Diary Friday

And now for the next installment of … Diary Friday.

I am moving myself out of the mortifying terrain of high school for the moment. I just can’t deal with those memories today. This is an entry from a hilarious trip my sister Jean and I took to Ireland to visit our sister Siobhan.

What I describe here, or at least the last episode in this entry, is one of my favorite memories ever.

November, 1998 Ireland

The Stella Maris Hostel: One of the guys talking to me about the ferry [to the Aran Islands] from Galway– thick brogue– He saw the look on my face, stopped himself, grinned: “Can ya’ understand me?”

At first they put us in this room that would have to be seen to be believed. Light blue stained walls, awful overhead lights, FILTHY — and about four random bunk beds strewn about. No sheets. Ripped-up mattresses. Jean was still in a glowering mood [because we had accidentally ripped the bumper off of our rent-a-car], so she threw her bag down, and sat on one of the bottom bunks. “Fine. This is fine.” Totally resigned to fate.

The entire place smelled of cabbage.

It was only 7 or 7:30. We had hours to go before bedtime. I had about three books in my bag. All visions of a cozy B&B with a bedside lamp, and a big puf-a-puf bed vanished. Now all we had was stripped bunk beds (four of them), dirty overhead lights with dead bugs trapped inside, and cabbage. I couldn’t read in this room!

And we were no longer sure that we would even make it to Rossaveal in the morning. The guys downstairs made it sound like a journey up Everest’s north face.

They had pity on us and moved us into another room — just a little bit better. Outside: a round tourist-info building up against the sea wall. But from our view, it looked like a vat of some kind of nuclear waste.

Finally, the bumper debacle dissipated and what took its place? The giggles. Every time we looked at the nuclear waste dump outside we would lose it again. Jean and I thrashed about in our freezing room, laughing like maniacs. We couldn’t stand to stay in the room.

We asked the guys downstairs for a wake-up call. What were we thinking?

We took a walk along the sea. Looking out into the darkness. Out there in the cold– out there somewhere — were the Aran Islands. People living their lives out there … as we speak. Makes me feel homesick. The smell of the salt air. Jean and me walking along, wolfing down crackers, putting off going back to that bleak room.

Finally we came back to the Stella Maris — got our books — and went down to the pub next door. It was only 9or so, maybe earlier. Jean had In the Time of Butterflies, and I had one of my airport books: The Notebook, which a friend had raved about to me. That’s the last time I read a book HE recommends. It SUCKED. I could not even bear it.

The pub was dingy, like an old living room. Dusty rug, crackling fire, smoky air, couches, the bartender playing cards with someone. A bunch of rowdy giggly short-skirted Galway girls huddled over by the fire, celebrating a birthday, drinking, smoking, making constant cell phone calls.

Jean and I sat drinking, and reading. Communing peacefully. It’s such a different bar scene than in the States. Mellow. Like you’re in your own house. Then the Galway girls left, we took their seats by the fire, and it was just us four people in the pub. For hours. The TV on with no sound. Jean and I reading, drinking Guinness, Jean having an enraptured reading experience, and I, to put it bluntly, was NOT having an enraptured reading experience. When we left the next morning, I left the book in a drawer in the room, with a note: “Warning: This book is AWFUL.”

Added to the graffiti in the bathroom: “Sheila and *****, Nov. 1998”

Why did I do this? Sort of as a joke. Sometimes it comes to my mind, that across the ocean that graffiti still exists. A fantasy, too … of ***** and I getting together in the future, and traveling to Ireland … and me tracking down that graffiti to show to him … as what? Proof of my clairvoyance? My psychic powers? I have no idea. For some reason — it makes me want to giggle. Those random words written by ME in the Stella Maris Pub, Salt Hill, County Galway, Ireland … I mean, it’s comical, on some level … in a sort of bitter way. Making a joke out of my own life (or lack of life).

Finally — past midnight — up to our dreadful room. It was so freezing that we climbed into the lumpy double bed with all of our clothes on, and socks, and mittens, and hats.

Jean read to me, and then we both fell asleep.

We woke up two hours past the time we had asked for a “wake-up call”. I bolted upright like a lunatic.

“Jean? What time is it?”

Something felt wrong. Too much traffic outside, too much light.

We lay in stunned paralysis for a moment, trying to comprehend the turn of events. It was twenty to 9. The ferry from Rossaveal left at ten. And everyone had made us afraid about the difficulty of the drive. Would we ever get to the Aran Islands?

Then came the turning point moment.

Jean: “Sheila. I think we can make it. If we get up and go NOW.”

And that’s what we did.

The Tazmanian Devil O’Malley sisters, tossing our shit into bags, shoving hats down on our sleepy hair, racing down the stairs … Those guys were SO not around. Jean called out, through the sleeping hostel lobby: “Thanks a lot for the wake-up call, guys!!”

And … we MADE it. Even with stopping to tape up the bumper, and the damn wheel hub fiasco — turning around to go get it — me running across the street to grab it. And the road was SO not bad. The guys at the Stella Maris made it sound like it would be a dirt road, and that we would need 4-wheel drive. We certainly were out in the middle of nowhere, bleak, all Gaelic signs, but the roads themselves were fine. “Fields” on one side, filled with rocks. More rocks than dirt. Brown and grey chopped-up rocky land as far as the eye can see. Grey ocean crashing to our left.

