Roaming in Rome

O Ireland, thou hast seduced me, and I was seduced…

My friend Devon (I still swear she’s the female version of me) described my own feelings wonderfully when she told me one time that she had a “wanderlust,” that being a driving, restless desire to travel the Earth’s furthest reaches to experience its lands, its peoples, etc.  Others might describe it as “The world is my oyster.”  For some people, I believe that settling down is a matter of getting too old and tired to move around anymore, and I hope that doesn’t happen to me anytime soon.  Not only that, but there’s a big, beautiful world out there just waiting to be explored by those who are curious about it.  In a sense, we’re sojourning no matter where we are in this world, even when we’re at “home.”  North Carolina is my “home” as we say in temporal terms, and I would rather enjoy lying there in wait for the Resurrection, but my true “home” is Beulah (Heb. “Married,” Isaiah 62.4, Isaiah truly is a beautiful book).  Thus, no matter where I am here and now, my soul will always be longing for its true home which no place on Earth could begin to satisfy–we are climbing Jacob’s ladder.  Well, I let you in on my philosophy, make of it what you will.

In any case, of all the places that I’ve wanted to go on the face of God’s present creation, Ireland has been chief among them.  I finally had a chance to go to Ireland between the 25th and the 30th of March.  I’m not really sure what my motivation has been, the only thing that’s kind of Irish about me is that I share the same first name as Brian Boru, High King of Ireland c. 940-1014 AD.  I suppose I was intriguied by St. Patrick’s day festivities (mind you, quite a bit beyond using it as an excuse to drink profusely), pictures of beautiful countryside, and fantastic tales of the “wee folk,” which I somewhat believe in    I am a big devotee of St. Patrick himself.  I especially love and desire to identify myself with the opening of his Confession, “Ego…peccator rusticissimus et minimus omnium fidelium et contemptibilis sum apud plurimos.”  (I am…a sinner most unlearned, the least of all the faithful, and contemptible among the masses).

Nevertheless, I have wanted to go to Ireland since I was in the 10th grade when my high school Spanish teacher, Mrs. Beamguard, put the notion in my head that going to Ireland could be more than just a secretly kept fantasy of mine, but that it was in fact a possibility.  Moreover, I hoped and prayed for 9+ years that God would provide a way for me to make it there.  Since I’m in Rome now, I figured there was no time like the present seeing that I’m only a 3hr plane ride from it.  Glory be!

I went with Tim, John, John’s brother, Tony, and John’s cousin, Sean.  We flew into Dublin on Wednesday afternoon (25th) and spent all of Thursday and a little bit of Friday morning there before Tim and I separated from John and his brethren.  We spent Thursday touring Dublin.  We first went to a memorial, then Christ Church cathedral, then St. Patrick’s cathedral, and finally to Trinity college so that we could see the book of Kells and an exhibit in the “Long Room” concerning “detective fiction” as a genre of English literature from (approx.) 1841 to 1941.

Interjectory paragraph:  English!  Beautiful English!  Spoken and understood by most everyone we came across.  Mr. Magee and Sallie were right to say that it would be such a relief to be back in an English speaking country.  It was so weird, though, to be able to communicate freely with any and everybody, once you got past the accent barrier!  I shed my hesitation to speak with strangers like a snake undergoing a molt.  If ever I needed help finding anything, etc. I had absolutely no qualms whatsoever about hailing the closest person who looked to be a native and asking him/her my questions.  I live in what Brother Mark, the Superior at St. Cosmas and Damian, describes as an “American Ghetto,” here in Rome and attend a school where classes are (at least mostly) in English–that’s definitely not helping me learn to speak Italian.

Story line continues:  Christ Church and St. Patrick’s were very beautiful Gothic (I think, my knowledge of architecture is infantile at best) cathedrals–inside and out.  The bad thing was that they belonged to the Church of Ireland (Episcopal)–in other words, like a museum they charged admission to come in, yet nobody was home.  Good thing, I guess, if he had of been home, he likely wouldn’t have been happy about the idea of people being charged to come in to see his house(s).

