John Prine, one of the best parts of America

In the spring of 1999 I made my first trip to Ireland. I was a young widow of six months making a pilgrimage to Doolin just to hear the music I loved so much — Irish Traditional. Traveling all alone, this was my first journey abroad, my first use of a passport, my first time renting a car on my own and even the first time I had ever stayed alone in a hotel and B&B. I spent two nights in Dublin where I made sure to visit the couple of sites that were important to me to see in person, and to go to a pub to drink my first Guinness in Ireland. The Guinness was great but I have to admit to feeling a bit awkward sitting alone in that pub. I remember there was a very nice woman bartender and she asked me what my plans were. When I told her I was driving to Doolin the next day to spend 8 days in West Clare she said, “You’ll like it better there, it’s beautiful and the people are so nice!”

The next day I picked up my rental car, a little Nissan Micra, and proceeded to drive on the wrong side of the road, sitting in the wrong side of the car, across the country with only a map and some basic directions given to me at the car rental. I had been somehow savvy enough to rent a car with an automatic transmission, something that is not a given here, and to wait to pick it up until I was heading straight out of Dublin into the countryside. This was in the days before the big motorways so driving across the country I had the opportunity to see the beauty of the countryside and to meander through every little town along the way. Driving on the wrong side of the road, in the wrong side of the car was scary in itself, but approaching my first ever roundabout was a challenge I had not anticipated. I had no clue what that sign with the circle and the little lines shooting out of it meant and I drove around in a circle at least twice before figuring out how to exit pointed in the right direction! In those days of no motorway, no GPS and very few cell phones, driving alone across a foreign land was a brave thing to do. At least for me, it took courage. It also took all day, but I finally made it. After getting my last set of directions from the tiny petrol station outside Doolin, I drove down a little road that headed straight into the mid point of town. When I came to a stop sign I sat a moment, trying to figure out whether to turn or go straight, surely looking confused, as I always do when I’m confused. I can’t hide it. Just then, an elderly man drove up next to me and said, “Janet?” It was Peter, one of the owners of the B&B I had booked! Being greeted by name as I entered Doolin made me feel very welcome and was taken to be a good omen. It turned out to be a great omen. 

I had come to Doolin for the traditional music, which was everything I had hoped it would be. But the surprise for me was the beauty of County Clare, which I discovered each day as I drove all over North Clare with its magnificent Burren, breathtaking Coast Road drive, ruins, artifacts and caves. I just followed my nose and a few recommendations I’d get along the way and had days of discovery and, being alone, a kind of traveling meditation. Then I’d go back to the B&B to get ready for the music each night in the three pubs that were there at the time — Gus O’Connor’s, McGann’s and McDermott’s. Every night there was magic in at least one of the pubs, my favorite two being O’Connor’s and McGann’s. I sat alone, but during those music sessions, it never felt awkward. 

My first visit to Ireland was like a dream I could never have planned. It was a pilgrimage, not a vacation, and I was mindful in every moment. I enjoyed the surprises each day and along the way, did some healing from the previous six months. West Clare energized me and gave me the confidence I needed to go forward in my life at that time. But I also have to admit to an undercurrent of loneliness and shyness throughout, when I had to push myself to just go out there each day and do it all on my own.  

On my last night in Doolin, an American woman stood up in O’Connor’s Pub and sang the John Prine classic, “Angel From Montgomery,” and in that moment all felt familiar and safe – as though a tiny part of America, one of its best parts, had come to sit with me awhile. Just as hearing my name spoken when I first arrived in Doolin felt like a welcome to Clare, the place that would eventually become my new home — hearing that song at the end of my first visit, felt like a call back home to America.

RIP John Prine, one of the best parts of America. Victim of Covid-19.

Here’s a link to that great John Prine ballad, “Angel From Montgomery”:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9CDLCr0fxOQ

My kind of town, Chicago is.