And then — an hour behind schedule — we made it. We were on the ferry to the Aran Islands. We could hardly believe that we had MADE it. We DID it.

And I must just jot down some of the funny things from our Saturday night in Dublin– Kiely’s and then Rio’s.

Jean took off her sweater at Kiely’s, tank top underneath, basically all for the benefit of the Adam Ant look-alike across the pub, who remained completely unaware of her display.

The boys we met that night decided to take us to a place called Rio’s. I remember as we all emerged from Kiely’s, Brian was sort of the ringleader. Jean and I were walking with him. I said, “Where’s the accountant?” and Jean said, “Where’s the guy with the little glasses?” and Brian said, to an invisible audience, “Oh, listen to ya’! You’ve got little names for all of us, have ya’?”

We all piled into our car. With the taped bumper. I was on Cahul’s lap. Siobhan was BURIED in men in the backseat. A hilarious drive into Dublin. All of us talking at once. Jokes, repartee, laughter, witty comments. Great company, those Irish boys.

Then: Rio’s.

CHEESE-ball Dublin dance club. Packed. Silver reflective surfaces, club music blaring.

Jean and I stood in line to check our coats (a mistake!). Our passports and tickets home were in her purse, which she also checked.

A small muscled bald man insisted on bonding with Jean while we were in line. He basically fell madly in love with her. Immediately.

Irish men all immediately remember and assimilate your name. They say it back to you right away. It’s a beautiful thing. Very good manners. “So … tell me, Sheila…”

Later in the night, after the fuse blew at Rio’s, and the entire dance club was out on the sidewalk, with their pints of Guinness, and everything was hilarious and out of control, and Jean and Siobhan and I had bonded with these other guys, suddenly Baldie emerged out of the throng and shouted joyfully at Jean, as though they were dear old friends, who hadn’t seen one another in years: “JEAN!!”

Baldie was all about line dancing. He assumed that because we were Americans, we would be able to line-dance. He was dancing with Jean when the power went, twirling her around, and I heard him say something about “the prom”. Ha ha. His vision of America: line dancing and proms.

So, we walked into Rio’s, checked our coats, and me, Siobhan, Jean, and Brian hit the dance floor. Cheesy music, cheesy strobe lights, so much fun. Brian dancing was so adorable. He was completely dancing for himself, totally unself-conscious. Our new friend from Tipperary.

He gained our love back at Kiely’s when we were discussing the “ring of Kerry”. Brian said, “Well, to be perfectly honest with ya’, it’s more like the trapezoid of Kerry.” We loved him from that moment on.

We all danced for maybe two or three songs when a fuse blew. All lights and music went out, and the entire place was plunged into darkness.

Brian totally owned it. He felt responsible. He was embarrassed. He was trying to show these three crazy American girls a good time and look what happens! He was sort of laughing and apologetic, “This never happens!!”

My heart cracked! We assured him (through the pitch black) that we were having the best time of our lives. It was an adventure. The whole night was wacked, but once the lights went out, it reached a whole other level of insanity.

Baldie and Jean took to the dance floor in the darkness. There was no music, but they kept line-dancing away. People kept drinking. The noise-level was outrageous. There was a general atmosphere of camaraderie, hilarity, humor.

Finally, someone came along and told us all that we had to evacuate the building.

A mild form of Irish pandemonium ensued.

A throng clustered in line to retrieve our coats, in the pitch dark. The poor coat-check girl blundering around in the black. Everyone continued to smoke and drink and whoop it up IN THE DARK. Jean and I lost track of Siobhan. We also lost track of the crazy group of boys who had taken us to Rio’s. Baldie continued to love Jean, completely glued to her side, making witty smart-ass comments. He was making us cry with laughter.

We were going nowhere in that line. Jammed together in a mad mob. Jean yelled out, “HEY. SOMEONE GRABBED MY ASS.” Baldie prepared to get into a fist-fight to defend Jean’s honor. Jean promptly got totally paranoid right after her outburst that she had pissed off a group of “Dublin girls”.

Finally we reached the coat check area, only to be confronted by an Irish fireman (Lord help us and save us), holding a flashlight, ushering us out a back door.

“But what about our coats?” I said, right in his face. Obnoxious American behavior. He waved me by, unperturbed.

And then came the party on the sidewalk in front of Rio’s.

The entire nightclub had poured out onto the street. A fleet of fire trucks lined the block, lights flashing. It was a cold night. No one had coats. Everyone had brought their drinks outside with them. Everyone, that is, except for Jean and I (we still couldn’t find Siobhan) — we still had an American dread of “open containers”. The guys we met on the sidewalk were so shocked and bemused that we had left our beers in the club. “They’d have kept you warm, y’know?”

Pandemonium. Firemen running around. Garda running around. One dashed by us and Jean exclaimed, joyfully, “Garda!” Swirling lights. A huge crowd of shivering drunk people. Laughter. Noise. Everyone was bonding.