Going in to see the Book of Kells was very interesting.  The Book of Kells is basically an elaborately decorated Latin copy of the four Gospels that dates back to the 9th century AD.  (Dr. Parker, I can still make neither heads nor tails of that script most of the time!)  There was an exhibit that you had to go through and read before actually going in to see the Book that described when it was made, how it was made, etc.  It was all very interesting…some of it was a review ofthings that I learned in my Medieval Latin class back at UNCG when Dr. Parker discussed the copying of manuscripts.  It was, however, more interesting to see the real thing than a facsimile at the library.  It’s really awesome when one considers all of the hardwork that was put into copying and ornamenting such texts as the Book.  Check out this sample page.

 The detective fiction exhibit in the Long Room was very interesting to me as well considering my love of Sherlock Holmes.  They had books opened up in display cases of the works of what are considered the major contributors to the genre:  Arthur Conan Doyle and Agatha Christie were key figures, of course.  Sadly, we weren’t allowed to take pictures in the Long Room!  Rain on my parade again–I think the Long Room should be the model for all libraries everywhere!  In any case, I didn’t know it before, but the genre actually started with the short story, “The Murder in the Rue Morgue,” by Edgar Allen Poe.

I also had my first experience of the Hostel.  You will be glad to know, however, that we didn’t do one of those deals where you stay in the same room with 10 or so strangers.  Rather, we were able to book a room that was for four.  I did get the loud, party-riddled Hostel experience that one sees on whatever cell-phone commercial that is in the States, but it was downstairs and its flame had usually snuffed by eleven.  It put me in mind, rather unfondly, of dorm life at UNCG.

Well, I didn’t go to Ireland to see it as man made it, so we left Dublin (at last) on Friday morning and headed for the west coast.  Why head for the west coast?  I took this mostly by the recommendation of Fr. Chris–the land’s beauty he said was unmatched.  Tim and I were a little too ambitious in our undertaking of this journey as it turns out, so we really only made it to the town of Dingle on the Dingle peninsula in County Kerry and then back to Dublin in time for the plane ride back to Rome.    We employed the most affordable means of transportation:  taking a bus in the Eireann system which allowed us three days of unlimited travel over a period of six consecutive days.  The problem is that it took near on 8hrs to make it as far as Dingle by bus and we wanted to take time to soak it in.  Otherwise, we’d have been stuck on a bus the whole time.  Nevertheless, we did get to see some beautiful country side through the windows.  I remember that by the time we got to Roscrea, about halfway between Dublin and Limerick, it was as though someone had flipped a switch and it only grew increasingly more pleasant as one went further west.  A little town I thought was most notable was Adare on the route between Limerick and Tralee.  There was also a lot o hill country that reminded me of the beautiful hills of Wilkes county on one’s drive to Boone along highway 421.

The most pleasant part of the bus ride was between Tralee and Dingle town though the atmosphere left something to be desired.  Unfortunately, we were riding on this leg of the journey with a bunch of grade school and high school students who liked to drop the F-bomb as often as one might say “and” when stringing sentences together.  I myself am no stranger to using, as my mother frequently laments, an occasional “dam” with an “n” tacked on the end, and, as my sister says, “h-e double hockey sticks,” when faced with frustration, etc.  As my friend Pete once remarked, “He’s no saint,” nevertheless, I have to admit that I was both taken aback by it, and slightly appalled that it was used in such a cavalier manner.  But as I discovered, the Irish seem to be pretty immune to it.  A cultural thing, I suppose–I’d rather they say that than the Lord’s name as an interjection, which is also pretty frequent.  In Ireland, the Lord’s middle name is also apparently “F—ing.”  I learn something new everyday.

Tim and I took Rick Steve’s advice and stayed at a B & B.  In Dingle town this was pretty much the only option anyhow.  We stayed at this place called the Quays (pronounced “keys”).  Dingle town was interesting for more than the beautiful coastal landscape, however, it is also one of the few regions of Ireland where the Irish version of Gaelic is the primary language.  In most of Ireland signs are printed in Irish and then the English is below it, but here it is (mostly) only Irish.  Ireland has in the last few decades made rigorous attempts to preserve and resurrect its native tongue which was so often suppressed during its English occupation.  They haven’t had quite the same success that Israel had with Hebrew, but then the circumstances are quite different as well. 

