded my expectations. The people are delightful, full of mischief, an ever-present twinkle in their eyes. A plaque just in front of a statue of Arnold Palmer at Tralee Golf Links reads: Arnold Palmer designed the front nine; God designed the back. However, I’d argue that God saved all of the best things He had in his bag of tricks for the day he created Ireland.
Rick O’Shea has been splitting his time between Carl and me. On one hole, I get the break, the next hole, Carl does. We’ve been collecting memorabilia from each course, but I think our time would be better spent trying to figure out how to smuggle Rick back in one of our bags! He has no passport or other official travel documents, so getting him through Customs is going to be “a bit dodgy!”
Both Tralee and Waterville, like Old Head, are links courses . . . pothole bunkers, rolling dunes, THIN lies and lots and lots of roll! My FitBit has been working overtime, logging more steps and flights of stairs than it has ever registered on my device! I clicked through the data after our round at Tralee . . . 9.41 miles, 174 “active” minutes and . . . 113 flights of stairs!!! To put perspective on these numbers, a round of golf at Annandale gleans approximately 6.25 miles and 58-60 flights of stairs. Waterville, while not quite so hilly, challenged me in different ways. The rolling dunes, blanketed with long grasses and tufts of wild greens, required full concentration and my “Wilshire swing” to get the ball back into play. And of note: when the caddy says a putt is uphill, it’s best just to stroke it level. The greens are lightening fast and scary! We’ll see what happens at Ballybunion today!
No one can come to Ireland for golf and deny the gorgeous scenery. None of the pictures you’ve seen in fancy coffee table books and travel brochures capture the pristine beauty of this country. Even George Lucas capitalized on it when he filmed Star Wars: The Force Awakens on an isolated island off the coast of the Ring of Kerry! On our journey out to Waterville, Michael directed our attention to the right looking beyond the bay. Rising above the ocean mist and cradled in a low cloud of fog emerged the craggy peaks of this island, making it truly other-worldly. I knew that at any minute the Millennium Falcon would soar past with Han Solo and Chewbacca at the helm! A shipwrecked yacht lay waste along the rocks just beyond the turn into Waterville’s car park. Michael did not know anything about it, but our caddy sure did! During a storm a couple weeks ago, as the story goes, it had loosed from its mooring all the way across the bay and crashed into the rocks on the opposite shore. As of this date, no one has come to claim it. No one. But . . . the name of the ship and other identifying marks were mysteriously erased from the hull not even one day after it crashed. The caddy informed us that it is suspected that “white lobsters” were being smuggled into the country, under the radar of the Irish Drug Enforcement Agency. My poor ears actually hurt hearing those words! Ireland can’t have those problems!
I continue to learn more and more Gaelic. “Kil” means church; “Bally” means village. Killarney, therefore, means The Church of Larney. And Ballydwyer means The Village (or town) of Dwyer. That got me to thinking, though . . . If Ballydwyer and Ballydoyle and Ballycarney all mean the Town of Dwyers, Doyles and Carneys, does Ballybunion mean that everybody in that town has foot problems? Let’s hope not; we’re playing there today!
Pub crawls and soccer games take up our evening hours. Never really a soccer aficionado, I had no interest in the World Cup games in Russia. But NOW, I can’t get enough! Everyone, tourists and locals alike, throng to the pubs to watch the games. Two nights ago I think I was the only one in the pub and probably in all of Killarney rooting for Japan over Belgium. Not that I truly cared one way or the other, but . . . I just HAVE to root for the underdog. The first time Japan scored, I jumped from my seat, arms in the air and an exuberant “Yeah!” screaming out, only to attract the eyes of all the other patrons in the pub, the waiters, waitresses, bartenders, fiddle players and probably even the rats hiding beneath the floorboards! The next time they scored, I was a bit more controlled . . . Silent, in fact. Void of any emotion . . . on the outside. On the inside, I was doin’ my happy dance! Last night, however, was different. The pub was packed, wall to wall, standing room only, for the match between Columbia and England. Carl and I pushed to get a couple barstools directly in front of the big screen display. What a game! After 90 minutes and the score tied at 1:1, the game went into penalty kicks . . . 5 per side. The win or loss was up to the goalie! Two kicks a piece, the score still tied. Columbia made its 3rd point . . . England missed! The crowd went wild (indicating that everyone THIS TIME was for the underdog!!). Columbia, needing only the next kick to win, MISSED! England won, but there was no roof-raising, no out-of-control celebration, no clinking of steins. It was over, but . . . No matter . . . The Irish singer and fiddle player jumped right in, played their music and people spontaneously clogged their own versions of the Irish jig!
Wish me luck today . . . . Heading out to the Town of Foot Problems!!
Lather, Rinse, Repeat!
