AN IRISH JOURNEY
AN IRISH JOURNEY
It was Monday, and Christmas 2000 had come and also gone. I knew because it had only been on Saturday that I had got through the annual episode at my house about the collection for the Christmas “Jews”, and I was still smirking. I always enjoyed misinterpreting what the front door collectors meant.
Jews? I said, Oh, yes tell me more about these Jews, because Jesus was of course a Jew. Yes, I will contribute to these Jews - just tell me more about them, do they live locally?
The two collectors tried their best to explain it was for the parish priest’s”present”. Of course the two of them meant “dues” but were pronouncing it in an odd way. All the same I felt it was so arrogant to expect people to shell out cash as if it was a duty, a sort of compulsory punishment, handily referred to as "Christmas Dues". So I insisted on asking who were these Jews? Trying to keep a straight face, I said I thought it was a very ecumenical thing to do. A very christian and Christmassy thing to collect for, since Jesus was a Jew. Eventually the collectors left in penniless bemusement. My wife was shocked at my amusement at what she and all the neighbours saw as just a straightforward transaction.
They got no money, neither mother church nor the Jews. In any case, I had used up all my Christmas bonus, and at last I was able to afford the old second-hand Opel I had been eyeing in the garage for months, It was in reasonable condition. But no sooner did I get it home but the interior was quickly ruined. My dog had been bored on Sunday when I left him inside and had ripped the sponge out of big parts of the seats.
Sitting in my newly acquired wheels that Monday, on some small sponge-rich part of the seat, was my first passenger, Homer Washington, from Atlanta. He had spent some weeks travelling around Europe and ended up skiing in Finland. He was going home but bad weather had made his plane from Helsinki to London have to divert to Belfast, and he had to get his connection from Cork. He had been standing three hours in the snow thumbing when I stopped. Looked like a black faced snowman
Hey thanks. Trying to get to Cork airport to catch my connection home.
OK jump in, shake off the snow first.
I was going to Cork myself and welcomed the company.
Where is home?
He had a pronounced southern drawl and kept calling me “y’all” and “homey”, and pointing to things we passed as “kitty corner”, and such like to me It felt surreal, this warm southern American accent in the midst of the coldest winter in recent Irish history.
Atlanta, Georgia, he replied
So for an hour or so we headed south towards Dundalk. I retold my Christmas Jews story and he laughed heartily.
We’ll grab something to eat at Dundalk ok?
Y’all got McDonalds here?
I assured him that most of the US hallmarks of cuisine were found in Ireland these days.
The checkpoints had been removed between North and South by then, but when we crossed the border from Down to Louth there was a safety-check - looking at tyres. The border police noticed the black skin and southern drawl of Homer. They wanted to look at Homer’s passport. It was ok of course. Just their bored, idle curiosity. Then they insisted on him putting on his seatbelt properly in these skid-conditions.
Would you please replace de safety harness sir?
Huh?
Tis de belt I’m after suggistin. Put it on and bob’s your uncle. Tis easy enough, God knows you yanks don’t bother much with ‘em, I know. But here, we do. And the cop moved his arms to show how to do the belt.
Homer didn’t understand the Louth accent but tried to decipher the arm gestures imitating putting on the belt across the chest: and with the mention of God, he musta thought it was some religious ritual. He started to imitate the cop by crossing/blessing himself like in church.
Look buddy, we’re just going across to Mcdonald’s, kitty corner from the gas station there, man.
The cop said put de belt on and I dont care where youre going but for god’s sake get off the road as fast as possible - its seven below….
Homer smirked at me . He had just spent two weeks in Finland in 30 below so no panic. So he rolled up the window leaving the open mouthed policeman eyeballing his black skin and my ripped seats and making a mental note of the sponge bulging out of holes in the leatherette covers .
I always find it funny these people calling me “yank” and I nodded in implied agreement
So we pulled over to the golden arches, and Homer undid his belt and looked around at my seats.
I said yeah I know how it looks with the ripped sponge, but its an ok ride
I explained about my dog, saying This isn’t much of a car but its better than last year when we were living in England …. Here let’s get something to eat and I’ll tell you
I told him the sad tale over our burgers. We’d bought an old Cortina for very little cash down. Her weaknesses were soon apparent. The brakes would have needed a lot of extra sawdust in them to at least feel like gripping mechanisms. Even though we’d been sold a piece of junk, my wife decided to wash everything down, including the dashboard. Of course the dash shorted out and burst into flame.
Man, that’s women huh? Homer snorted with a guffawed laugh, almost choking on his burger. The snow began to get heavier, and I was anxious to get on the road.
OK we better get moving
So we passed under the arches proclaiming that 17 billion had been served, and joined the road to Dublin and on to Cork about 4 or 5 hours away. I continued with my car saga as we drove. Homer was feeling better now and looking forward to Cork and then Atlanta. So I picked up my tale
I’ll tell you what happened to the car ok? Its funny - you’ll like it
Sure thing man
Well, We decided to get our own back with the dealer. It was like returning the bride in some tribal ritual and demanding back what the Zulus call ‘lobola’, the bride price of six cows. Went back to the dealer and complained about dodgy brakes and dangerous wiring, and got a refund. This time we bought a slightly better Cortina on credit. But the cost was just too much for us and we soon began to miss the monthly instalments.
Instalments?
I mean payments. Then one night three baseball-bat types of guys from Liverpool knocked at our door to get the bride back.
Like the mob right?
Yeah exactly. These were different sorts of “collectors”. There was no misinterpreting what these front door collectors meant. They repossessed the car with few words. Involvement with shadier society like that taught us a lesson. However, the car lived on, fire-free, even though in the hands of strangers with their knuckles tattooed “love/hate”, and their voices coloured with heavy scouse accents.
Scouse?
From Liverpool.
Oh yeah, ok. Tough dudes, huh?
So then we started to save for another car….which is this one.
Man, y’all sure had some bad luck with your wheels, huh?
‘Sright.
After getting thru Dublin’s tail backs we found a coffee place about twenty miles further south. It was not a high class place. It still had the word MERRY on the wall with shards of tinsel below. Looked like CHRISTMAS had been stolen. But it was warm and had decent coffee. Homer was amused at the different accents in the place
How do youse guys understand each other?
I shrugged my shoulders.
A couple of hours later as we edged south towards Cork airport, the snow was still quite heavy by Irish standards. We were stopped at another police checkpoint. I thought it was another tyre and belt check, but this was different. We stop-started our way for fifteen minutes to the head of the line between two rows of plastic cones and then I wound down my window to listen to Cork’s finest.
Dere’s been a ribbery in Pishage Wisht and we’re checking all de cars and people……
I guessed the meaning of ribbery, but I simply smiled and nodded at Pishage Wisht
Homer was less phlegmatic, however, and called across me in a perfect parrot-like imitation …Hey buddy what’s Pishage Wisht ?
I expected some more forceful reaction but the cop simply repeated slowly Tis a ribbery in Pishage Wisht
Homer looked at me with one eyebrow twisted in disbelief. I sensed that he had given up on Ireland’s changing accents. As we pulled out of the restraining cones, I explained it was a town called Passage West which had had a robbery.
Man, dat’s wild, was his reply
Half an hour later we rolled up to the gates of Cork airport, and I dropped Homer.
Have a good trip home, Homer.
Yeah thanks, and y’all take care now, hear?
As I pulled away with the window still down, I heard him start speaking with the first staff he met in the Arrivals and saying loudly to them,
Hey do any of youse speak English?.
Sounded like “ewes” had made the leap to human speech. I couldn’t help wondering idly if maybe those Ewes were Jews?
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