Blog entries for cheesebabe74

A Gem of Journey on the Emerald Isle

cheesebabe74 — Sat, 10 May 2008 00:46:10 GMT

A long lost relative had reemerged via a strange form letter sent to all members of my family. Phones were a buzz when aunts and uncles exchanged calls all wondering who this Francis was and what did he want with my family?

Turns out, the geneology bug doesn't just bite Americans looking for roots, but sometimes your roots come looking for you. Francis was a long lost Irish relative on my father's side of the family...the mutt side. I was thrilled because I could trace, very directly, my mother's family to county Cork, making me a very legitimate entry in a bar on the infamous March holiday. In fact, our story is so overproduced and traditional (great grandma came over on a boat during the famine, worked as a domestic in Boston for an older lady and married a railroader (three, actually) and made her way across the country to the Midwest) that it's comforting in some ways to have the traditional immigrant experience under your belt. You feel connected to a story told many times over and feel safe in calling it your own.

But now, Francis enters the picture and another link to County Cork comes calling and it turns out I can live the ultimate punchline: Both sides of my family are from the same county in Ireland. I rock.

So, it's the perfect excuse to make my first non-border town international excursion and with a good friend in tow, we hit Chicago's airport for my first over -ocean flight to meet up with Francis and his two beautiful daughters. We circled the country, toured it top to bottom, but perhaps our time spent with his daughters was most revealing.

The girls stared at us, afraid of what to say, constantly nudged forward by their mother, my cousin Lucia. Finally, the impass in international relations broke down when after dinner, the 8 year old and 6 year old showed us their rooms and breached the divide with the one question they must have been churning with all afternoon. "Do you know Britney Spears?" Never in my life have I been so saddened that I had to answer "no." They had such hope in their eyes that they could return to school the next week and report that their link to America was indeed, TRULY linked to all that is America. Their own sets of myths and fantasies insisted that all Americans knew one another and all women sang and danced and met with youthful success as Britney did.

Our travels were stunning and all wonderful, from pub to ancient cathedral, the trains, the people, even the fish were fantastic.

The best of the journey, however, was our chance to live a myth in real time. It was St. Patrick's Day eve and we ventured to a small suburban town outside of Dublin with a new friend and traveling companion. We crammed ourselves into his friend's subcompact and braving potholed, unpaved roads to the Stoop Your Head pub (aptly named because a large beam in the center of the aged building loomed low and everyone cracked their head on it after a few pints...causing the locals to holler out "Stoop your head!" Really, the frankness of the Irish people is refreshing.).

We sat in a traditional Irish pub, in Ireland on the eve of the over celebrated (in America, anyway) holiday. We drank pints of Irish beer (that truly does taste better when consumed on the Isle) and as it came time for the clocks to turn their dates over to the 17th, the bar amped its energy. Drunken men and women with ruddy faces and dopey grins sloshed pints and smacked heads and sang. A small set of musicians playing traditional Irish instruments and fare grew bawdier and stunningly, instruments started to appear--whistles, drums, even more mandolins and crowd regulars joined in. A rousing rendition of all songs Irish suddenly became a enhanced by a chorale of all pub goers, sloshing and singing as one.

And then, it was St. Patrick's day. We were high on Guiness. We were singing and had strangely, in a matter of a few hours, picked up the charming accent, and my friend and I turned to one another, toasted our glasses high in the air and shouted "We're in an Irish pub, in Ireland, on St. Patrick's Day and it looks just like a movie!"

It did, it was. The image is crystalized in my mind and I'm ever thankful for that. I still know how to mumble through the too-fast pace of a drunken Mary Mac and how to hold my pint high to honor The Night Paddy Murphy died, but mostly I will remember, whether you Stoop Your Head or not, some images and traditions of culture are pleasant, flattering and bejeweled in the accuracy of how wonderful a moment of unity with a roomful of people you desperately want to be connected to can feel. Slainte!

Amarillo by Morning

cheesebabe74 — Wed, 07 May 2008 20:19:08 GMT

I never went to Panama City for spring break as an undergraduate. I was in college too many years and yet, still never participated in that ritual until graduate school. Once started, however, I became insatiable. A best friend and I have adventured all over the country, but our most memorable, far reaching spring break travel was the trip that took us all around the country, traveling the historic Route 66.

First, it is worth noting that no one should undertake such a far-reaching, winding, unpredictable journey as this unless you have a friend like Kate. She's the ultimate traveling companion because she'll listen to--and sing with you--anything playing on the radio. It's essential to know this about your companions before setting out because throughout this country, there is plenty of country, Christian, and gospel stations out there, along with a stunning number of classic rock digits on the dial, so if you're not with someone who can be a fan of any notes coming out of your dashboard speakers, be prepared to launch into some seriously long conversations. We took this trip, by the way, au naturale... no ipods, no satellite radio. It was us, an FM tuner, and the open road. Hands down, that's how it should be done. The pavement on Route 66 and its fate was sealed long before the advent of MP3s, you should pay proper homage to this fact.

It wasn't just the radio afficianado quality that made Kate great to spend hours on end in a motor vehicle with, however. We both seemed to need to pee at the same time and both had the same strange photographic needs. On one lonely highway somewhere in Texas, we drove past a rural house with a giant front yard. There, in all its glory, was a giant, amusement park-sized chicken. It was not inflatable like the giant Packer footballs that adorn Wisconsin yards in the fall, nor was it cheesy like the garden gnomes or wooden cutouts of farmers with their imaginary hands touching their wives' bottoms. No, it was indeed exactly what comes to mind when I say "giant, looming, plaster chicken." It easily overpowered the front porch and cast an equally large shadow onto the lawn.

Neither of us was rattled, yet, Kate, who was driving, just turned to me and said "Oh...chicken" and without question or discussion, we pulled over and both photographed it. When you're traveling in Texas with a best friend, windows down, Route 66 beneath your wheels, photographing a giant chicken is the way of the road. Expect such possiblities.

As our trip wore on, we saw much of Illinois, Arkansas, Mississippi, Louisiana, Texas, New Mexico, Oklahoma, Kansas, Missouri and our home state at the time, Iowa. We were flexible; we'd arrive in one city and allow for detours to others, regardless of their connection to the original Route 66 plan. We saw oceans and rivers, ate barbeque in Memphis and stood in line for Graceland behind a man quietly wearing blue suede shoes (also photographed, of course). We talked, laughed, rode quietly. We ate, I'm pleased to say, much of the local fare, but we were not too high and mighty to sample the local McDonalds either.

We grew tired and testy during our week long journey, and changed its purpose daily. Near the end, we were driving country songs... not "to" country songs, but enacting their lyrics. We made "Amarillo by Morning" (four in the morning, actually) saw Sante Fe sunsets, and screamed "Kansas City here we come!" We united with other drivers on the highway, we took backroads, we stayed in cheap motels and we camped. What we really did though, was solidfy a friendship, make our own adventure without counting on travel agents, expensive packages, hotel service fees. Instead, we counted on the treasures of the continental U.S. and our love for Americana to make our own excitement.

We experienced all sorts of people, saw all kinds of architecture, ate all kinds of foods and we were our own tour guides. We could never duplicate the trip if we tried, even though the historic highway, a living legend, still stretches to the same lengths across this country. We are older and more accomplished now; we'd probably bring an Ipod and order more salad than wings. The car we'd take is much bigger and offers a smoother ride than the bare bones Civic that carried us the first time, but the sense of adventure that comes with driving on the open road would still motivate us, and isn't that what matters?

An escape is still an escape, and a great friend is still a great friend, no matter what car you're in when you spot the giant chicken.