Traveling is enlightening. All the brochures say so, and I agree. Recently, I spent time with my sister in Ireland while she did some genealogical digging. When I returned to this country, it was with some fresh insights, especially about myself. I came home a more enlightened traveler.
In an overarching sense, I discovered that my perspective, left undisturbed, is decidedly small-town. Yes, I write about state and national politics, but this trip reminded me that life doesn’t begin and end at our national borders. Embarrassing though it is to admit it, my eyes, and my brain, needed to be pried open. As I found myself scouring small marts and distant radio stations for news from the United States, I was ashamed to admit the level of frustration that mounted in me when what I found was news of the international genre. Now, however, I am aware of the fact that Canada was facing a national election, the Syrian refugee crisis is part of a much more sweeping frame of humanitarian policy worldwide, and there is this sporting game called “rugby” that when watched in a pub on a TV mounted over the bar turns grown men and women into raving maniacs.
Once I let go of my desire to know what Trump had said or whether Biden had joined the presidential race, I was able to begin to place my country of origin in the context of a much broader and complicated backdrop. And further on in our trip, I became aware that I didn’t care much at all about what was going on in the USA. I wanted only to soak up whatever I could about the people who live in west Ireland and what matters to them.
As we drove the spindly roads—and yes, it is possible to drive on the left and survive the experience—I began to gear down, mentally. Gearing down in our car was not possible as it was a little car (necessary for such narrow roads) and needed every gear at its disposal to climb the hills we encountered. As we dodged sheep and the occasional cow, the pace of the place seemed to well up. To say that life is slower there undersells the complexity of domestic life. It seems that what matters is less the minute-to-minute stuff we (I) can muck about in here in the USA compared to the issues that are substantial enough to withstand the time it takes for them to make it to the bed-and-breakfast table or the afternoon pub table. Remember, this was west Ireland: no metropolis, only one or two four-lane roads, and scanty cell service.
We stayed in B&Bs, two days in each. After we partook of the morning meal, I would settle myself in the sitting room to journal and to draw—two activities I seldom give time to here in the states. I quickly learned, much to my pleasure, that in that quiet time the proprietors would often chat with their guard down if I was willing to listen, and I was.
I heard Anne, who loves her kids and her grandkids but worries about the dangerous ways in which the world around her is moving forward. As she looked wistfully out the picture window of the breakfast room, she lamented the fact that although her now-grown children once were able to play all day in the front yard with never a thought from her, she now feels obligated to check on her grandchildren every few minutes when they come to visit. “It just isn’t like it used to be, now is it,” she said. I found myself thinking of the American mothers and grandmothers who could relate.
I met Carol, a tall woman, pretty in that Irish way: clean skin, rosy cheeks, and clear blue eyes. She’d been a marketing major at university but fell in love with Connor, whose life was charted out before him. He was to take over this B&B that had been in the family for six generations. Now, 20 years and two kids later, Carol runs the house because Conner not only farms but also works a full-time professional job just to make ends meet. Carol said that last year she asked her accountant just to tell her if she’d made any money, “any at all.” The accountant didn’t call back. She sighed and then finished clearing away our breakfast dishes before shuttling her children down the lane to the same school that Connor had attended.
And finally, I met Michael. He and his wife, another Anne, operated their house together. She also taught, so he did the cleaning. His accent was so strong that I missed the question the first time he asked it. He was more than willing to repeat it though, it mattered that much. “Over there” he asked, “have you found a cure for the Alzheimers?” “No,” I replied and began to explain about the tests for predicting its occurrence when I realized he wasn’t listening. His “Da” had died of it three years past after suffering from it for over 10 years. “I was hoping,” he muttered. How many children in how many countries wonder the same question?
Of course, it wasn’t nearly all that gloomy. As I mentioned above, something big was happening on the rugby scene, and everywhere we went flags were flying and good-natured ribbing took place. We never fully comprehended the nature of the competition, but we were for Ireland—first, last, and always. We were, of course, the enlightened travelers.
We couldn’t deny what our accents announced about where we were from, and yet we were asked repeatedly, “So where in the States?” I don’t know how many of the questioners could place Utah or Indiana, but they seemed genuinely interested and eager to tell us where in the USA they had traveled.
I’ve been back for nearly a week now. I caught the debate and took notes while following the Twitter feeds of two of my favorite online political pundits on my phone. I contemplated jumping back into this column with some kind of reaction to the debate and the aftermath, but I couldn’t. I wasn’t yet ready to shed my Irish cloak of consciousness. I wanted to write about what I experienced as a way to remind myself to cherish what it taught me about who I am and who I might be—and part of that, of course, is a more enlightened traveler.
By the way, we found my grandfather’s birth record in a tiny town in County Kerry, Castlegregory. It was so momentous. I am from the stock of a man who could not read or write, and I signed the register of the birth of his first son, my grandfather, with an X. I am humbled and proud.
Welcome home and thanks for sharing a piece of Ireland!
Loved every bit of your travelogue ! When do you leave for your next adventure?