Chicago neighborhood by cojones 2010

We’re having another cold, snowy day in Chicago. Although, today and last night the snow has been very light, only accumulating about a half inch, last night it was blowing around like a blizzard… and I loved it! First of all, we needed a nice, clean white blanket to cover the dirty, partially melted January snow that was scattered about giving everything a dingy appearance. Secondly, there is just something invigorating about braving the wind and snow as it blows and bites into your face and forces you to walk backward! Unlike many in Chicago, I will admit that I love this stuff. But, all you have to do is look at the smiles on the faces of the people here when we get a real blizzard to know that deep down, Chicago people thrive on our harsh winter storms. We bundle up properly with no pretense of fashion, loudly stamp the snow off our boots upon entering the local coffee shop to pick up the morning cup, and proceed to moan and complain about the weather, all the while with twinkling eyes – though that could be due to the cold – and an energy you don’t see during the dog days of summer.

I love Chicago! This is the place of my birth and the city I have lived in, or next to, my entire life. Chicago is the place where both my parents were born and lived all their lives, as well as, the parents of the majority of my childhood friends. South-siders, most of them. The people here are friendly to the point of desensitizing me to the legendary, yet more subtle, friendliness of the people of Ireland. When I returned to Chicago after living a year in Ireland, folks often asked me, “So are the people there as friendly as I’ve always heard they are?” And I had to say… they’re nice, and they’re friendly enough, but nothing like the people of Chicago. The friendliness of the people of Ireland is more reserved. Ready with a smile and an interested response to anything you have to say to them, they usually wait for a person to talk to them first. The closest anyone would come to asking me where I was from after hearing my accent would be the statement, “So are you here on holiday?” But that wouldn’t be the case in Chicago. We are much more direct, in fact, I’m sure more than once my husband’s accent has been met with, “Are you from Ireland? How long have you been here? Why did you decide to move here? Do you still have family back in Ireland? My great-grandmother came from Tipperary! Do you know anyone by the name of “O’Reilly” in Dublin? He worked with me here in Chicago one summer. I think it’s Michael O’Reilly. Oh, is Dublin pretty big? I didn’t know that. So how do you like Chicago? How is it different from Ireland? Is Ireland as green as they say it is? I’ll bet you don’t get snow like this in Ireland!” And all this would be said with an open innocence and genuine curiosity that could never be mistaken for pushy or nosey, except by the most cynical person.

The first time I realized that Chicago people are different, was during my first trip to Toronto. I was waiting in line at a grocery store check out counter, and like any Chicagoan, I struck up a conversation with the person behind me. Well, attempted to anyway, as the person didn’t seem to be in the mood to talk and apparently did not find my observations about the great selection of items available in Canadian super markets, very interesting. I chalked it up to that particular person being a bit unfriendly, or maybe just having a bad day, until I then directed my casual chit chat to the woman working at the cash register and received little more than a polite smile and a slightly befuddled stare. It was then that I realized that the open, friendliness that I have taken for granted my whole life just might be specific to Chicago. After many subsequent trips to Canada and after meeting a lot of people over the years who have moved to Chicago from other states and cities, by the time I made my first trip to Ireland I was aware that Chicago people are unusually open and friendly. But, I’ll admit, I was surprised to find out that our friendliness even rivals that of ‘the land of a thousand welcomes’!

Coffee shop troll that I am, it’s no surprise that I came up with the perfect example of the difference between the friendliness of the Irish and the friendliness of Chicagoans, in the context of coffee shop experiences. If I was sitting in an empty coffee shop in Dublin and another person walked in alone, nine times out of ten, in spite of the room full of empty tables, the Irish person would sit either at the table directly next to me, or at most, one table over. They would likely sit there quietly, but there would usually be a sense that they would welcome a bit of friendly conversation if I were to initiate it. If I remained silent, they would often find a pretense to say something… like ask if the newspaper sitting on the bench between us was mine before they picked it up to read, and then use my accent as the perfect start to a conversation, most likely asking if I was on holiday. Now, move this situation to a coffee shop in Chicago. If I am sitting in an empty coffee shop in Chicago and another person walks in, nine times out of ten that person will find a table that is a ‘respectable’ distance away from me, very likely across the room, as we like our physical space and will give it to others as well. However, shortly after getting settled in their seat if not before, that person, if he or she is a true Chicagoan and not a life-long suburbanite, will catch my eye and begin a conversation as though I were a long time next door neighbor they just happened to run into. And if we’re lucky enough to have wandered into the shop out of a good Chicago blizzard… you can bet the conversation will be an enthusiastic rant about the weather!

