Going home to Derry via the Saturday Farmer's Market in Galway

I feel pretty bad and a little bit hypocritical because I just turned down dinner at Wes’ house. He lives across the bridge right down the street from Roisin Dubh, one of the best pubs for live music in Galway, or so he told me while strolling toward it past a sleazy strip joint down the darkening Galway road. The regret is stemming from my own frustration spending time watching American football (Redskins- Bucs) with other Yankees in a deteriorating, foul-smelling pub. The highlight was walking to the sink in the underground bathroom and talking with a dense-accented Irish man of about 65 years as we finished up in the bathroom. He talked about Fran Tarkenton when I told him I was from Minnesota. The urine filled my nostrils but his swirling brogue and tweed hat purged my senses of the American tourism and ugliness I felt in that pub. He lived for 12 years in the US, mostly the Midwest. His accent has nothing to show for it, but his knowledge of the purple people eaters and Fran the Scrambler more than proved his experience in the cold North Country.

Later on, I was able to spend some time acting like a fool in a typically European dance club called GPO. By this point, it was one of the only places open (it was about 12:30 and many pubs close at 12), and after walking in circles and getting advice from locals that only further drew circles with our walking paths, we had found out The Hole in the Wall on the far east side of town was closed and seeing GPO open was enough to draw us in, especially because we had gotten UV light stamps from a lady walking around looking to entice later night hooligans looking for more fun.

I had peered inside the windows of Hole in the Wall through a crack between the shades and the window frame and seen Terri, Megan and Greg’s roommate inside having a rowdy time and was really looking to have more fun of my own. So Greg, Mike and I went to GPO and ran around doing stupid fake European dances and getting an Asian guy to imitate us. It felt so good to just let it all out and shake my bones and work off all the food and drink. I danced and rapped along with dance mixes of Dre and Eminem and got out of a circle of gyrating eastern European males looking for other males of any race to dance with and ordered a drink next to a huge chiseled guy probably named Sergei and stole the glass because it still had a few sips of Pepsi in it and the other guys were leaving. Thus it leaked out into my pocket. The glass sits proudly on my window sill, looking out through the mist-streaked, steamy windows across the rooftops and alleys and cobblestone roads.

Galway Bay lays almost motionless behind me, with occasional waves punching through the developing fog. The streets must be filled with Irish ghosts, and thickening fog gives the air a moisture-soaked taste and scent that can only come from the Atlantic. I can’t wait to cross the bay into the sea and explore an ancient island filled with silky, vibrant grass and solid stone walls. I will have my love by my side finally, and she and I will purchase hand-sewn sweaters from islanders that speak little English and mostly just the beautiful, crisp words of that Irish language which still lingers in the right places. Watch out, because the bathroom marked Mna is Not for men. You will find a whole crowd of frightened Irish women if you act upon such thoughts as the one had at the pub with Wes the other night. Go instead, if you are a guy, to the one named Fir. Fir Men, not fir women. No Men in the Mna. Maybe that will help.

The food here is a wide variety of Americanized Irish food and Irish takes on American classics. I bought a classic American cartful last night, except they call their carts trolleys (back home, you need to have a motor and room for many if you’re going to call yourself a trolley). Basically, if you want frozen pizza and chicken wings and French fries, you’ll get them at Dunnes Store. But if you want Irish food you can get that, too. I love shopping at Dunnes because you see so many people living their daily lives right alongside foreigners like me making their first trips to Irish grocery stores. I skipped the rashers because I wasn’t sure which part of the pig they were cut from. I bought some organic Irish Salmon, though, because I had been waiting to taste it since I took my girlfriend out to Third Street Pier in Milwaukee in the fall and had their organic Irish salmon. It was salty but smoky and delicious. I had it with a baked potato (Po-ta-to for those of you who don’t know) that I got at the market on Saturday morning. I got three dirt-covered potatoes and 4 organic eggs from free range chickens for one euro. So cheap! I’m going back there every weekend. They had artwork and clothes (like an Irish poncho-like canvas jacket with traditional symbols on it) and Claddagh rings and wooden earrings and lots of food. I bought my food at a small table from an old man with a thick rural accent. His wife had taken over for him when I passed by an hour later. My hands were freezing and I’m sure he was somewhere warming up over a hot hard cider. The coffee I had at Amnesty International’s Ireland chapter did the same for my cold hands earlier in the day.

The musicians were out, and I took a video of one and a picture of another. They didn’t turn out too well, because I didn’t want to disturb their melodies and deep Irish songs and took the pictures private eye-style. Amazing music though, with low voices and mysteriously somber songs followed by jolly, frolicking songs about Ireland and going home to Derry.