Mad Mandarine & Bizzare Banana #1

[posted by your OO host for MM due to the blogger outages yesterday]

Mad Mandarine

I come from a beautiful land…

It’s probably an American thing to say that I’m half Irish and half Czech. I doubt many Europeans are wandering around trying to pinpoint their heritage as though it matters. About the only real change is that children in the 3rd grade may look up different flags in the “know your heritage” unit in class.

I suppose that it’s different if your family immigrated more recently. A good friend of mine claims that he is half English. Considering that his mother was born in England and he has dual citizenship, his identification as half English actually means something. In my case, however, “half Irish” can be roughly translated as meaning,

“about 300 years ago some people arrived in the States. They may have come from Ireland because they adopted an Irish name. In the intervening three centuries the family intermarried with just about every ethnic group. The branch that I come from happened to keep the Irish name. Further, I could be like many guilt-ridden white Americans trying to increase my exotic appeal and claim that my great-great-great grandma was a Cherokee princess who married into the family, so of course I look so pale as to be transparent, and it’s okay if I get indignant when people question my sincerity about social causes because one of my ancestors might have encountered prejudice and racism. And no one could gainsay this because it would be, like, questioning my cultural identity, you know?”

In other words, my cultural heritage as anything but an American is about 99% bullshit. I guess that means my great-great-many-times-great grandma actually could identify as something more than a states-side mixture, but it’s been diluted by pretension and selective family interpretations ever since.

To be perfectly honest, this has never really bothered me. Even after our idiotic president declared war on Iraq, I still claimed my American heritage abroad rather than adopt the more easily accepted identity of an innocent Canadian, eh. Lying about it just seemed stupid.

So when I started planning my trip to Ireland, I was excited to cycle around the country. I eagerly looked up places to stay that would let me listen to Gaelic and peer over cliffs into the ocean. I contemplated whether kissing the Blarney stone was worth trying to sanitize my lips for several weeks afterwards. Mostly, I enjoyed the idea of traveling alone to another country without my parents or siblings trying to dictate what I did. The idea that I could see the “ancestral homeland” really meant absolutely nothing to me. Those antecedents of mine who crossed the Atlantic were more distant from me than a random girl in China living right now. Moving in time and space towards them would only link me to a world I neither recognized nor appreciated.

Ireland was supposed to be beautiful, I wanted to travel, and plane tickets to Dublin were cheap that summer.

I traveled. I hitchhiked. I rented bicycles in small towns and rode around Ireland. I ate good cheese and was run off the road by sheep. I laid atop the cliffs at Galway and stared down, whispering “The Cliffs of Insanity!” to myself, wishing I could share the joke with someone as other tourists milled around me.

It’s remarkably easy to be lonely even when all you wanted was solitude. I spent more and more time alone in the middle of green hills sulking. Looking back, it’s pretty pathetic. I was in one of the most beautiful countries in the world, I had no responsibilities and I was mentally writing horrible poetry that probably involved the rhyming of “death” with “breath.”

It was in the Aran Islands that I really lost it. They still speak Gaelic in the Arans, and some shepherds live in little peat huts among the hills. I went mostly because of my interest in weaving. I had learned how to spin wool a few months before my trip- the Arans are one of few places where working spinning wheels can be found in most homes. Most of the tourists who come wanted to learn for novelty’s sake. They wanted to be able to mention their rustic adventure at parties.

I was different, I assured myself. I wanted to learn how to spin better, and I would go home and card wool and spin all my own yarn for my weaving. Of course, it didn’t work out that way. I was briefly introduced to the Aran spinning wheels, hustled along with the other tourists and shown the many lovely novelty spinning wheels available for sale.

I was heartbroken. I didn’t want these people to accept me because I was Irish, because I wasn’t, not really. I didn’t want them to accept me because I could spend money. I wanted them to see me as a pupil, almost an acolyte. But I was sent along my way with the other Americans chatting loudly in flat, staccato accents. Inwardly I seethed. I was being punished by my heritage!

In a sullen fury I wandered to Dún Dúchathair, a Bronze Age fort along the Aran cliffs. It’s not a hugely popular destination for tourists; the hike up the once-fortified hill is treacherous and with the rain that so often blankets Ireland, more than one tourist has retreated from the Black Fort with broken wrists from falls. I retreated into my black depression again, convinced that everyone in Ireland was inwardly mocking me for my American shoes and arrogant presumptions.

Dún Dúchathair is where I met him. When he first greeted me, his accent was so thick I couldn’t tell whether he was speaking in English or Gaelic. An elderly man, I was impressed to see him so high up in the fort, slippery rocks having kept most people out. Since it was raining pretty steadily by that time, and my manners had not deserted me entirely, I offered him a spot beside me and broke out the bread, cheese and smoked salmon that was to be my lunch.

We ate in companionable silence until he started asking me where I was from. Hesitantly, I explained that I was from several different places, since my family had moved so often during my childhood. It was clear from his accent and demeanor that he had lived in Aran his whole life, a place barely large enough for a mid-sized American city. “I must seem like and idiot,” I thought. “He has really lived, while I have spent my whole life flitting around and never settling.” I babbled and tried to justify my different homes.

Out of politeness, I returned the question.

“And you, sir? Where are you from?”

“Oh my dear, I’m just like you. I come from a beautiful land.”

Bizzare Banana

I travel a lot. As in more than the average pilot a lot. In fact recently for business I have been flying across the country every two days. This travel schedule means that I spend a lot of time in airports and such. To cope with what would otherwise be tedious I have developed some entertaining airport games.

1- the freak the clean freak out game:
This game works particularly well when you contract the inevitable travel cold. The key to this game is to figure out which of the passengers near you starts twitching every time you sniffle. Then you milk it for all it’s worth. When they start to doze off you have a convenient coughing fit. When they are deeply involved in their book you sneeze. The reactions are priceless.
For example on a recent flight I was sitting across the aisle from an obvious germ freak that with every sniffle would bury herself further into her windbreaker. The highlight of the flight was when I sneezed and she threw her book into the air whacking the person behind her. *Further proof that the Divinci Code is a terrible book*.

2- The extended deck freak out game (for international flights):
I discovered this one completely by accident. When you arrive back state side and are waiting for your connecting flight you make a phone call. While on the phone with a close family member or friend you begin to loudly discuss what you should do about the weird parasites you pick up while abroad. The key to this game is the way you phrase things. Key words include “trashy hostel”, “bed lice”, and “no of course I didn’t say anything to customs”.
This has a similar effect to the previous game except you have to be a little bit more stealth since flight attendants do not think it’s funny if the overhear you. This version of the game has an added bonus; aside from amusing reactions, it is almost guaranteed to get you your own row of seats on the next flight. People will find the most creative reasons to move to another row.

I realize that the above games are rather mean spirited but I believe that comes from years of dealing with bitchy flight attendants, sleazy old men, and people who really should have bought two seats. Before you judge too harshly you should give it a try. It’s a bit like watching “jackass” or those internet clips you find on sites like “holy lemon”; you know you shouldn’t think it’s funny . . . but you just can’t help it.

If the disease games are a little too over the top for you I also recommend the “how ugly is your girlfriend game” and the “making friends with the dogs who get their own first class seat in hopes that their good fortune might rub off on you” game.

Happy travels . . .