Evan Go Bragh

What happens when an American WASP from the city travels to Ireland to stay with his fiancé's large Irish Catholic family deep in the countryside? Now picture this; he's never met any member of their family before. And he leaves his fiancé behind in America and goes it alone.

Reminds me of the skit entitled "Cleopatra Schwartz" from the 1977 film Kentucky Fried Movie.

She was six feet of black dynamite. He was a short Hasidic Jew. She fought a savage battle to stay alive in the ghetto. He studied the Talmud at night. Theirs was a torrid, sensual passion fueled by those who said no.

Okay, so maybe the differences weren't quite as stark as that, and certainly not as funny. But it surely was different. This is how I spent my summer vacation.

You may ask why, indeed, I traveled to Ireland by myself, leaving by betrothed back in the states. As I mentioned in a previous column, I can be a selfish and cheap bastard at times, and that pretty much explains it. The ticket was booked in February, it was non-refundable, and I'll be damned if I'm going to let a good airline ticket to waste just because my fiancé couldn't get her shit together in time (I love you honey). And if the family was willing to kick one of their 139 children out of a room so I can stay for free, hey, how could I say no.

Truth be told, the people in Ireland reminded me of many a folk I met during my 139 years at The University of Wisconsin. They all talk kinda funny, they tend to utter the same home-spun colloquialisms over and over again, they eat meat and potatoes every meal, and they drink heavily - though the Irish do not imbibe as frequently as I would have guessed. People in Wisconsin are, however, noticeably fatter.

Before going "across the pond" (and if we could all stop using that expression, that would make the world a better place), I had many a pre-conceived notion about what Ireland would be like, based on the time-worn stereotypes that have permeated American culture. And for the most part, they simply turned out to be either highly exaggerated or totally untrue.

Myth: There are sheep blocking the roads everywhere you look.
Fact: Ireland does have many o' sheep. They spend most of the time chewing heather on the bog, not crossing the roads. But it does happen.

Myth: The Irish are constantly engaged in whiskey-fueled fistfights.
Fact: America would find itself much improved if their citizens were as friendly as the Irish. They are truly a kind, good natured people, unless you happen to be British, orange and imperialistically bellicose. Then they will drink whiskey and blow your head off.

Myth: The Irish eat potatoes at every meal.
Fact: The Irish eat potatoes at every meal. Two small bags of pinks, if you please.

Myth: Ireland is covered with the most verdant, rolling hills imaginable and sheer cliffs into the sea.
Fact: You tell me.

One aspect of my week in Ireland that dominated many of my thoughts was the driving. I decided to rent a car while I was there so I could take off and play golf at a moment's whim - probably not one of my better ideas in this lifetime.

As you may be aware, they drive on the left in Ireland, and I cannot begin to tell you what a total mindfuck this is. Everything is backwards. After more than two decades of operating a motor vehicle in America, driving has become largely instinctual, the extent of which became abundantly clear in a very short period of time upon arriving on the Emerald Isle. You can mentally remind yourself, "Drive on the left, drive on the left, drive on the left" as many times as you would like, but there will come a time - usually after taking a right turn - where you will find yourself humming along in the right hand lane. Hopefully, there's a local next to you to yell "Wrong lane!" before you collide head-on with a Mack "lorry" (Irish for truck).

But even before you meet your maker, one must become accustomed to the vehicle itself. First off, the Irish do not believe in automatic transmissions. They seem only vaguely aware of the existence of this type of device, as if it were some far-away invention that the ancient Brazilians may have once employed. Normally, this would not have bothered me; my Subaru is a stick and I have often scoffed at the idea of driving an automatic, as if it threatened my masculinity.

However, after walking up to the rental on the left side and actually feeling a moment of shock to see no steering wheel, I walked around the "bonnet" (Irish for hood) like I meant to do that, sat in the bizarrely unfamiliar passenger seat, looked down at the stick and realized that I had never shifted with my left hand before (resisting the obvious "using your left hand to grab your stick" joke). Every instinct had to be transposed. First gear is now fifth gear; reverse is second.

If all that wasn't enough, the roads are not logical to the average yank. The precious few major roads generally consist of one semi-wide lane and one half shoulder lane, making the act of passing the inevitable tractor a risky proposition. Once the major roads give way to the smaller, windy ways throughout the countryside - which account for about 90 percent of all the roads in the country - things get downright hairy. How fast is 80 kilometers per hour anyway? Whatever it is, the locals drive much faster than that on roads as wide as a hurling bat. And shoulders? Ha! Not on your life, boyo. A hedgerow is your shoulder, and when a car comes whizzing by you at 117 kilometers per hour on the wrong side of the road, at night, you will come to know terror, and that aforementioned hedgerow will become quite familiar as well.

And all that is without mentioning the roundabouts. The Irish have dispensed with traffic lights in lieu of traffic circles with their own unique set of laws. Yeah, they go to the left as well.

Despite all of that, the only damage I did was to the boot (Irish for trunk) by backing into a pole exactly tall enough to be impossible to see, on a road barely wider than the car itself.

Sigh.

One quick note to those who may be traveling there in the near future:

You may be under the impression that it's cool to drink and drive in Ireland, that the Gaurda (pronounced "Gaurdi," Irish for police) aren't that tough about putting people in jail, because of the amount of drinking that happens there. Well, you'd be very, very wrong. Drinking and driving simply isn't done. Go out to eat at a restaurant and take a look around. If you see a table of four, three people will have pints of Guinness and one will have water or soda. They have actually embraced the idea of the designated driver quite heartily in Ireland, and people just don't drink and drive there.

Furthermore, if you are stupid enough to get behind the wheel of a backwards car with a backwards stick shift and try to drive drunk (at night, in the rain, most likely) on the wrong side of a road with which you are not familiar, well, there's a Darwin Award with your name on it.

Oh yeah, how did the WASP fare with the Catholics? Quite nicely, thank you very much. They're a lovely bunch of blokes without an ounce of bullocks between them. Dad is hard at it driving a lorry and mum always has a cuppa waiting for him when he gets home. He takes a bit of brown sauce with his meat before settling in to watch some Gaelic on the tele. Adam and Brendon are quite the hurlers.

Well then, you know, that's all. Be at easy.

Evan Redmon is a manager of a public golf course in Washington, D.C. and writes a few things about stuff sometimes. Contact him at evanredmon@yahoo.com if you really want.