Saturday was a beautiful day, so Tim and I ended up taking a series of walks.  First we walked west along the cove all the way to Ventry and came back to Dingle for lunch.  Then we went out toward the lighthouse on the east side of Dingle.  Taken all together, our host at the Quays, Thomas, figured that we must have walked around 10 miles that day.  How lovely it all was, I have no words to describe.  More hills on the one side of the road covered with sheep at pasture and then the waters of the Atlantic crashing into the other!  An Old World microcosm of the fairer of the two Carolinas’ geography.  I saw lambs galore on those walks!  Truly, they are the most innocent and gentle looking creatures in the whole of God’s creation!  It’s no wonder to me in looking at these precious little creatures that were used for sacrifice in the OT and Jesus became the “Lamb.”

ADVISORY:  I am going to mount one of my many soap boxes in the following paragraphs.  Either hold on or get off now!

Lest you think that the experience of Ireland was all peaches and cream for me, I will tell you of something with which I was greatly disappointed:  Mass in Ireland.  While I still like to operate by my friend Katie Tang’s principle of “One bad take does not the whole Church make,” I am obliged to mention that I have some corroborated evidence from John’s experience at a parish outside of Galway, and my subsequent discussion with Mr. Magee, a native Dubliner, concerning my “disappointment.”  I say disappointment for what began as indignation but, upon reflection, turned more into pity.  The Mass is the Wedding Feast of the Lamb, and so this one was but it was the fast-food version of it.  It gave new meaning to the phrase, “going through the motions,” and as quickly as humanly possible at that.

Tim and I decided to go to Mass on Saturday night primarily because I was beginning to look critterly, not having shaven in four days and I had no Sunday clothes to wear because I packed so lightly.  We got there about half an hour before the Mass started so that we could take a seat on the sinner’s pew–where I typically belong anyway.  The whole thing started off badly anyhow.  There were between 20 and 30 empty pews up ahead of us, yet there were probably between 30 to 40 people standing up in the back of the church as though there were standing room only.  All of the prayers were as lifeless as possible, by both priest and people, and said at a speed that would have put the Micro-machines man to shame.  There was one good note in the whole accursed thing, however.  The priest gave an excellent homily which was at a steady speed and lasted a good 10 minutes, but I’d have sooner preferred to read it quietly to myself than look at him lean on the lectern and then listen to him portray a total lack of enthusiasm.

What really struck me during this charade was looking over on the left wall of the church to see no one other than Padre Pio’s (St. Pio of Pietrelcina) picture hanging there.  The lines he spoke in “Padre Pio:  Miracle Man,” came to mind when he sensed that a fellow priest was checking his watch while Padre Pio was celebrating Mass, “In the presence of Christ’s body you shouldn’t be checking your watch.”  And then later when Padre Pio was rebuked by the same for his three hour Mass, ”The Mass is the Passion of Christ…do you want to set a time limit for the Passion?”  What a stark contrast!  John told Tim and I that the priest at the parish where he attended made the comment in his homily, “Well, I got told to make it a quick one so I’ve only a couple of points.”  If I’d been that priest, following the spirit of Padre Pio I’d have smacked the parishoner who said such a thing to me, told him to wake up, and where he’d WOULD (not COULD) go if he didn’t straighten his act out.  If I become a priest…I’m bound to become a pain in the backside to someone–it doesn’t help that I’m getting increasingly more loose-tongued with age, and if I received the Lord’s anointing I think I’d be too hot to handle.

I remember remarking to Tim, much to his amusement, on my way out the door that come Easter Christ would barely be resurrected and have his shroud removed what these Irish Masses wouldn’t be ended and the people would be in the pubs seeking immediate anesthetic relief because the Mass went a full hour at the very least.  If I’d have said nothing, I think I would have been fine (I’ve gotten good at holding things in until I can find a suitable punching bag).  However, once my jaws had loosened, my blood started bubbling, and steam started pouring out my ears.  I ran the whole thing down within earshot of any and every parishoer I thought was within earshot, hoping they’d hear it and confront me about it and I could rail on it some more.  However, they scattered and fled from that church at the speed roaches flee from the flourescents being turned on in a dark room.