Just Dance
After more than 25 years of dreaming of Ireland and only a few days of actually being here, I decided that THIS is where my heart belongs. Carl keeps telling me that the clear skies and warm weather aren’t giving me a real taste of the country, but . . . I don’t care! What’s a little weather anyway? Rain and wind are minor details compared to the warm feeling of belonging radiating from within. The people are lovely, the countryside is beautiful, the politics are neutral and the pace of life is slow and easy. I can actually see myself here, wrapped in a cozy Aran sweater in front of a peat-fueled fireplace with an Irish sheepdog and and an Irish wolfhound at my feet . . . maybe even two of each!! Now THAT’s saying something, right? Michael Flatley recently listed his manor for sale! Perhaps that would be the perfect spot for me. Michael answered his siren call putting traditional Irish dancing on the map, so why can’t I answer MY call and move over here? People all around the world flocked in droves to see Riverdance, The Lord of the Dance and Celtic Tiger. They purchased CDs, videos, DVDs. They enrolled in Irish dancing lessons. They welcomed anything and everything Irish . . . And so do I.
The links at Ballybunion proved to be quite a challenge but with our “never give up” attitude, we slogged through all 18 holes of dunes and gorse . . . not our best scores by a long shot, but a great feeling of satisfaction nevertheless. We weren’t the only ones struggling, either. Our playing partners, two guys from Arkansas, foolishly thought they could conquer “the beast” by striking their balls as hard as they could! Perhaps they never heard the “when it’s breezy, swing easy” quip, but they sure demonstrated the definition of insanity: doing the same thing over and over again expecting a different result! The harder they swung, the madder they got. Their balls flew a l-o-n-g distance, that’s for sure, but the wind either blew them into the Atlantic or into the NeverNeverLand of gorse! Kevin became the Arkansas Razorback tattooed on his right calf. He stomped, he snorted, he growled, he swore, he threw clubs and he walked more holes “in his pocket” than he played. Tommy (or TommyBoy as I mentally called him) snidely commented over and over that “it just ain’t right for a woman to out-play a man!” Um . . . Obviously no one ever told him NEVER to underestimate the power of a woman! I stopped trying to make friendly conversation with him early on in the round . . . But I just couldn’t help myself at the 18th hole. He power-swung his drive yet again sending it off somewhere into the dunes. He DID hit a provisional drive out into the fairway, but somehow my ball got lots and lots of roll, stopping 15 yards ahead of his. As we each identified our balls, I looked at him and borrowing a line from Brittaney Spears’ lyrics sang, “Oops! I did it again!” and waited for him to hit. He didn’t shake my hand or acknowledge our round after we’d holed out, but that’s o.k. I wasn’t too keen on having a pint with him in the 19th hole anyway!
As usual, Michael was there to greet us in our luxury coach.
“How’d you all fare t’day?” he asked, sliding the doors open for us.
“Quick, Michael! Head straight to the Cliffs of Mohr . . . I need to jump off!” I said.
“No, no, I won’t be doin’ that,” he said, “I have to get you back to Killarney in time for the parade! There’s a 4th of July Parade scheduled for 7:00 p.m. in honor of our American friends! There are floats and bands and all sorts of American characters. ‘Tis really quite lovely, ya see! I don’t want you to miss it!”
One would ask, “Why would a city in Ireland sponsor a full-blown parade for an American holiday?” And the answer is, as the Irish would say, “quite lovely.” Many, many years ago an American Vietnam Vet purchased a pub at the intersection of two of Killarney’s main streets. On every 4th of July, he flew an American flag. Soon he began putting tables and chairs out on the sidewalk and offering free hamburgers in celebration of American Independence Day. The other shopkeepers along the street began flying American flags too. More and more elaborate street decorations appeared . . . larger things like replicas of the Statue of Liberty, Uncle Sams, pennants and banners. Street performers entertained and musicians played American anthems, and the parade was born! The Rose of Tralee reigns over the crowds much like Pasadena’s Rose Queen, atop her own float, flanked on each side by youth sports teams. Following the parade, all in attendance are invited over to the park to watch an American movie with popcorn and cotton candy available. It truly is “quite lovely” indeed.
And so our magical trip slowly drew to a close with two more rounds of golf, one at Doonbeg and the last at Lahinch. There were no traffic jams on the way to the airport (but for a few sheep crossing the road), no snags at Customs and absolutely no problems boarding in GROUP 1 for our return to reality. We danced through these past 10 days in a sort of earthly heaven I never dreamed possible. It was truly the trip of a lifetime. My only advice to you is if you have something you want to do and you hear the music calling, accept the invitation and . . . go ahead . . . just dance!
Just Dance
After more than 25 years of dreaming of Ireland and only a few days of actually being here, I decided that THIS is where my heart belongs. Carl keeps telling me that the clear skies and warm weather aren’t giving me a real taste of the country, but . . . I don’t care! What’s a little weather anyway? Rain and wind are minor details compared to the warm feeling of belonging radiating from within. The people are lovely, the countryside is beautiful, the politics are neutral and the pace of life is slow and easy. I can actually see myself here, wrapped in a cozy Aran sweater in front of a peat-fueled fireplace with an Irish sheepdog and and an Irish wolfhound at my feet . . . maybe even two of each!! Now THAT’s saying something, right? Michael Flatley recently listed his manor for sale! Perhaps that would be the perfect spot for me. Michael answered his siren call putting traditional Irish dancing on the map, so why can’t I answer MY call and move over here? People all around the world flocked in droves to see Riverdance, The Lord of the Dance and Celtic Tiger. They purchased CDs, videos, DVDs. They enrolled in Irish dancing lessons. They welcomed anything and everything Irish . . . And so do I.
