Notes of a Memory
I was traveling
a trip to Ireland
when all I wanted to do was stay home with A Guy
whom, it turned out,
had no space for me
yet it would take him some time to inform me of this fact
At the time
I hung My Everything on him
In return, he flattened himself out and slid away
I didn’t know that impending future yet
All I knew was I was alone
traveling in Ireland
thinking of A Guy back home
Alone
knowing enough of confidence to approximate it through sheer will
I headed to Co. Donegal
the village of Killybegs
where I was the only guest at the B & B
treated like a daughter by the B & B hostess
–my B & B mom
She and her husband took me dancing at The Blue Moon
A wooden-floored makeshift ballroom
the hub of their social life
There, I communed and spun with the village’s grey beards
The rest of the week I spent
hitching
reading the treacle that is A Prayer For Owen Meany
all throughout, feeling the clump of my hiking boots as I did a foxtrot with a 65-year-old, hopped in to a handyman’s truck on my return from Slieve League, climbed the stairs to my top-floor room in the B & B
To travel alone is something
challenging
requiring that self-consciousness be benched
demanding staunchness in the face of solitude
At its best,
to travel alone
opens one up
increases approachability
Traveling alone made me accessible
my face never turned toward a companion’s
my conversation partner not pre-determined
When I traveled alone
People saw me
talked to me
cared for me
included me
The daily crucible
when traveling alone
was meal time
Usually, I would wade into a pub with my book for a companion
In Killybegs, I ended up with my own “local”
my neck bending towards the pub’s window one late afternoon as I clomped past
having tried and failed to work up the courage to seat myself and order a chicken breast at the establishment down the road
I was pushing against an unsatiated hunger
when my neck bent towards the window
Over the sound of my clomps, I heard
fiddle music
beckoning
my curiosity equalizing my dread at wading into a new place with no back-up
A deep breath filling my lungs, I leaned against the door
assuring myself the worst that could happen would be feeling out of place, pressed against the wall by the pressure of too many staring eyes
much like moving from social science to study hall in the junior high building had
In the pub, the door swooshing closed behind me,
I scanned a largely empty room
the focal point of which was a curly-headed man with a full beard
his facial hair framed by the chin rest of his violin
his fiddle
an extension of his shoulder
his bow
organic to his hand
one Martin McGinley
His eyes flicked up to take in the newcomer
He grinned
and played
The swell of elegiac notes mollified my nerves
and fell across the listeners
a tumbling cascade
baptizing the congregated
I sat
sipping a cider
at ease
listening
eating that chicken breast
The sky over the Atlantic darkened
pushing more people into the pub’s light
more drinks
more musicians opening their cases
joining in with the plaintive strains of the fiddle
Another fiddler
Pipes
Drums
A voice
No stage
Rather–
friends sitting at a table
surrounding Martin with a volunteer corps of fellow players
Together they were
amazing
their harmony swirling out the window
flying into the inky black
darting amongst the stars
I sat for hours the first night
on a cushioned bench in the back
engaging in conversation with a local…a lonely, homely native of the village
single
never married
no kids
He wandered in at dusk each day, sustaining himself with the cultural camaraderie
We talked of Louden Wrainwright—the third
We did not flirt
Free of artifice, we were two people in the same place, talking to each other,
tapping our fingers on the wooden table, rhythmically thumping our heels up and down
I returned to the pub the subsequent night
my dreams having jigged all the sleep before
By myself, but not alone, I ordered dinner
and a cider
caught eyes across the room with Louden Wrainwright—the third—guy
raised my glass in greeting
chose a seat close to the grouping musicians
and discovered, over the next few hours, that a young village fisherman with black-grey hair
intended to press drinks upon me
until I applied for citizenship
The next day
I walked some kilometers down the road to the beach
scoring a ride from The Strand back to the village in the car of an English lord
That afternoon, I wandered the village, looking for diversion
eventually remembering my B & B mom’s suggestion–
something about the Blessing of the Fleet
I looked towards the harbor,
the docks,
and spotted a huge building
into which hundreds of bodies flowed
My hiking boots clomped,
and I blended into the stream of humanity
As I had at the pub,
I stood at the back
Alone but surrounded
Not really so alone
A man in robes entered
strode to the front
a crucifix in hand
His words would protect the boats
save the sailors
protect the fishermen
assure a hefty catch
create a buffer of belief around the villagers
draw upon the collective power of persistent faith
They needed this
Standing amongst the crowd
in my thick-soled boots
encircled by women in skirts and pumps
men in cabled sweaters
I heard
a melody from Martin’s fiddle float across the harbor
an added blessing
I needed it, too
[tentblogger-youtube fh4ej7KpRSc]
Wonderful – I can literally see you, young and a little bit scared and shy – trotting the Irish streets… so brave to travel alone like that, creating memories and discovering the world.
Monica
Delicious. I can almost smell the salty air.
God, I loved this.
Lovely. Thank you.
Alone amongst the many.
Alone, a part of the many.
Accepted.
Alone no longer. For now.
That was wonderful, Joce. I now want to travel alone, to wear cable-knit sweaters and walk on the moors. Or perhaps to go somewhere where someone will care for me just because I am alone and look like I could use a friend. 🙂
Pearl
This was lovely! It reminded me all the way to my heart of the summer I was 22, traveling alone in Europe, but never really alone. Every one of your images breathes for me!
Loved this Jocelyn. Bought back memories, as a young backpacker, for me too. Two hippy Americans we met in Ireland at the time persuaded us to visit them in Philladelphia, making it my second trip to the U.S.
Have not been back to either country since unfortunately. Found both the United States. and Ireland such hospitable countries.
Owen Meany? Treacle? Oh, my heart hurts.
I’m sorry! But I hate that book–with a fair bit of vehemence. It’s very manipulative. However, I am in the minority. Most nearly everyone loves it.
What a great piece! I enjoyed the writing and have to say, I loved the dance videos! There is a place about 35 miles from where we live that has classes in the Step Dancing and I’ve often thought I wish we could swing it to get Maya lessons in this kind of dancing but the lessons, plus the fancy costumes would be totally beyond our budget, especially with the mileage and cost of gas these days! But I’ve thought she could do well with that type of dance because since she was between 2-3 years old, on her own, she began to do a sort of side-step dance as she would run and do this half-skip with it through the house. At least she doesn’t appear to have 2 left feet like her grandmother seems to have! LOL Thanks again especially for all the videos you posted. I’ll have to show them to Maya when she gets home from school today!
Brilliant 😀 You do rock, you do.
One of my favorite memories of visiting Ireland a year ago was sitting in a hotel bar in Killarney on a Saturday night listening, mesmerized, to a band of local musicians (two flutes, a harp, a banjo, a fiddle) playing and singing to a room packed with locals who accepted the four tourists among them with good grace. Irish hospitality is truly grand.
You have just proved that, even when we travel alone, we are never truly alone. Thank you.
I see Unmitigated Me and I are on the same page about Owen Meany!
You are so brave.
You are very gracious in the way you put that, Jenn. Some might just say I’m “crabby and judgmental.” Heh-heh. Is this the wrong place to reveal I hated The Help?
I traveled alone a little in Australia – it was scary and freeing.
Secret: Leave it to you to say in five words (“it was scary and freeing”) what took me multiple paragraphs.
I was delighted to read that A Prayer for Owen Meany = Treacle. I listened to the audio, which seemed to go on f-o-r-e-v-e-r just for the payoff at the (eventual) end.
and you wonder where your girl gets her poise…..;)