Raymond P. Concannon
ONLY IN IRELAND
By
Raymond P. Concannon (copyright 1997 All Rights Reserved)
After a leisurely, "O my God! That car is passing on a
hill and a curve to boot", drive from Galway, we arrived in
Dublin and found the Shelbourne Hotel. You see, Ireland does not
believe in highway signs, which means you must stop and ask for
directions; that way you meet the people, who are truly lovely.
The Irish use the words "That's grand," and "That's lovely," the
way Americans use "You know," and "OK."
After taking the lift to our room, my wife, Mother
Superior Veronica (she never gave up the title), and I stopped
in to the Lord Mayor of Dublin Lounge at the Shelbourne. It's
one of those places that look like a large Irish parlor, with a
waitress you know is probably living with a brute of a lorry
drive_and I am in a rescue mood. Even MSV says "she's lovely"
and "I think she's grand." Maybe I could be the first guy on my
block with an Irish housekeeper and revive the domestic import
business? Can you imagine how grateful she'll be to be away from
that lorry lout?
Well, as we waited for our tea and biscuits, (we call
them cookies) I witnessed a truly JJ character (that's James
Joyce, not Dr. J's son) enter the lounge as if he was meeting
GBS (if you do not know who that is, stop reading and save up
your money to buy a lorry) to discuss a bit of advice he might
give to improve Major Barbara or St. Joan. While he surveys the
room for anyone important or witty and finding none there, he
sighs his Oscar Wilde "God! There's no one in this room" sneer
and consents to discuss the lovely June weather with two ladies
in smart summer dresses, but wearing no hose. For some reason,
Dublin women do not wear hose. Do you think it's somehow related
to the birth rate or a fashion trend that existed since Cromwell
took all of their stockings for his Christmas tree?
Now arrives the other actor in this parlor game, the
Irish poet. He is young, dressed in poet's, "I sleep in these"
clothes, and he's all smiles and glee as he has a new poem. Can
you imagine an Irish poet smiling? The other man is his literary
agent, and he proceeds to nit pick the poet's recent work,
"Why ten years?" he asks.
"Well, you see, there was free love then, and now
after ten years we meet again, in Germany."
"You did better work when you were drinking," says the
agent.
"Ah, that's sadly true, but you see, it wasn't the
drink, but the pubs that inspired me," says the poet. "And now,
I just can't go into a pub and order cola. That wouldn't do, you
see."
"So you write, `Come back to my place for coffee,'
where did you get that from? Christ! Coffee from an Irishman?"
exclaims the agent, who still orders nothing and my grand
waitress, with advancing wisdom, ignores the two of them.
The poet, however, pulls two plums out of his poet's
bag and proceeds to explain that only in Germany would the
coffee invitation work, explaining its difference with Ireland.
I guess no one drinks coffee in Ireland, let alone as an invite
to an old flame. The agent says the poem needs work and, upon
arising very quickly, looks around for the waitress and says
that he'd like to leave something for the lass, but he doesn't.
The poet leaves two plum pits, "for the lass", and they leave.
Only in Ireland.
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