For our first trip abroad, Mom and I
took a Pub tour of Ireland in early June, 1997. Now, those that knew us at that time would
not have taken us for pub goers, but we threw caution to the wind and went
anyway. Early on in the week long journey, our bus barreled along on its
merry way, bound for the Cliffs of Moher.
I had unwittingly been mistakenly referring to the landmark as the
Cliffs of Mohair, but as our guide schooled her captive audience in lore, I
acquired the true pronunciation, which sounded the same as ‘more.’ Very glad for the correction without having
publicly stumbled on such an obvious misinterpretation, I listened intently as
the guide, Jennifer, went on to describe the naming of ‘Hag’s Head,’ largest of
the outcroppings off the cliffs.
According to ancient local legend, the mythical superhero of Ireland,
Cuchulain had battled and defeated his archrival here, known as ‘The Hag.’ The tour guide also included a disclaimer,
explaining that unlike in the US, natural Irish monuments, even when preserved
in national park form where not augmented with safety features such as
railings. Evidently the Irish felt that
it was for the most part obvious not to walk off a cliff, much less one looming
hundreds of feet above waves as they crashed against the rocks. This was, of course, in contrast to the
American sentiment of litigation, in the spirit of McDonald’s mandated
‘Caution: Coffee is Hot’ warning. As
Jennifer foretold, no railings were in sight, and though she had warned that
rock still broke off and fell into the sea below, many people walked up to the
edge or lay down and crawled close enough to look over. This was not the case for Mom or me, we
were busy walking up and down the stone walkways soaking in the views as much
as possible. It began to sprinkle while we were looking off to the Aran Islands, one of which was an upcoming
destination on our Pub Tour. The wind
was strong, and Mom began to get chilled, though by the tour guides
were trying to wrangle everybody up to get back on the bus anyway.
We all still had to bus back to Galway that
afternoon to check into the hotel and make it to dinner.
As we drove along the scenic
Atlantic coast, we segued through a strange land of rock, called the Burren, which
looked quite like one might imagine the moon were one riding along the
moonscape in a NASA dune buggy. Our
crowd of tourists was mostly quiet, some snoozed, and Mom snuggled as deep
into her winter coat as she could. At
long last we arrived in Galway and checked into their accommodations, The
Imperial Hotel on Eyre Square. “Just
like Jane Eyre,” I thought to myself, too embarrassed at my own cliché to
speak aloud, but enjoying it nonetheless.
“So, guys, once you’ve dropped your
baggage off in your rooms, we’ll do a quick guided walking tour before coming
back to the hotel so everyone can get ready for dinner. Meet back here in 15 if you want to do the
walking tour with us, it’ll take about an hour.” Jennifer didn’t need to speak
louder than usual, she had one of those authoritative, redhead voices that sort
of commanded attention on its own.
As Mom and I rode the lift up to
their assigned quarters, Mom was clearly downright cold. Mom has an epic history of falling ill at the
drop of a hat, and she didn’t want to miss a moment of this trip of a lifetime,
so she told me, “I’m going to stay in the room and try to warm up while you
guys do the walking tour. You’ll catch
me up on anything good that I miss, right?
And there’s the city tour on the bus tomorrow…”
“Sure thing Mom, you put on some
fresh dry clothes and warm up, then we’ll get some dinner later and you’ll be
good as new.” In truth I was happy
for a chance to have some time alone, even though I’d still be in the tour group. After all, Mom and I are great friends and got
along surprisingly well for a mother daughter combo, almost Gilmore Girl level, but I need some time
now and then, and probably so did Mom.
The walking tour was fun and witty,
and before I knew it they were back at the hotel with instructions to be
ready to leave for dinner in an hour.
“Plan on staying out a little tonight, ‘cause there is great craic at
the place we’re going,” Jennifer said and everyone looked at her like she was
crazy. “No, not ‘crack,’ c-r-a-i-c,
Gaelic for ‘fun,’ pronounced the same as crack but without the actual drug.”
Jennifer clarified.
As I rode the elevator lost in thought, a mellow tone sounded my floor, and I hopped off still
rummaging through my pockets for the room key. Apparently my approach had been on the quiet
side, for as I ever so gracefully barged into the room, I found Mom, wrapped in not one but
two hotel comforters, blasting herself with the hairdryer plugged into the
bathroom outlet while she perched on the foot of the nearest bed. Upon further inspection, I noticed that my
mother had unpacked her suitcase and donned nearly every warm garment she’d
packed under the bed clothes she was wrapped in. And although I really didn’t mean to, I
couldn’t help but crack up laughing.
It really was the most ridiculous thing I could ever remember
mother doing up to that point, and before I knew it, I was laughing so hard that tears were
streaming down my cheeks.
Mom clicked off the hairdryer, and
quickly stammered an explanation that she simply could not get warm enough, but
soon she too was caught up in my laughter, as I gasped to describe the
scene in between gales of giggles. And
when our laughter would start to die down, one of the us would start to
giggle again, and then we would both just crack up all over again. Honestly, I wasn’t trying to outright laugh at Mom, but it was just so funny. And,
it seemed, the laughing and giggling and carrying on was having the biggest
impact thus far on Mom’s quest to get warm, so I guess you could say, 'Mission Accomplished.'
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