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Ooo...Ninety-six percent of the members of our computer club didn't attend the annual congress in Dublin; presumably, fear of flying, the long distance, or lamenting the wasted kerosene would be cited as the main reasons for their absence if we were to ask (but we won't, because we're not stupid and know perfectly well that the reasons are entirely different). Four percent, however—fearless flyers who couldn't care less about fuel consumption—were there, so it would undoubtedly be despicable of me to bore them again here with my subjective impressions of the congress. Which, it should be mentioned, satisfied neither my sailing interests nor my natural curiosity about the mating behavior of the seven-spotted cockchafer, but rather offered very little in the way of nautical or zoological information, with its dry topics such as Java, the internet, SMTP servers, and programming languages.
Into this dilemma, the fact that I embarked on a week-long (and wonderful) tour of Ireland immediately after the congress in Dublin struck like a deep impact: I didn't waste a single second of my precious free time on AS/400, OS/400, or anything else/400. Instead, I immersed myself in the country and its people, opened myself (and my wallet) to the lovely Irish folk, and completely forgot that a system change, the next newspaper, and the unresolved problem of a cubic, eight-dimensionally nested sales statistic awaited me in Vienna. So sit back and let's read together what my ThinkPad has to offer.
I must first explain two women's names: Deirdre is that know-it-all, elderly secretary and gray eminence of our association, with whom I had a bitter, public debate since the congress in Jerusalem, as I couldn't understand why congresses were held in places where the bombs speak for themselves. — Fiona, on the other hand, is her friendly, capable (designated) successor, with whom I got along famously—almost out of spite.
This headline came about when I tried to translate one of the charming Irish sayings I encountered along the way: "If you slip down the Bannisters of Life, may the Splinters not point the wrong way" or something similar, meaning "If you slip down the banister of life, may the splinters not point in the wrong direction!"
Deirdre's astonishing question, "...and where are your bombs now, huh?!" I couldn't answer the day before yesterday in Dublin. However, today, Sunday, June 21, 1998, the radio (Belfast Channel, FM 100.6) broadcast hourly: "A bomb exploded in Belfast last night, shattering hundreds of windows. Thank God no one else was hurt, as a warning from the IRA was received in time. — A 27-year-old man was seriously injured by four gunshot wounds to the backs of his knees and ankles. These appear to be traditional punishment shots. — A car bomb in Armagh today, June 25, 1998, killed two people and injured a dozen others. The National Liberation Front (INLA) claims responsibility for this attack on the eve of the Northern Ireland elections..." There they are, Deirdre, there they are, even if you don't notice much of it on your golf course. I approach Ireland respectfully, but with a keen ear; not on the golf course, but in the pedestrian zone, among the drinkers, minstrels, and street prostitutes: that's where you'll find me.
With Deirdre's second astonishing question (and Deirdre, as you surely know, can indeed ask the most astonishing questions), I'd like to begin my report: "...well, where are all your women now, the ones you always surround yourself with, huh?!" Arnold, Beatrix, and Wolfgang stare at me silently, and I sit there with an embarrassed expression. What a question! First of all: they're still to come! Secondly: my readers have long since realized that my women (doesn't sound as sleazy as "women") are exactly here, in the newspaper: wonderful, exotically erotic, yet banal creatures of my imagination, whom I naturally couldn't take with me on such an arduous journey. So much, dear Deirdre, for your "topless" question. Well, to round off the transition to the rest of my report: when I arrived at the car rental agency to pick up the car, I suddenly burst out laughing so loudly that the poor Irishman serving me looked at me, slightly bewildered and concerned: "Deirdre, just imagine, I didn't take this trip with Michiko, the exotic Japanese photo model, but with a Japanese starlet, a real starlet (from Toyota)!" Even though I immediately realized I was risking an angry email from you, I laughed very, very heartily at your expense.
Admittedly, my Starlet was very tightly built; after all, thirty liters of excess weight had to be stowed behind the steering wheel. But I'm used to that from the Prater amusement park: go-karting in Ireland! Second observation: it's much, much more persistent than that one. It happened in the parking lot of a roadside restaurant: I got out and strolled off, and there it was, rolling right after me, the sheep! I just managed a skillful maneuver as a Starlet-catcher and pushed the stupid thing back into place. From then on, the Starlet was called Dolly, the silly sheep, which always had to be carefully moored in the parking lot. But from then on, I also knew what that annoying lever between the front seats was actually good for: the only problem was that in some parking lots, the tow rope turned out to be much too short for mooring!
I was sitting there all alone on a tree trunk in the Irish countryside, pondering what to write in my Thinkpad, when I suddenly heard a discreet cough beside me. Even though there hadn't been a soul around just a moment ago, there was now a rather costumed old man sitting next to me.
"I am Muirlinnhe," he says, and I spontaneously add: "Oh yes, you are Merlin, who stole these old stones in Ireland and brought them to Stonehenge! King Arthur and all that..."
"Shhh, not so loud!" growled Merlin, glancing nervously all around, "that won't happen until next week, and if the warlike Picts (for non-Latin speakers: the ancient Irish) hear us, we'll be out of luck with the stones again! Besides, we still call Arthur Saint Camber, the Latins used to call him Rhiathamus, and it wasn't until the 11th century that the French would call him King Arthur."
"Merlin, old chap, you really do know everything in advance! How are you doing, and how did you even get here, when the wicked Morgane La Fay imprisoned you in the enchanted forest near Douarnenez and..."
"Don't remind me of that unfortunate story! Yes, I wandered blindly and aimlessly through the enchanted forest, but after a thousand years the spell was suddenly lifted as if by itself and..."
