Chapter 1
Settling into my seat, 13a, I let out a deep breath, relax my shoulders and sigh. My wife
and 4 yr old daughter are in b and c, fastened tightly and excited. While Dehlia is smiling
in a not-sure-what-the-hell-is-happening way, my wife is craving, it appears, a pre 9am
drink and the other half of her Valium. “Do you think I should take this now?” “What if
it wears off half way through?” “What is that whining sound?” When Brooke is nervous,
she asks lots of rhetorical questions. I suggest she take the other half of her valium just to
see what will happen and she dismisses me, immediately, and puts her attention to Dehlia
and the whining sound of engines kicking to life.
Half of the family we’d seen gnashing and tearing at each other in the Logan Duty-Free is
sitting in front and just to the right of us—apparently having given Social Services the
slip just in the nick. The 5 year-old is positioned directly behind me and seems to have a
surplus of energy; evidenced by him landing successive kidney punches to his smaller
brother who is bawling. He is grinning as his brother continues to wail. I whisper to
him that his brother is going to pound him later and he pays me no mind. He is standing.
He will stay standing, in one form or another, for the entire trip.
I begin to consider the events and circumstances leading up to our family vacation. By
the grace of my in-laws, we’re presented with 2 weeks accommodations, a plane ticket
for our three-year old daughter, and the opportunity to cavort with several sets of cousins
in the town of Dingle, co. Kerry Ireland. According to family legend, Dingle boasts more
than 60 pubs crammed into its cobblestoned corners, it’s very own Dolphin that’s taken
up in its bay, and was used as backdrop for countless movies dating back to Robert
Mitchum era Hollywood.
It’s not that I didn’t want to go to Ireland—just that I never really considered it—sort of
like how you never really consider visiting, say, Kansas. To me Ireland was wet and
dank and smelled vaguely of boiled dinner and soap. When Dehlia asked me what there
was to do in Ireland it took me a while to answer. ‘Well,” I said, “I’m not sure.”
Despite my indifference, I did a fair job at staying neutrally interested without being too
much of a dick.. I even managed to read ‘A Pocket Guide To Erin’, by Dara
O’Maoildhia, hoping to kick-start my curiosity through historical reference.
I drank pints of Guinness, memorized the words to several grotesquely popular Irish folk
songs and even managed to learn exactly two unwritten hurling rules, those being—don’t
leave your mouth guard in your locker, and whenever there’s a question always opt for
the larger bottle of Ibuprofen. I read up on Michael Collins, Eamon deValera, the
Vikings, the Black and Tans and the Sinn Fein. I even tried an Irish brogue on for size,
alone at home mind you, which sounded like awful stew of Crocodile Hunter and
Margaret Thatcher.
My wife had been to Ireland several times over the past 20 years and promised me that
I’d love the country. My father-in-law Brendan, a prodigious man with a soulful voice
and the patience of Job, still has relatives scattered across the mountainous Southwest
under the shadow of Mt. Brandon. To my wife, visiting these relatives was at the core of
our trip and she assured me that after meeting them, I’d ‘understand a little better.’
5 hours into the flight, and both my daughter and wife are sleeping. I’m staring,
unknowingly, at a man who’s been asleep for the entire trip—from take-off, through
several snacks, two meals, a movie and a patch of turbulence that caused the flight
attendants to buckle up and close their eyes. I saw them. He opens his eyes in an instant
and catches me staring at him. He rights his chair, fastens his seat belt and, I suspect,
begins to look for something sharp to wave at me.
I’ve actually dozed off a little when the boy behind starts applying forearm shivers to my
headrest. His mother, sitting next to him, doesn’t appear to have much of a strategy. For
the duration of the flight, she has been half-heartedly attempting to control him by
repeating the mantra, ‘Do you want a smack?’ 50 or 60 times. Or perhaps it was ‘Some
smack.’ It’s hard to be sure. In any case, mum was the one who got the smacks: the first,
a right ding to the jaw, and the second-a direct shot with the tail-end of a Hot Wheels
muscle car. The little fella was clearly in charge here. You had the feeling he’d really
lay into dear mom after landing. ‘So what was that on the plane about a smack?’
‘Nothing dear.’ ‘Come here a minute, would you mother?’
Along with wife and daughter, I’d be staying with several iterations of in-law, my wife’s
mentally handicapped but keenly self-sufficient aunt, and a tribe of family friends
rotating in and out on an almost daily basis. The 4 bedroom apartment with pay-as-you-
go electricity and recently laid wood floors had been rented for an entire month by my
wife’s parents, Brendan and Loretta who, in turn, figured they’d ruin their own vacation
by offering space to everyone they knew within a 1,200 mile radius. Right on cue,
everyone accepted. I imagined, from the relative spaciousness of 30,000 feet, that ‘cozy’
might be the understatement of the year.
As the wheels unfold-- mum, two flight attendants and a man by the window are still
trying to get Junior buckled down, when two nip bottles of Bushmills roll back from
underneath the seat in front of me. ‘Em, sorry,’ says a quiet Irish voice. ‘Those are
probably mine—could you pass them back.’ I’m a little intrigued by the short whisky
drinker in front of me, but my attention is busy being occupied by the short tantrum
thrower in back. ‘”So help me, you’re going to get a smack.” I’m now openly rooting
for mum to close the deal, but Junior shows no fear and continues to thrash.
The glamour of airline travel is beginning to wear off. As we touch down in Shannon the
day is just starting, but I feel like I’ve been awake for a generation. We refuel, take on a
few more passengers, then move another hour toward Dublin and the eastern coast of the
country. It’s a damp, gray day that doesn’t exactly paint the picture my wife has been
selling. My daughter asks me if we’re in Ireland yet and tells me, ‘I really want a drink
Daddy.’
Just before touching down, I’m thumbing through the appropriately titled, ‘Idiot’s Guide
To Irish History and Culture’, where I read about craic. The term (pronounced crack)
refers to ‘a cross between mojo, synchronicity and the unspeakable but noticeable power
present during moments of bliss.’ This craic, often led by the adjective ‘mighty’, is
available in varying doses throughout Ireland-in combinations of its ‘Pubs , snugs, rolling
green hills and accommodating peoples.’
I write the word down in my book. Craic. Then we head out of the plane.
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