It wasn't the squat, rickety, rust orange and brown coloured coach that made me doubt the decision to tour Connemara. No, driving miles into the countryside on the ugly stepsister of coaches didn't worry me at all. What had me nervous, and at times downright jittery, were the other passengers. At best, they were old, overweight and wearing raincoats that engulfed their entire bodies. At worst, they were American tourists, writes Christine Houde.
"Oh, it's just a light, Irish rain," one exclaimed, smiling, when a downpour began near Kylemore Abbey. "It wouldn't be green without it," chirped another. "Oooh, look at this Guinness shirt - my nephew would love this," said a third during the second 45-minute stop at a craft shop, not realising the same shirt could be bought at home for less.
Although I'm obviously American, I'm not a tourist. During my four months in Dublin, I have proudly refrained from setting one foot in the Guinness Storehouse, Dublin Castle or any pub on the literary pub crawl - until last week, that is. And now, after five days mingling with American tourists, I have to admit that not even my deep-seated dislike of George W. Bush has made me so ready to chuck my passport in the Liffey, fake a brogue and declare myself a Dublin native.
Network of relatives
Not that this is unusual. Deep down, most Americans would prefer to be Irish. Otherwise, they wouldn't cling to their cousin's/uncle's/mother's/sister's great-grandfather twice removed born in Donegal - or was it Dingle? - in 1832 (1823?), who emigrated at some indeterminate point, leaving behind an entire network of relatives named Seamus and Deirdre who want nothing more than their long-lost American 12th cousin to show up on the doorstep for a cup of tea, a few scones and some fun times tracing the family tree by the peat-filled fire.
At least, this is the sort of heart-warming, Irish hospitality-filled scene an American tourist, seated determinedly in a pub in Cobh, Co Cork, must have imagined when she said to the waitress: "My grandmother said her cousin Paddy Sullivan lived in this town, on a hill, in a yellow or white house with a dog that barked twice each morning," or something absurdly similar. "You don't know him?" she said softly, pulling her hand-knit, recently purchased, authentic Irish wool jumper tighter around her.
Cliffs of Moher
Failing to find relations among the innocent Irish bystanders, the ever-resourceful American will unearth links to other tourists. "Where you guys from?" one man asked another by the Cliffs of Moher. "Idaho," came the reply. "No way! We're here from North Carolina!"
The excitement is understandable. After all, it's not every day two Americans who, incidentally, live at least 10 states and 1,000 miles apart, run into each other at a major Irish tourist attraction. Is it? At some point, perhaps in celebration of this new-found friendship, the American tourist will head to the local pub for a pint of Guinness; or two; or ten. It tastes different over here, did you know? Then again, so does soda (made with sugar here, fructose there), beef (grain-fed cows here, corn-fed there) and chocolate (inexplicably delicious here, incredibly bland there).
But no one poses for pictures with a fork triumphantly stabbing into their first bite of Irish meat. No, it's more sensible to clutch a glass full of a dark, tar-like mixture of hops, barley and yeast, clasp arms with your neighbours and smile big for the camera. Or, at least try to smile. Inevitably, someone will grimace at the drink's bitterness, ruin the photo and try to make up for it by singing garbled choruses of Danny Boy, Whiskey in the Jar, or whatever other songs were on the €6.99 "Irish Pub Songs" CD purchased on special offer the day before.
And what trip to Ireland would be complete without an inebriated American tourist trying some Irish dancing? Trying, I say, because at some point - perhaps stemming from the refusal to adopt the metric system - Americans seem to have lost the ability to count. Seven steps followed by three is more that most can handle, so they end up jumping up and down, around and around, every which way but the way they're supposed to go, looking uncannily like those little wire-legged, plastic leprechauns sold outside tourists attractions that mindlessly bop along with anything remotely musical. Of course, the leprechauns have better rhythm.
Fields of Athenry
As for me, things are just swell back on the coach. Since proclaiming their undying love of Irish precipitation, my fellow passengers have become so aflutter over a pair of shamrock-covered boxer shorts they've been inspired to sing The Fields of Athenry. Twice. And while it's a noticeable improvement over the driver's attempt to start a sing-along, which began and ended with an off-key, emotion-filled solo rendition of Molly Malone, I doubt I'll ever again want so badly to trade places with Athenry's famous, out-of-earshot, free bird.