"Oh, I know that one!" I interrupt Merlin, perhaps a little rudely, "the counter goes to 998, 999, and then it hits 000! Then it's: Bingo, make your bet, rien ne va plus! We call it the Y2K paradox. Y2K stands for Year 2000, the Year 2000 problem," I add, trying to sound smart.
Then there was a "pop!", and Merlin was gone.
After what must have been an hour of zigzagging through Dublin's busy streets (nothing but wrong-way drivers, I tell you!), it occurred to me that the local president (Mrs. Mary Robbins) wanted to do something for women in this "Year of the Woman": so she decreed that from now on, women would be allowed to sit in the driver's seat, while men were (almost simultaneously) relegated to the passenger seat. But since the car industry knew from statistics that in many families only the men had a driver's license, they discreetly moved the steering wheel to the passenger seat as well. Thus, overnight, the left-hand driving rule came into being here, which we also know from the English and which seems rather strange to us, but on the other hand gives the otherwise severely oppressed Irish mums the feeling that they're in the right place. No, dads sit on the right! Mums sit on the left, as does the ashtray. So, now the confusion is complete, but I can't help that. Just ask Mary Robbins.
Instead of traffic lights, there are roundabouts. Imagine having to drive around a whole circle instead of going through every traffic light, trying to find the right exit: so, for example, if you have to go from the Südbahnhof (South Station) to Floridsdorfer Spitz, then good night, you'll arrive completely dazed, I promise! However, my cook told me after my return that I don't have to drive a whole circle every time, but only the section up to my turn. But then I ask you: why on earth is it called a roundabout? — Well, exactly! To you, dear readers, I'll reveal my recipe for driving on the left: I simply did everything wrong, and that made everything perfectly right again. Got it?
On the motorway from Dublin to Galway, I slowly got used to this strange wrong-way driving regulation and settled in. For example, the center of the road is marked not only with the usual center lines, but also with small, round metal inserts that reflect at night and are called bumpers. The only problem: when you change lanes, the tires bump every time they rumble over one of these metal things (that's why they're called bumpers), which made me a bit nervous. My Starlet is still quite new, not even 600 miles (or kilometers?) old. So I started to fervently practice skillful slalom driving to avoid these bumpers, even developing a certain mastery at changing lanes quickly without bumping. Until the Garda, the local police, let me continue on my way after two hours, a stricter breathalyzer test, and 50 Irish pounds lighter. Party poopers!
You can recognize the continental driver, the driver from the mainland, where the mothers sit on the right (etc., oh well, just read above), by their strained, hunched-over posture, their pursed lips, and their oh-so-typical slow driving. Knowing these facts, I sped through the countryside, usually belting out Hamburg pub songs or sea shanties from Lake Neusiedl, my shoulders dutifully hunched. I greeted every tractor driver and trekking biker with a beaming, jovial wave before my slipstream blew them into the ditch. How I rejoiced when—sweeping down from the Twelve Pins mountains—I spotted the line of cars crawling slowly uphill, driven by tourists from the continent! You should have seen me then, hurtling down the mountain in a massive cloud of dust like a thunderstorm, belting out the Andreas Hofer song and sending the bewildered continental crawlers sprawling into the ditch! The World Cup? Me? — Nah, I don't need that!
The language situation is also a bit tricky. Actually, it's not a problem at all, since the country is bilingual: Irish (that is, Celtic/Gaelic) and English; so you can take your pick. But what kind of English is that! Irish people don't usually like talking to English people, but once they've figured out that there are no kangaroos in Austria, they thaw out and start talking. Quickly, incorrectly, and incessantly. That's what happened to me at the Kilkee diving center, about 30 km south of the Cliffs of Moher (note: mohair refers to the curly-haired sheep and their wool; the word itself is Persian and has nothing to do with the Cliffs of Moher, as I was surprised to learn).
So, there I am, sitting on the pier in Kilkee, feeding the seagulls (whose names you'll soon learn) and watching the divers bustling about. The people from the Marine Rescue Centre are excited, squawking along with the seagulls and running back and forth. I mean, something must have happened, because a dinghy comes racing around the jetty with a whoop of hooray, the dinghy crew jumps out, gesticulating wildly, a stretcher is brought in, and the neoprene-wrapped body of a casualty is hoisted onto it! One rescuer runs frantically to the Rescue Centre, talking on his walkie-talkie, others carry the stretcher, and a young female rescuer loudly counts "1, 2, 3, go!" pumping the victim's heart.
I leap from my deckchair (you know your István, he has to be right there at the front!) and, phone in hand, run the few steps up to the rescue hut. I ask one of the important-looking guys: "Do you need a doctor?" and think, "Now I can finally try out the 112 number and find out if an Irishman or an Austrian answers." The important guy looks at me, then says: "Come on, Doctor," and leads me into the hut. "Are you a doctor?" the busybody asks me again, and I truthfully reply that I'm just a hobby gynecologist. At that, the "dead woman" (because it was quite obvious she was a woman) completely loses it and roars, laughing and snorting, to everyone: "Hey, he's a spare-time gynecologist!" As it turns out, she, Jutta, is from Germany and very much alive. The whole thing is just a drill, and I, the idiot, stand there with my phone, staring. Jutta links arms with me, grills me in a matter of minutes about where I come from, why I'm from, what I do, etc., then I'm allowed to buy the still grinning team a beer and meekly slip away.
Jutta caught up with me again in the parking lot, reassured me that it was good that outsiders were also spontaneously willing to help, and showed me around the rescue center; she seemed pleased to meet someone who spoke her language. At dinner, she showed me how to open Cornish crab crawls with a nutcracker and then pick the crabmeat out of the claws with a flattened knitting needle. Afterwards, I had to go to McDonald's because, although the crab was a lot of work, it wasn't filling.
