In which Jeba and her enormous coffee get their comeuppance (sort of), Roro finds the perfect Irish sweater (sort of) and then they meet some really cool old ladies in a pub. Also, pictures of the beautiful scarf Roro made for Maja (see left).
If you've been following along, you may recall that when we last left . . . us, my travelling companion Jeba had consumed a gallon of coffee before getting on an hours-long toilet-less bus trip from Cork to Galway. I told Jeba, when she asked in a tight voice an hour and a half into the trip, that the bus would be making one stop halfway through the trip, in Limerick. By the time we made the stop, she was white-knuckling the armrest in an attempt to not whiz everywhere. As we pulled in, Jeba pushed old ladies out of the way and rocketed off the bus in search of facilities. I remained aboard to make sure we didn’t leave without her – because I know that nothing good happens when we are Left Behind.
I was reading my book when I heard Jeba reboard the bus. "It cost 20 pence," she said as she sat back down next to me, her voice awash with relief, "I had to break a punt at the snack stand, I didn’t have any change." "What didja get?" I asked, looking up from my book to see Jeba take a long pull from another enormous coffee. "Oh, relax," she said, clocking the disbelief on my haggard, dehydrated face, "It’s only another few hours 
to Galway."
As we travelled the glorious green countryside (it was this kind of green, actually, a tweedy green, 70% wool, 30% silk, the kind you might get from The Wool Mill at Danforth and Woodbine), I felt Jeba's smooth-ridin' coffee-drinkin' posture transition, yet again, from relaxed to rigid. There was leg bouncing. There was tuneless "pleeleeleeeleeleeleeleese don't let me peeyeeeyeeeyeeee in my pants" humming. There was desperate scrutiny of road signs. When we finally arrived in the city, I was left to retrieve our bags solo while Jeba, knees clamped tightly together but feet flying, narrowly missed kicking the elderly bus driver's junk as she beetled off to find another loo. I shook my head smugly as I gathered up our luggage and then nearly passed out from dehydration.
Our hostel in Galway was like a fancy YMCA and a real step up from our previous hostel, where everything smelled like sperm and lager. Jeba and I somehow ended up in different rooms and I found myself sharing with a group of very young, sweet, friendly Americans. They were so friendly, in fact, that I barely begrudged them the Canadian flags they all had stitched to their backpacks.
After we had said our hello's to each other and they'd watched me root around in MY Canadian flag- stitched backpack, one of the girls asked me, in a tone of awe, if I was from Ireland. You know, guys - because of that Irish accent I have. I thought briefly about saying yes, but I knew I would eventually blow my cover. After a few choice phrases like “top of the marnin’ to yeh,” or “I’d like to smash yeh in the face with my shelale,” my "Irish" accent would descend into the same muddle as my other “accents” and I’d end up sounding "Cajun", but with a head injury and a hare lip.
Reluctantly, I told her I was from Canada. “Oh,” she said. “I didn’t know you had an accent up there in Canada!” “I like YOUR accent," I said to her, "Where are you from?” “South Carolina,” she drawled, in the kind of accent that makes "ice" sound like "ass", “Oh, but I don’t have an accent.” And then she told me a story about her youth pastor. Later, when she was in the bathroom, I clipped the maple leaf off her backpack.
It was in a mall in Galway where I finally found my ideal Irish sweater. Most of the other sweaters in the shop were well out of my price range, but one of them was on sale for cheap. Real cheap. Hmmm. I put it on. It was a nice fit, the yarn a lovely brown/grey/cream. It was a cardigan and the buttons were those kind of faux leather grandpa buttons, except these were REALLY faux, like plastic buttons made to LOOK like faux leather. I couldn’t figure out why it was so cheap. No big holes. Mostly symetrical. I decided not to look a gift sheep in the mouth. I bought the sweater, donned it and left the store, stuffing my hands jauntily into the pockets. And that’s when the cheapo sweater mystery was solved.
It hadn't occurred to me to really look at the pockets in the shop. I mean - they're pockets. I proceeded to check them out. Each of the pockets had a big, goofy-looking ram on it. A flocked brown ram. Like a poodle on a poodle skirt. Only a ram. On my sweater. With googly eyes and yellow horns and no visible way from removing it from the sweater without completely destroying the pockets. I checked my receipt. All sales were final. Godammit. "Oh well," I thought, as I wandered back into the hostel, "I didn't notice it in the shop - maybe no one else will either! Yeah!" I stopped to chat with Katherine, the desk clerk. She saw my new sweater and said "Oh! Well, isn't that a lovely - (pause as she clocked the pockets) oh. That's a bit of a 'mammy' sweater, innit?" I nodded. "Ah, well," she said, "perhaps they won't care about that over in Canada, so."
Jeba kindly did not mock the sweater - much. She reminded me that the best way to get over a bad sweater purchase is to get under a guy with an accordion while drinking, so we went out on the town. We were thrilled to finally find some somewhat traditional Irish music at a pub called An Pucan. It was clearly a tourist destination, because we were surrounded by faux Canadians, but Tom Flaherty, his drum machine and his Accordion Guy with the Roving Eye did not disappoint.
At some point in the night, four wee white-haired old ladies tottered into the pub and were plied with liquor by the elderly gentlemen with them. It turns out that two of the ladies were 75 year old twins. One of them was a NUN. And it was their birthday. We all sang Happy Birthday for them, we clapped for them, we marvelled at them as they drank big men under the table. We could not look away from these women. And then, during a lively reel, these spry ancient ones rose to their feet and performed together what was surely one of the more challenging sections of Riverdance (sans leather pants and avec orthopedic shoes). They pranced. They leapt. They twirled. They stomped. They held us in thrall. Surely they would get tired! Surely they would fall and break a hip! Never. They defied us all and danced faster and more furiously and always in unison until the song ended and their eyes flashed triumphantly around the room while we leapt to our feet, hollered ourselves hoarse and clapped our hands numb.
It was a good, good night.