We all got separated. We had no idea where Siobhan was. I lost Jean. I wandered around looking for my sisters.

Siobhan later described looking for us, finally resorting to yelling my name out into the crowd. “SHEILA!” And some random guy she had never seen before offered, “Oh … I think I saw her over there.”

We howled about this later. Like: everyone knew our names!

I found Jean finally. We huddled up against each other shivering, be-moaning the fact that our passports and tickets home were trapped in the doomed night club. We met up with two or three other amusing Irish men on the sidewalk, and we were all about: “Our passports! Our plane tickets!” And one of them said to us, gently, in an “I’m not judging you, but you should know –” tone: “It’d probably be best to not carry those things around with you.” So gentle!

Then Siobhan re-appeared. Glamorous Siobhan with her black velvet boa and her long curly hair.

A drunken convivial group, all hugging one another to keep warm, began singing “American Pie”. And — beautifully — it caught on. Until the entire crowd from Rio’s, lining the sidewalk, joined in … and we all … every single one of us … sang along. Everyone knew every single word. We sang as loud as we could. People danced, people had their arms round each other … We worked together as a group, all slowing down, as one, during the melancholy last verse.

“I went down to the sacred store
where I’d heard the music years before….”

One of my favorite memories of all time: singing American Pie with the large group of Irish revelers, because the fuse had blown.

Jean was so cold that this one guy put his arms around her, hugging her to keep her warm. He hugged her for about twenty minutes. Siobhan blatantly took a picture of it. We asked him to take a picture of the three of us, clustered on the stairs. Jean was blithering at him about how the “night flash” worked. Suffice it to say that Jean was obsessed with the “night flash”.

The guy’s friends were making jokes about “flashing”, every time the words “night flash” came out of Jean’s mouth (which was many many times.) “Oh, don’t say the word ‘flash’ to him!” “Now you’ve done it!” “Oh God, she said it again!”

I said as he aimed the camera at us: “Come on! Flash us!” This was a huge hit with the group.

Jean and I stood in front of one of the fire trucks, surrounded by all our new friends. Baldie continued to follow Jean around, making her laugh. That is the way Irish men court women. They keep the ladies laughing. Siobhan took a picture of all of us, and there was something hilarious, too, about Siobhan documenting all of this craziness — her leaning in, aiming her camera, and pressing the night flash.

One of the guys said to us, ruefully, “My wife just had triplets. She doesn’t want to see my face for a while.”

The entire atmosphere was so different from New York. I was trying to imagine how a crowd at a Manhattan night club would react in a similar situation. But in Dublin there were no diva fits, no flying into huffs, no outrage at the inconvenience … Instead, we had the night flash and “American Pie”. I could have stayed out there on the sidewalk all night. It was beautiful!

We completely lost Brian, Taidhg, Cahul and Steven. They disappeared. But we found other friends.

They let people back in to retrieve their coats. Jean was our emissary. She described going back into the darkened night club, she got our coats, and she was told to go out through the dance floor. And the entire fire department was sitting on bar stools, lounging about, smoking cigarettes, so blasé: “Hey, how ya’ doin’?”

Why is that image so damn funny to me?

While Jean was inside, I somehow hooked up with five other guys. I started talking to one hottie wearing a fleece hat. He asked my name. “Sheila.” All of his friends started chanting, in a warm approving chorus, “Sheila! Sheila!” Nodding to one another, like, “Ah, that’s a good name.”

“So … Sheila…” said Fleece Hat Hottie. Immediately saying my name back to me, like all Irish men do.

Of course he assumed I was Irish, and the second I got out more than three words, he stopped me, excited, “You’re from the States?”

“Yup.”

“Where from?”

“Rhode Island?” (said with a question mark…)

He leapt right in, eager to show his knowledge. “Okay — here’s how it goes, Sheila, right? You have Rhode Island — then Cape Cod — then New York.”

“No. No. That’s not how it goes. Cape Cod comes first. So it goes, Cape Cod, Rhode Island, New York –”

He was so intent on me. He took it in. “Ah, yes. Of course. That’s how it goes.” He had lived on Cape Cod. He had this beautiful flirty humorous intent energy.

Jean said it was so funny, coming back out of Rio’s, and seeing me surrounded by five men, deep in conversation, as though we had known one another all our lives.

“You know what Sheila means to Australians, don’t you?” Fleece-Hat said, leering at me in a lecherous and utterly friendly way. He made me laugh.

And finally: off we went. Totally high from our adventure. My sisters and I, as we pulled away from Rio’s, were still laughing, re-living funny moments, roaring about the night flash.

Jean suddenly called out, when we hit an intersection: “Look! It’s those guys!”

There were our “night flash” friends crossing the street. The new father of triplets, and the others. We beeped, waving at them, manically, as though they were our DEAR friends. They stopped, turned, squinted into our car. When they saw that it was us, the crazy American girls they had been hugging to keep warm, they got these huge delighted smiles on their faces (oh, my heart … People!… I love people …)…Then, as a joke, they made this big show about how cold they were, hugging themselves, because they had kept us warm.

We literally could not have had a funner night.