Bed and breakfast is the perfect way to experience Ireland, although I would have preferred not to have to share breakfast with Jutta. (Deirdre, please: it's all a story! Made up! No Jutta involved! Just breakfast!).
The Irish breakfast deserves a description. So, first, coffee with milk and sugar, but without the harmful coffee beans. Milk soup with kernels or cornflakes with orange juice. A few slices of bread and toast and lightly salted butter; honey and jam with the salted butter for the truly clueless. Then, fresh and hot: a fried egg (for me), a slice of black pudding (yuck, Jutta gets that), two sausages (one for me), and two slices of bacon (both for me). To finish, a deep and satisfying Marlboro (Jutta rolls a joint, but only to annoy Deirdre).
"My name is Henry," says the big-eyed sheep to the squealing starlet, which is slowing down, "and Thusnelda is sitting over there."
"Beep," says the starlet, "beep, beep-beep!" The person presses the airbag again energetically. "Beep!"
"Yes, Cousin Angus had that too, you should maybe try three drops of honey in your tea!" says Henry, and Thusnelda turns her head to the starlet and says: "That affected city slicker! Pfft! She's got a red-lacquered, sleek coat, probably belongs to old O'Brien. Ugh, and look at those big TVs!"
Henry trotted slowly over to Thusnelda and whispered to her: "A little more poise in front of strangers, my dear, if I may, and don't bleat like a goat!", and turning to the starlet he said: "Ah, you know, she's having trouble with her digestion, that's why she's lying on the warm road now, it makes it easier for her to pass gas."
"Toot-toot," says the starlet impatiently, "toot-toot, toot-toot-toot!" With the Toyota, you honk with the airbag, funny, isn't it?
Henry shakes his shaggy, yellowish-white fur, marked with a blue spray, and slowly retreats to Thusnelda. "You're not very talkative today, Ma'm'selle," he says to the starlet before slowly settling down on the road beside her. The starlet gives one last short growl before falling silent, and inside, a person can be seen frantically pounding on the airbag.
"She looks good, the lady," Henry remarks to Thusnelda with a connoisseur's eye, "her smooth, red fur seems to be all the rage in the city these days, doesn't it?" "Oh, you men! You're only looking at her tires anyway, you lecherous old goat!" Thusnelda sighs sadly, tears rising to her eyes in a sudden wave of self-pity, so she turns away and stares up at the mountains so that Henry, that dear old monster, won't see her.
Meanwhile, the man had carefully heaved himself out of the Starlet when Henry said somewhat contemptuously: "Just look at him, my dear, he's not good at wool! Just look at his bald head.....", but he didn't get any further, because I had had enough of it, and I pushed and shoved the two stupid creatures off the road, in order to continue on my way.
It's really not difficult to find your way around Ireland. You just need to follow the signs; they're in English, Celtic, or both, and sometimes even in Italian (for example: Pizzeria Da Giovanni, 2km; pronounced: due chilometri). So, multilingual people have a certain advantage here, although languages aren't everything: distances given in kilometers and/or miles shouldn't pose any problem. And they wouldn't, if it weren't for the lingering realism in the tourist's brain that constantly wants to convert, because, as everyone knows, a mile is roughly 1,600 meters and some change. Or is it?! Today I came across a sign: an Ceirinn 7', below it: 21km. I'm baffled; these aren't nautical miles, and they're not statutory miles either, so where on earth do the 21km come from? I then picked up a hitchhiker; he chuckled briefly when I asked him about it, then he said (if I understood correctly): "Don't look at the signs, just drive along the road, and you'll get somewhere!" So that's what I did.
He was a bulldozer operator from Dingle, already smelled strongly of Guinness, and initially crossed himself at every little church we passed. As our journey progressed, he also crossed himself before, and later after, every bend, or while drifting through the peat bogs, and seemed generally prone to seasickness, this pale child of the Emerald Isle.
Even better, I could rely on the map (kindly provided by Fiona). I did have to spread it out on the back seat, though, to get the reading distance right. Glasses? Oh yes, where were they again—just a moment, let me rummage in my tourist bag—oh dear, my glasses are in my suitcase in the luggage storage in Dublin, along with my suit, tie, and conference materials. Bravo, maestro! But at least my spare pair is in the glove compartment (unfortunately, my car with said glove compartment is in Vienna...).
Never mind, I'm far-sighted (sometimes even precocious), so I first look ahead, read the signpost, then look back to locate the place on the map, then engage the clutch and shift into the next gear, signal left, and make a bold right turn! It makes an even better impression if you also hold your phone to your ear (though it doesn't necessarily have to be switched on). You can practically see the whites of the oncoming driver's eyes, honestly!
It's astonishing what kind of automatic habits a person can develop over a lifetime. Initially, I thought driving on the left (you know, when the mothers are behind the wheel) would be the biggest challenge: far from it! As a pedestrian in Ireland, I'm sure I looked the wrong way twice as often. The hardest part was getting used to the ashtray being on the left. No, don't laugh, I'm serious! Driving and smoking are clearly two completely different things in my mind, or rather, like slippers (left) and flippers (right). Turning the steering wheel with my right hand instead of my left: no problem. Shifting gears with my left hand, or using the handbrake when skidding in a peat bog, is also doable (the crucial drift zone after tight corners for us holiday racers is mostly a peat bog in Ireland, although the barriers are made of barbed wire!). But when I then reach over the steering wheel with my left hand and press the cigarette into the right door panel, and the plastic hisses and stinks with an ugly noise, then I know: oops, that wasn't the ashtray! That ashtray (namely the one to my right) is in Vienna! — You see: nobody's perfect.