Walking Across the Chicago River - HuffPo

…up to me eyeballs in snow, so I am.

“I’m up to me eyeballs in snow, so I am.” That would be exactly how my husband would describe the weather in Chicago today if he was on the phone with one of his mates back in Ireland. It’s not how he really talks, but a sort of ‘put on Irish’ he falls into when he really wants to describe something or is just joking around a bit. It sounds to me like a sort of combination North Dublin/Cork thing, and that would make sense because, although he spent most of his life in the ‘posh’ South Dublin neighborhood of Clonskeagh, he was born and spent his youngest years in Cabra, a workingclass North Dublin neighborhood, so he knows how to talk like a Dub when the situation calls for it. As for the Cork part, he spent the majority of the summers of his youth in Cork, with his aunt and uncle, both teachers in Mitchelstown, and their four children. But, just for the record, my husband has a South Dublin accent that many Americans hardly recognize as Irish, thanks to Hollywood and Barry Fitzgerald. In fact, one time someone even asked him if he was from Boston!

Anyway, the plan today was to skip the blog and meet my daughter for breakfast at our favorite Andersonville coffee shop/restaurant/boutique, Kopi. Daughters are wonderful by the way. Sons are wonderful too, but in a different way. Mothers and daughters can talk for hours, on subjects son’s would never dream of discussing, while sipping Russian Tea and Chai Tea Lattes in a great little shop and never get bored! And then, that same mother/daughter combination can top it off with yet another browse through the boutique section, ooo-ing and ahh-ing at the same clothing and jewelry they ogled just a week before! But Chicago weather has no regard for the plans of mothers and daughters, so here I am typing away again.

I came to the computer with the intention of writing about Dublin. With all the talk of cottages in bogs and the rugged, haunting West Coast of Ireland, I felt like I was neglecting my home away from home, Dublin, the city I have come to think of as Ireland itself these past several years. But that subject will have to wait for another day because I cannot be in three places at one time and at the moment, I am existing in two.

Here I sit in the midst of a snow storm and all that entails… changes of plans, a grocery stop at Jewel to stock up like a good Midwesterner in a blizzard, and an eye on the driveway with plans of doing a bit of shoveling in an hour or two so my car doesn’t pack it all down when I have to pick up my son from school. But, and this is the mystical part of it, I am also pacing in front of Rose Cottage, worrying still about the condition of the water pipes in this cold spell. I can prove I am there because I can hear my boots crunching on the “stone garden” as I pace! Every once in awhile I walk to the back deck so I can peer through the big windows to see if there is any clue of a mishap or anything that might let me know that the heat is still going on at the specified time and keeping the pipes from freezing.

I’m still worried about the pipes because, not only did I have the audacity to purchase a cottage in a remote area in a country across the ocean, but also because I am relying upon Irishmen to deal with the problem. And if I learned anything in the year I lived there, in this marriage and in the process of selling a house in Dublin and buying one in Kilkee… it is that the Irish are different than Americans, so they are.

Normally, I would consider myself pretty laid back for an American. I keep my schedule flexible, I would never be considered a type-A personality, and I don’t spend my energy trying to keep up with the Jones’s. However, compared to an Irish person, I’m a neurotic New Yorker demanding results yesterday. The Irish way of approaching a problem is to circle it, sniff it, walk away for a respectable period of time…. usually a period of time longer than I thought possible… and then come back to it for another circle, sniff and maybe to poke at it a bit. Then the process is repeated. Eventually the problem either goes away, somehow gets solved, or, and they won’t admit this, grows into a bigger problem that needs to be circled, sniffed and poked from a different angle. I just fear that freezing pipes fall into the third category. In this particular case, the circling, sniffing and poking involves arranging for the alarm man from Galway, who has the keys, to make his way down to the cottage to meet with the local man in Kilkee, who has agreed to keep and eye on the place for us.

So, American that I am, I had to split in two in order to cope. One of ‘me’ is doing just fine dealing with weather I’ve lived with and dealt with my entire life. That’s a piece of cake. While the other ‘me’ paces and peers… and waits for a stranger from Galway to get a call from my husband telling him to meet me in front of Rose Cottage with the key so I can get in and fix the problem!