When I was a Protestant I used to people who’d b—- and moan about preaching going on 15 to 20 minutes after 12 which “ruined” their chances of getting a seat at Jim’s Grill down the road until 1 o’clock or a little after.  One remark I did like of my Great-Uncle Verne’s during that time was ”We’re on God’s time.”  As a Catholic I’ve seen people leave the Mass before the final hymn was concluded, or better yet walk out the door after having taken Communion.  I’ve seen some pretty dead Masses before too, but I try to console myself by thinking that that’s due more to either lack of sleep or poor formation in the faith–the latter of which is never necessarily the people’s fault.  But, in all my time I’ve never seen so sad a display as I saw that night in Dingle.  I asked St. Patrick, “Were these the people you worked so hard to evanglize so long ago?”

In talking to Mr. Magee about it, he did remark that this kind of thing was more typical of country parishes and that the people of Ireland are much more concerned with private devotion than they are with following rubrics.  It’s not that they’re not faithful (a point I wasn’t particularly contesting), because certain fruits of the faith do show in their relations with one another, but they’re not big into the liturgical scene.  But again, what is the Mass?  It is the highest and best form of prayer that God has given to his Church wherein he feeds them with himself.  What distinguishes us as Christians as opposed to ordinary “good people?”  That we gather together as one Body of Christ (there is no mere ”Jesus and Me” according to St. Paul, cf. 1 Cor. 11.12ff) and celebrate the fact that the matrix that made and binds all things together took our own human form, was crucified, died, and rose again in order that we might have life and have life more abundantly.  Private devotion is a necessary good unto itself, but can easily grow anemic and die if it is not fed by the liturgical–the source and center.  The faith is more about what God has done, does, and will do for us than what we do for God–how do you think man gained redemption in the first place?

Okay, I’ll dismount…my steam’s running low.  Sometimes this blog is wonderfully therapeutic.

Sunday morning, the rain that Ireland is famous for had returned.  Tim and I were evicted from the B & B around 11 that morning so we wandered around in the streets for a little while until we came across a coffeehouse that was open called “Dingle Crystal.”  If you ever get a chance to go to Dingle, I would recommend this place highly because there is a very nice couple that runs it.  After a cappucino, however, Tim and I had to make our way to the bus stop.  I’ll have to say that my heart was very heavy in that moment, though it would grow even heavier when we got to the airport.

We stayed overnight on Monday in Portlaoise (Port-leesh, yeah I’d like to study some Gaelic just so I’d know how to pronounce some stuff there…I said something like Port-low to Thomas and he looked at me like I had three heads), which is about 50 miles SW of Dublin, so that we wouldn’t be stuck on a bus all day again.  We got there right before dark which also gave us time to find the room we had booked before nightfall had set in too much.  It was a place called the Maldron Hotel.  The really odd thing was that it was that Tim and I found it to be a very nice hotel, though we’d found it on Hostelworld.com and only paid 30 Euro per person!  When we got to the front desk, however, they had no record of us having made a reservation–but printed receipt to the rescue!!  Thank you Dingle public library printer!

Tim and I ate a very hearty breakfast at a place called Mulhall’s in Portlaoise which was, I think, a “traditional Irish breakfast.”  There were about 5 different kinds of meat and I couldn’t finish it.  I wanted to try the blood pudding, but I had put it off too long, and by the time I’d gotten midway through my egg on toast I was already beginning to retch a little.  The bacon, that duped me into thinking that it was ham, I put between the split halves of the other piece of toast, wrapped in a couple of napkins, and put in my knapsack.  The blood pudding didn’t look all that appetizing anyhow. 

When we made it to Dublin again early in the afternoon on Tuesday, Tim and I made a bee-line for the Jameson Distillery.  Unfortunately, we did not get to take a tour of the distillery because the tour did not start until 1pm, it lasted for an hour, we had a thirty min. bus ride to the airport, and our plane was leaving at 4pm.  In any case, I did take the tour guide’s advice and stop and have an Irish coffee.  Basically you put some brown sugar in a mug, pour in a shot of whiskey, pour in coffee, and leave room for a collar of cream on the top.  My observation concerning the Irish coffee is that whiskey is good (especially Jameson) and that coffee is good, but two goods combined do not always equal a good if you know what I mean.  It was worth trying at least once.

As we got on the plane that afternoon, I remember remarking to John, “You know, leaving here strangely feels like leaving Carolina all over again.”  “I know what you mean,” he said.

~Brian Holcomb, Vagabond from North Carolina 1984-? AD