Back to glasses. No, not back to Dublin to the luggage storage, but back to the topic of glasses and map reading. I was joking with friends in a Dublin pub late one evening about the fact that the French wine cooperative Le Ventoux has recently started using Braille on its wine bottle labels: one could also use Braille on road maps and traffic signs... But one should really reconsider the whole wine bottle labels and Braille thing, this time very carefully. After all, one could also see it as a warning: anyone drinking this swill might then...
So now I was without glasses and reliant on my ability to confabulate (no, you don't even need to look it up in the dictionary: to confabulate means to make something up; indispensable for us club officials, by the way).
So, what do we have here? A big blue one, aha, the Atlantic. Then a small yellow-green sausage-shaped thing sticking out into the sea: the Connemara Peninsula. A dark brown one inside it—that's probably the Twelve Pins Mountains. Oh, look, a little line! That's surely the road through the mountains! Where's the sun? To the left. So (I turn the map upside down) the sea must now be to my left (yes, that's right, there's an oil tanker back there), the mountains to my right, and surely there must be a road somewhere?! That's how the memorable encounter with Henry and Thusnelda came about.
What was pleasant up there was that I was the only road user for miles around; the others were all pushing and snaking their way down through the valley, while up here I found green pastures and sometimes a peat field (after tight bends).
The only annoying thing was that the road just sort of ended; yes, you read that right, the road came to a miserable end in the moor. The dark blue storm clouds gathering that night (it doesn't get pitch black here until around midnight) couldn't frighten me, since I had comprehensive insurance. It was a shame about the bed, but I was sure I'd be back in time for breakfast.
Groaning, the Starlet struggled through the hilly landscape, its eyes burning, digging its tires deep into the soft green grass; at least those who came after later found a properly groomed track (to use a skier's term). In short, I did eventually get to bed, but I overslept breakfast (since I only went to bed then, of course?).
So, despite feeling guilty towards Fiona, I decided to buy a map. The woman in the shop was friendly; yes, exactly, that's the larger scale he wants, the gentleman from Austria. She rummaged and rummaged and then brought out the one with the smallest scale (= the highest resolution, as we screen-damaged folks would say). The sea was enormous, and instead of a sausage, there was a proper peninsula. Highly satisfied, I paid for the map and went to the café to take a closer look.
Please, every village is on there, every tiny road winds its way through the tree bark like a fat bark beetle canal. Every little stream is a thick blue line, every tiny hut at least a small black dot. The mountains are brownish-red patches, crisscrossed by green forest and light green moorland. The map is so fantastic, I can't get enough of it! It's just that the place names are in such tiny, inconspicuous print that I'm now sheepishly going back to using Fiona's oversized map...
Fiona and her map, that was quite something! Almost reluctantly, she gave me her street map in Dublin, explaining apologetically that she'd once eaten a roast chicken and there had been some stains on it. I solemnly assured her that it didn't bother me at all; I would carefully drive around the stains.
Perhaps that was a bit premature, because when I returned to my room on the first evening after a long walk through Galway, determined to finally tackle my weight problem seriously and not eat anything else that day—absolutely nothing, except maybe a few Snickers, a bar of chocolate or two, and a can of Coke—the whole room smelled like roast chicken. I was nearly driven mad with desire, my mind filled with images of tender, crispy drumsticks, rust-red, crunchy wings, and hormone-filled breasts! Fiona! Not two seconds later, I was off again, leaving Snickers and all my good intentions behind.
Satisfied, I sat down with my beer and lit a "Thank You for Not Smoking" cigarette. I inhaled the smoke deeply, closed my eyes, and pictured Fiona holding a tenderly roasted ham hock with her fingertips, biting into the crust with a satisfying crunch... no, something about this image wasn't right! I looked at the map again, the stains, the dozen or so fingerprints near the Galway-Dublin junction: yes, that must have been it! Now I saw Fiona turning the sacrificial animal this way and that on the map, murmuring magic spells, counting eeny, meeny, miny, moe, and snick-nack to decide whether to turn left or right. That, and only that, I'm willing to believe: she—like the augurs in ancient Rome—was consulting the gods about the right path by reading the entrails of the grilled offering! Map reading in Ireland.
I'd finally seen all the sights, and the weather had turned decidedly Irish; rain, fog, and strong gusts of wind didn't make things any easier. But at last, I'd reached my destination. I moored the Starlet in the parking lot, grabbed my umbrella, stale bread, phone, and laptop, and set off through the dunes.
Well, some of you know I'm a bit of a bird lover. This was probably the most remarkable spot in Ireland, a true bird paradise. I climbed out onto the sandbank along a stream bed, then over some stones to the small, offshore bird islands, and there I was, right in the middle of them, my birds. I pulled out my laptop, put the umbrella between my teeth, and inserted the CD "The Birds of Ireland." And there they all were.
On the left, a shag (Latin: phalacrocorax aristotelis, Celtic: seaga) was fighting with a cormorant (Latin: phalacrocorax carbo, Celtic: broigheall) over a piece of seaweed; on the right, a snipe (Gallinago gallinago, Naoscach) seemed to be waiting for food from me, its head tilted to one side. The lapwing pair (Vanellus vanellus, Pilibin) were courting intensely despite the biting wind and apparently didn't mind that an oystercatcher (Heamatopus astralegus, Roilleach) was watching them unabashedly. The Arctic Tern (sterna paradisaea, Geabhrog artach) tried to scare away the lecherous perv with wild chirping, but his cousin, the Sandwich Tern (sterna sandvicensis, Geabhrog dhuscotlach), simply said: "Leave them be, the youngsters these days want to try everything, you uptight bastard!" The Common Gull (larus larus, Faoilean ban) circled majestically above the colony of Blackheaded Gulls (larus ridibundus, Faoilean ceanndhubh), while the Great Black-Backed Gulls (larus marinus, Droimneach mor) loudly and furiously cursed the Herring Gulls (larus argentatus, Faoilean scadan), whose last raid had severely damaged the breeding colonies.