The links at Ballybunion proved to be quite a challenge but with our “never give up” attitude, we slogged through all 18 holes of dunes and gorse . . . not our best scores by a long shot, but a great feeling of satisfaction nevertheless. We weren’t the only ones struggling, either. Our playing partners, two guys from Arkansas, foolishly thought they could conquer “the beast” by striking their balls as hard as they could! Perhaps they never heard the “when it’s breezy, swing easy” quip, but they sure demonstrated the definition of insanity: doing the same thing over and over again expecting a different result! The harder they swung, the madder they got. Their balls flew a l-o-n-g distance, that’s for sure, but the wind either blew them into the Atlantic or into the NeverNeverLand of gorse! Kevin became the Arkansas Razorback tattooed on his right calf. He stomped, he snorted, he growled, he swore, he threw clubs and he walked more holes “in his pocket” than he played. Tommy (or TommyBoy as I mentally called him) snidely commented over and over that “it just ain’t right for a woman to out-play a man!” Um . . . Obviously no one ever told him NEVER to underestimate the power of a woman! I stopped trying to make friendly conversation with him early on in the round . . . But I just couldn’t help myself at the 18th hole. He power-swung his drive yet again sending it off somewhere into the dunes. He DID hit a provisional drive out into the fairway, but somehow my ball got lots and lots of roll, stopping 15 yards ahead of his. As we each identified our balls, I looked at him and borrowing a line from Brittaney Spears’ lyrics sang, “Oops! I did it again!” and waited for him to hit. He didn’t shake my hand or acknowledge our round after we’d holed out, but that’s o.k. I wasn’t too keen on having a pint with him in the 19th hole anyway!
As usual, Michael was there to greet us in our luxury coach.
“How’d you all fare t’day?” he asked, sliding the doors open for us.
“Quick, Michael! Head straight to the Cliffs of Mohr . . . I need to jump off!” I said.
“No, no, I won’t be doin’ that,” he said, “I have to get you back to Killarney in time for the parade! There’s a 4th of July Parade scheduled for 7:00 p.m. in honor of our American friends! There are floats and bands and all sorts of American characters. ‘Tis really quite lovely, ya see! I don’t want you to miss it!”
One would ask, “Why would a city in Ireland sponsor a full-blown parade for an American holiday?” And the answer is, as the Irish would say, “quite lovely.” Many, many years ago an American Vietnam Vet purchased a pub at the intersection of two of Killarney’s main streets. On every 4th of July, he flew an American flag. Soon he began putting tables and chairs out on the sidewalk and offering free hamburgers in celebration of American Independence Day. The other shopkeepers along the street began flying American flags too. More and more elaborate street decorations appeared . . . larger things like replicas of the Statue of Liberty, Uncle Sams, pennants and banners. Street performers entertained and musicians played American anthems, and the parade was born! The Rose of Tralee reigns over the crowds much like Pasadena’s Rose Queen, atop her own float, flanked on each side by youth sports teams. Following the parade, all in attendance are invited over to the park to watch an American movie with popcorn and cotton candy available. It truly is “quite lovely” indeed.
And so our magical trip slowly drew to a close with two more rounds of golf, one at Doonbeg and the last at Lahinch. There were no traffic jams on the way to the airport (but for a few sheep crossing the road), no snags at Customs and absolutely no problems boarding in GROUP 1 for our return to reality. We danced through these past 10 days in a sort of earthly heaven I never dreamed possible. It was truly the trip of a lifetime. My only advice to you is if you have something you want to do and you hear the music calling, accept the invitation and . . . go ahead . . . just dance!
In this current social climate everybody is so concerned about being politically correct that it has reached the point of absurdity. We gingerly navigate through conversations, careful not to offend anyone or anything! Talking heads on News programs jump at every opportunity to highlight incidents of even the slightest innuendo at violating the “rule” of politically correctness! Non-Whites – referred to in PC vernacular as “Non-Caucasians” – are now referred to as “people of color.” Janitors are called “industrial engineers.” Stewards and stewardesses are known as “flight attendants.” And the list goes on. But, I ask, WHO makes those rules? Who coined the term “politically correct?” Being PC is exhausting! Someone, somewhere, somehow decided that identifying a person according to his race, religion, gender, physical appearance, or profession is wrong. And it doesn’t end there! It has reached the point where EVERYTHING has been stifled and neutralized. The same holds true for choosing cosmetics! WHO decided what is beautiful and what is not? Have we reached a breaking point, both politically AND cosmetically?
M. Margaret West 