So there I stood for almost an hour among my feathered darlings, typing busily on my laptop and occasionally scattering stale toast (left over by Jutta, dear Deirdre) to keep them from flying away. Suddenly, I had the feeling of being pushed from behind. Now, I know, just like you, bird-loving reader, that I was all alone with them on the bird islands, so no one could push me from behind. But still, the feeling persisted. Persistently. You know how it is: no error in the program code, and yet the result is wrong.
I looked around. The stiff breeze blew hard in my face, the waves raged as they always do, and the birds screeched as usual; they've learned nothing else. And the stream, over there by the dunes, flowed peacefully uphill in its streambed.
Wait! What? The stream flows uphill?! I looked down my trouser legs, pale with worry, and sure enough: I was already almost ankle-deep in water. The tide was rising rapidly, and I, the self-proclaimed expert, hadn't been paying attention. The ford back home was now at least knee-deep, or even deeper, so I had no choice but to climb higher on the bird island. The shag and the cormorant took off with indignant squawks (you'll have to read about the other birds above yourself; they also took flight when I gasped my way up), and I finally stood on the uppermost granite boulder, estimating roughly 20 minutes until I was submerged.
A good bike is expensive, as my friend Miro once said. I looked at my now completely soaked Bally pedals and wondered how they had survived everything so flawlessly. Further up, in the dunes, was the parking lot with a bus from Peter's Reisen in Kassel (what were they doing here, anyway?), but of course, nobody was paying any attention.
Perhaps they're just taking my picture (titled: Irishman on offshore island). Further down, in the dunes, a few colorful anoraks, intrepid Ireland travelers who don't let wind and weather deter them from their evening stroll on the sandy beach and who, at most, shake their heads in wonder at the living advertisement for IBM Thinkpads on the bird island.
In between, in the middle, the tide, and in the middle of it, me and my little island, rapidly losing square footage. In the bay, a fishing boat swung (turned) slowly, and a man waved to me kindly; of course, I waved back. Vigorously.
I couldn't understand a word he shouted at me. I simply shouted back in German: "Yes, you too!" and thought about how often I'd let down inflatable mattress paddlers floating away in Lake Neusiedl (actually, never).
Mike—back then, of course, I didn't know his name was Mike—so Mike climbed into his dinghy and rowed slowly toward my bird island. About half a cable length from the island—or was it only 20 meters?—he slowed down and started chatting. All I gathered was that he was speaking Celtic, not English. I knew immediately that this was a language test, because if I answered in English (British), it would be a long and wet night. I mustered all my strength and shouted, "I am from Austria!" Mike thought for a moment, then called out, "Rainhard Fendrich!" And I exclaimed, completely taken aback, "Yea, that's correct!" So Mike rowed over, let me in, and brought me safely ashore. Grinning broadly, he told me that he rescued at least five or ten tourists each season. He was also a fan of a certain Wulfgeng Embrous, and much to the astonishment of the Kassel pensioners, the "two Irishmen in a rubber dinghy" bellowed loudly and somewhat silly "forever young, forever ju-hu-hung!" On the shore, I asked how I could return the favor: at "half past nine" at the "Wagoneer" in Kilmare, said Mike (a Brit would have said half past eight), and set off. (Curtain).
It turned out to be my most expensive night in Ireland, folks: when Mike showed up, washed, combed, and apparently very thirsty, the bartender turned pale and sent for backup. Mike, who knew all the waitresses in the place and properly introduced me to each of them (that bloody guy from Austria got wet at Kings Head, you see). Mike, who could down four pints without a break. Mike, who pitied me because I couldn't manage more than two small beers. Mike, whose 150 liters of sheer physical weight had to be hauled home around midnight by his blasphemously cursing wife, Mary, and me. Mike, who assured me at least a dozen times along the way that our Federal President, a certain Mr. Hölmut Cole, was a truly wonderful Mr. President. And that he loved him very much, Cole, Hölmut.
I was so relieved when I could finally wash my socks and jeans at my lodgings and hang them up to dry. The widow Plunkett, with whom I was staying, offered me a video recording of Scotland versus Morocco in her living room, and also a plaid (a Scottish-patterned wool blanket) for my loins, "otherwise you'll catch a cold, my dear!" It really was just an accident, honestly, that I reflexively jumped up when a Moroccan player committed a nasty foul, but then I prudently refrained from doing so, even though she rewound that part three more times. One has one's principles, after all.
I was watching the fishermen in the harbor, tidying up their boats, cleaning their nets, or simply standing around taking a smoke break. I was just about to move on when a guy approached me: "Hello, how are you?" and launched into a rambling monologue about where I was from, how I was liking Ireland, and so on. During the conversation, I politely asked him what he did for a living (suspecting he wouldn't give me an honest answer, as I'd already noticed his vacant, slightly tipsy eyes and suspected the whole thing would end in the obligatory tip for the next pint). He then dramatically grabbed my hand and said, "I'm a visionary." Then, after another dramatic pause: "The Visionary of Clifden." I struggled to suppress a smile and replied, "My children are visionaries too—televisionaries." He smiles strainedly, assures me I'll have a pleasant journey, and subtly steers us towards the pub. When I let him in first, his clairvoyant abilities seem to have deserted him, because far too late he notices that I've turned around behind him and am making my way forward.
Up on the pass, the heavy rain, the winding roads in the thick fog, and the sheep wandering aimlessly on the road were all too much for me. I found a spot in the meadow and dozed off a bit on the reclining seat. But no sooner had I closed my eyes than an old man tapped on my window with his walking stick.
"Failte, welcome!" he said, "I am Muirlinnhe, the king's advisor."
"Failed you too, Merlin, old friend," I said wearily, but still surprised, "You again? What brings you here at this hour? You should actually be stewing in the enchanted forest near Douarnenez in Brittany?!"
"The evil Morgane La Fay imprisoned me there for a thousand years," said the wise old Merlin, "but I don't know how it happened, suddenly the spell was broken..."
Laughing, I interrupted him: "Hey, we've already been through this, after 998 comes 999 and then 000, Bingo! Year 2000! Don't you remember?" Ploff, it went again, and Merlin was gone.
I dozed a little longer, thinking about Morgane and the obvious programming glitch in the Dark Ages, when there was another knock at my window. "Okay, Merlin, what's going on?" I asked, waking up. But the old man outside in the rain didn't look like Merlin at all, more like an old shepherd with the inevitable Irish paddy cap on his head.
"His name is O'Brien," he said somewhat disapprovingly, and asked if I could take him down to Molly's pub in this (beep!) weather; his (beep!) old legs weren't what they used to be, and it was a good three miles, (beep!) and (beep!) again! When we arrived there after a wordless drive, he got out, thanked me, and asked, "Why did you call me Merlin earlier?" I couldn't answer him, and shaking my head, he disappeared into Molly's den of iniquity, (beep!) muttering "foreigner."
In Wexford, I was quite surprised when, returning to my car from a midday stroll at the harbor, I found a voucher from the local police (worth £50) behind the windshield wiper. For £50 (equivalent to a mere thousand), I walked miles – about two kilometers uphill, to be precise – to the police station. Once there, I instantly transformed into a dim-witted, anxious Alpine native, speaking with a distinctly English accent. I couldn't read traffic signs. I couldn't understand a thing, Inspector, what kind of voucher is this?
Excited buzzing in the beehive. Phone calls, a radio conversation: "Jamie, you've got a stupid tourist! What can we do?" I cross my fingers and silently pray to St. Brendan, the patron saint of Irish sailors.
The constable behind the glass window glances at me two or three times, nods vigorously, and describes me in detail (I can't repeat it here, but I might just buy that guy...). There's barking on the other end, then the man nods and hangs up. Turning to me, he says: "Okay, you don't pay anything, not even fifty pounds, we'll do blah blah blah with the car rental company." Well, he's going to be thrilled, I think, but what's the point of having comprehensive insurance?!
Then he adds: "You go to the car, Jamie will be waiting there."
I'm puzzled by the slightly amused glint in his eyes (there's something there, isn't there, but what?!), so I summon all my linguistic skills and bid him my "most humble" farewell. And out of the temple, I trudge to the car, which is now almost three kilometers away because I took a shortcut.
On the way, I imagine that Jamie, that rascal, will probably want a drink or something. Fine, it's still worth the two or three pounds. But I shouldn't count my chickens before they hatch.
Jamie was standing by the car; that was visible from afar.
More precisely, Jamie was standing there, and right next to him, my little red Starletter from Japan was crouching in a no-stopping zone. My feet hesitated at first when I saw Jamie, but then I reluctantly kept going.
When I arrived, my eyes roughly level with Jamie's belt buckle, I couldn't manage much more than "Hi, Ma'am!"
Jamie stretched her shoulders back so that the two enormous domes of the Duomo di Milano arched above me, and boomed down: "So, you're the one who thinks he can't read the Irish signs! Hey, folks, look here, this is the dromedary from faraway Austria who can't read this sign, please, this sign right here!" and pointed accusingly at the round blue sign with a red border and a red X inside (you can look at any no-stopping sign on Mariahilferstrasse if you don't know what an absolute no-stopping sign looks like, you dromedary...).
What followed was a ten-minute lecture on traffic signs and road markings. How to walk, how to stand. Where to look left, where to look right. When to use your turn signal and when not to—unless, as Jamie sneered, you're from the continent. On which Sundays, public holidays, and banking days you're not allowed to stop where and why, unless it's a Tuesday. Double yellow line: "Even someone from Austria isn't allowed to stop here!" Single yellow line: "You may stop briefly here to load or unload!" — "Ma'am," I said, "Ma'am, there's only one yellow line!" Jamie paused, looked down unkindly at me, the little earthworm, who dared to interrupt: "Now don't you chatter, there are two yellow lines!" I didn't give up. "Ma'am," I said, "there are two yellow lines up ahead and two more back there, but here, where I and at least ten other cars are parked, there's only one yellow line!" Jamie grunts something non-English (presumably (beep!)), walks briefly up and down the street, bends down beside the cars and finally states: "This must have happened when they were laying the new asphalt surface, there, you see, it was supposed to continue in a double line, but they just slapped the surface over it (spoiled over, if you don't believe I know what 'slapping' means in English)!"
Jamie shrinks a little, I grow a little, and now I can already see the sweaty imprints of her Wonderbra under her uniform shirt. If she weren't so stiffly trying to appear official, she'd be quite a nice lady. A bit stern, admittedly, and somewhat sharp-edged, but when I imagine her in leather, with a mask and a whip... "You're enjoying yourself," Jamie states sternly, yet unsure how to interpret my cheeky grin. I say, "You know, Ma'am, I've been in Ireland for a few days now: a wonderful country! But even more so, I've become an admirer of Irish women. They have their hearts in the right place, they bravely sink their teeth into a problem and stick with it like bull terriers. That's something I find very appealing!"
Bingo! She runs a hand through her hair once to tidy it up: "No Irishman sees the woman when you're in uniform; they're not supposed to see me as a woman while I'm on duty. And as for the bull terriers"—my cheeky heart stops for a second—"you're exaggerating. I'm not insisting on a double line if it's not clearly visible, but that would still be twenty pounds!" Half of fifty pounds is twenty pounds, of course.
Before I go down another wrong path with uniforms and "my God, you look great in that," let me add a little more flattery: "Of course, you are first and foremost a police officer, and that's how you should be seen while on duty (sorry, I got that line from one of those unbearably boring Saturday afternoon soaps, Cagney and Lacey or something. But now comes the original István transition, which you, dear readers, already know very well:). But when I imagine you without your uniform (oops, too soon), in civilian clothes or casual dress (correction successful), then I see a dashing Irishwoman with heart and character."
Jamie has now moved a good step away from me; several people are standing around us, staring. "Don't imagine me without the uniform!" he threatens me with a smile and a pointed finger, then turns with a coquettish, sharp turn, strolls towards the harbor, and glances back twice discreetly to see if this sleazy Austrian guy is finally going to disappear. Which he promptly does.
That evening, dear Arnold, I rewarded myself with a steak three times the size of the one you used to get at Planet Hollywood, and only managed the last quarter after a long smoke break (The Coach House, Roundwood near Newtown Kennedy, 9.95 pounds including vegetables, salad, new potatoes AND chips), and for the rest I raised a beer or two to Jamie's health (that awful non-alcoholic one from Schmeck's, because of the starlet, you know?).
Later, I tell Mike how, in the raised bog near the Neolithic stone circle, I dodged a normally peaceful grazing buck, which, startled by the flash of my camera, feigned a harmless horn blast in my direction. Startled, I jumped sharply to the side, not realizing I was standing on stones placed in the bog. And in doing so, I promptly dropped my mobile phone into the bog water (dear Fiona, that's nine commas, and they must stay!). Reflexively, I grabbed this little gem of Swedish craftsmanship and saved it from certain doom. After a split second of shock, I knew what to do: sit down, immediately call Vienna to explain that the phone was probably lost or had drowned, so they wouldn't think I was missing. — If, however, someone from Ireland called to say their phone had just "drowned," well...
Mike slaps his thighs and almost chokes with laughter when I describe what the scene must have been like: in the middle of the old pagan Druid monument sits a madman, talking on his cell phone in German, and peat water is dripping from it. The four or five Italians who are just turning the corner stare in disbelief when, to top it all off, the guy on the phone says: "Questoqui ' un Druidofono — funziona solo con acqua, veramente!" and lets the water drip from the device. I translate for Mike: "That's a Druido-Phon, it only works with water, really!"
That evening, Mike probably makes me tell the story ten times, every time new friends show up in the deafeningly loud pub. He drinks copious amounts of beer, and I shout in the ear of his maid Mary, who's wedged between Mike's and my barstools, sitting on our thighs: "Mike must have a damn big bladder!" meaning, of course, that he hasn't gone to the bathroom even once.
Mary, unexpectedly, turns bright red from head to toe and glances at the stuffed capercaillie above the bar; obviously, I've said something very wrong. Mike asks, so I explain that I'm surprised he doesn't go pi after four or however many liters of Guinness. He grins, pulls a one-penny coin from his pocket, and says, "That's a pi." Sensing a joke, I pull out a two-penny coin: "That's a pi-pi." Mike then produces a five-penny piece and holds it under Mary's nose: "Well?" But Mary just gives us both venomous looks and sits down. Irish humor, which I didn't quite get, but Mike laughed loudly and for a long time.
Mike keeps having to sing songs by W. Ambros, Franz A. Heller, or R. Fendrich, and I bellow along, more off-key and loud than beautiful: "Niente Sandale, lauter Skandale," and so on—you probably know the lyrics (I, of course, don't). Then Mike tells me about his trip to Austria: he was in Wiesen, at a jazz festival. And he had a great meal at his friends' place in Lower Austria: he especially liked the "Saumaise." I almost choke on my weak beer and look at him, taking a deep breath: "Say it again, please!" Then I ask him to remember "Saumaise, Maise Maise Maise" and not to use the other no-no-word again. When I say "no-no-word," Mary's interest is piqued, and now she absolutely has to know what it means. Jon Bon Jovi's portrait is emblazoned on her T-shirt, so I boldly reach out and touch roughly where—in my mind's eye—Bon Jovi's belly button should be, and declare: "That's it!" I'm then a bit taken aback myself, because she looks at me calmly without even flinching, not the least bit embarrassed. Irish girls, I didn't quite understand them, but then we both laughed loudly and for a long time.
Interlude (dedicated to all those who think they know me): Well, I don't know about you, but whenever I fall in love, it's utterly heartbreaking! That's why I'm tearing through this rain-soaked landscape, tenderly embracing trees: either an unhappy love affair that pains me especially. Or an unhappy pain that I love especially. Or a particularly unhappy woman that I love painfully. — I hug another mossy tree (tradition says this increases fertility) and speed on through southern Ireland. Of course, some of the drivers behind me might have had something to say, but I don't care: if I see a mossy tree, I slam on the brakes, leave the engine running, jump out into the rain, hug and kiss the tree, and then I'm off again. Surely there's time for fertility, don't you think? — What a hassle, I think to myself at the last tree before the pass, my God, if only it weren't raining so hard! Oh well, I have to get through it, suffer and cry and keep hugging trees. The bitter pain of being in love diminishes in proportion to the moss-green discoloration of my light-colored sweater — oh, it's all so complicated! István's private life, which probably no one understands, but please everyone laugh loudly and for a long time anyway.
This morning I'm being mugged for the third time. Clyde holds his gun to my head, Bonnie nervously holds her orange laser rifle to my chest, water dripping from its barrel onto my trousers. Clyde, through pursed lips, mutters in an Eastwood-esque voice: "Stranger, 20 pi for Snoopies (candy), or your time is up!" I rummage in my pocket and place the coin in his small, cheeky, demanding hand. "And another 20 pi for Eli...uh, Bonnie, she'll get some candy too!" I pull out another coin. Bonnie bites her lip uncertainly, then looks up at her big brother, and when he nods, she snatches up the loot as nimbly as a seagull (Larus larus, oh well, see for yourself!). The bandit looks at me with a merciless gaze and says: "It's over anyway, Stranger, pray your last Ave Maria" and "bang bang bang!" he squirts the full load from his water pistol into my face.
Bonnie frantically fiddles with her laser rifle, but it's not working properly. I help the seven-year-old and pump the mechanism a few times, which is indeed sticking, and then I get my full blast. Aaargh! Like a wounded Godzilla, I gasp for air with flailing arms, sink to my knees, and wheeze miserably in the soft grass. Bonnie and Clyde run around me, yelling wildly, their Colts dripping (smoking wouldn't be quite right) and whooping with delight.
"Kevin, Eliza, come inside, leave the gentleman from Austria alone!" calls Widow Plunkett, hurrying anxiously towards the mortally wounded Alpine man. "Wait, I'll quickly bring you a plaid (wool blanket, see above), give me the wet clothes to hang up!" I try to appease Widow Plunkett, categorically refusing the plaid and the trouser drying for certain reasons (see above). Widow Plunkett is, as you will surely know, a direct descendant of William Robert (actually Joseph) Plunkett, one of the ringleaders of the Sinn Féin Rebellion of 1916, where he and many others, under the leadership of the Polish Countess Mankiewicz (!), fought for their (whose? which?) freedom in St. Stephen's Green Park in Dublin. WR Plunkett (here the widow was tearfully weeping and sniffling so pitifully that I placed a comforting hand around her trembling shoulders), so WR Plunkett was subsequently executed by the English, but the death sentence of the aristocratic Mankiewicz was commuted to 6 years' imprisonment (released early after two) (here the widow Plunkett trembled with anger at the social injustice and vigorously shook off my therapeutically placed hand, sat me sniffling and blowing my nose in front of the video recording of England against Morocco, carefully placed the plaid on my knees and disappeared with my wet trousers into her realm).
No, Deirdre, no! Just for your peace of mind, I won't soften it now, like: "Widow Plunkett, with whom I stayed, was very amiable, talkative (see William Robert, etc.), and busy; her children were at least my age, red-faced, unemployed drunks with mediocre IQs, living off their mother's bed and breakfast, and slyly watching me at breakfast as if I were stealing their food." Furthermore, dear Deirdre, my stories would be absurd if I were playing Wild West with water pistols with two fifty-year-olds (I can already hear Mrs. Plunkett's comment: "Now they've gone completely nuts! Playing Bonnie and Clyde in the garden! — I'd rather have Alzheimer's!"). So there you have it, and now I'm off again (now the tree-kissing can begin again).
Furthermore, a few Irish people love to fleece us tourists like stupid birds. 25 pounds (approx. 450 Austrian schillings) for a smelly, moderately clean bed, a broken shower, and a poor imitation of the Irish breakfast described above, makes one want to take revenge. So one morning, I passed the bread basket around the breakfast room, pointing out that the bread was already green with mold, hoping for applause. The lady of the house hastily replaced it with freshly toasted bread. When I paid, she gave me a 5-pound discount and apologized profusely, shaking her head, saying she really didn't know how the bread could have gotten moldy... I left her overpriced establishment thinking to myself that I'd been quite right not to have given everything away to the birds that day...
In retrospect, I must silently apologize to that poor Irishman who very kindly and politely addressed me in the coffee shop opposite the palace of Richard II, built in 1741 in Waterford (now a bishop's seat): "And how is the Pope doing in Vienna?"
I am experienced and confident in such situations and patiently explained that the Pope was in Rome.
"No, in Vienna," he stubbornly insisted, so I ordered him to give a somewhat more extensive lecture on the Habsburgs, the Hofburg Palace, the Spanish Riding School, and the Lipizzaner horses, culminating in the—not in itself incorrect—instruction that the Pope lives in Rome, or more precisely, in Vatican City, and has done so since the treaty concluded with Italy's King Emmanuel II in the year...
No, the Pope was in Vienna, not in Rome, the scoundrel insisted, interrupting me(!), and Emmanuelle was banned in Ireland, sexist trash, yes indeed, he had only seen the video once, and even then only reluctantly, at his nephew Brian's house....
My temper flared and I hissed at him quite venomously, saying that Emmanuelle could only be described as trash starting with the episodes featuring Laura Gemser, and that the Pope most certainly lived in Rome, I had seen him there myself around 1967, and that he shouldn't tell me who was in Vienna and who wasn't....
Regarding my Lipizzaner horses, which come from Yugoslavia and not Italy, the know-it-all remarked that they were, as everyone knows, from Spain and had arrived there with the Moors from North Africa; the Habsburgs, by the way, were Swiss from Aargau; only the Hofburg Palace did he mercifully allow me to know. When he then also claimed to have some knowledge of football, and I triumphantly retorted that we Austrians don't need the first 89 minutes at all, that one minute, and thus the 90th minute, is enough for us to win, he shook his head and fell silent, finally letting me have my Pope in Rome.
I was almost struck dumb on the plane when, as I was boarding, the Kronen Zeitung newspaper grinned at me: Pope has left for Rome again — Schönborn next Pope?
That, I suspect now, was my last encounter with Muirlinnhe, the strange wizard of King Arthur.
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Ooo...