YOU IRISH are all the same. The perpetual thorn in Britannia's side was that she couldn't conquer the spirit and pride of the Irish, long after she had ravished all there was to be proud of from my own sweet, listing land.
As a Scot, recently uprooted from the heart of Caledonia, felt sure I would find solidarity here in this Celtic country. Nonetheless I am often asked: "Which part of England are you from?" Or, "Do you have this back in England?" Ah sure, England, Scotland - what's the difference?
Oh, nothing really, besides our separate cultural and linguistic identity, separate education and legal systems, separate churches, our own tabloid and broadsheet newspapers . . . my thistles bristle!
Even worse is when I'm treated as if I've just stepped off a shortbread tin. "Where's your kilt, wee Scotch highland lassie!?" cry middle-aged men in a Belfast-cum-Outer-Mongolian accent. First of all I'm low-land Scots. I'm a young woman, not a bottle of whisky. And it's men who wear the kilt.
Forty shades of grey
In the beginning, I thought I was just like you guys, but after a year in the Dublin's 40 shades of grey, constantly confused by the perplexing differences between this land and my own "dear green place", I know I'm an alien.
My first hurdle was the welcoming openness of the Irish. I met The friendliness of strangers with dour Scottish suspicion. What is the sinister motive underlying the Irish "niceness" My reserve has slowly eroded, as I realise that the cead mile failte is for real! Still, this prized "openness" is all too often too bold for me. I do not want to be asked at the initial encounter with my boyfriend's family: "Do you have your nipples pierced too?" Euch! I detest the vulgarity with which my privacy is constantly invaded by friendly slagging.
Will I ever understand you Irish? I cling to my granny's words of warning: "Don't believe anything anyone tells you over there they can't lie straight in bed." And being Irish herself, she should know.
I listen to people around town ("town", in case you didn't know, is Dublin) employing the greeting: "Hi, how are you?" They seldom wait for a reply as they "Hi, how are you?" through the day. It's not really a question, it's a display of their niceness. It is bewilderingly insincere to the uninitiated. Seemingly, these people are the notorious Dublin Four, but there seems to be more than four of them to me.
Language barrier
Then, there is the language barrier. People here don't "chap" the door, they knock. They go into town, instead of "down the street", where they shop, rather than "go the messages". They have children, not "bairns", who are little, not "wee". If I cut out colloquialisms, speak more slowly, elongate my vowels set an Irish twang to certain words and stay calm, I can just about manage to be understood.
The Irish work ethic, if there is one at all, seems to be: "We'll come back to that later." The ever-elusive "later" keeps slipping further down the time ladder, until, with a day to the deadline, the drinking and socialising halts (albeit momentarily) for a mad rush complete the project in a "that'll do, sure, it'll be grand" type of fashion. I find this nonchalance all too stressful. In Scotland, we are workers. Dull, monotonous and trudging as it may seem, we have the conscientious streak set firmly within us to work, work, work.
Becoming interested in the life, politics and history of a foreign place is an arduous task. I find myself having to make a conscious effort to become involved in the events of somewhere that I really don't feel part of. Anne Doyle does nothing for me. I pine for Angus Simpson reading the news on Scotland Today.
The internal politics of this land are beyond understanding. "Culchies" are sneered at by "Dubs" with a Hitleresque distaste. What is it that incites such division between town and country folk? More confusingly, Dublin itself is divided into two factions, the Notorious North and Suburban South. I am constantly being warned by cautious Southsiders not to "cross the Liffey" into O'Connell Street. Their scaremongering about the other side makes me wonder if they are acquainted with the verse of my national bard: "A man's a man for a' that,/ for a' that and a' that,/it's coming yet for a' that,/that man to man the world o'er/shall brothers be for a' that." And I question just how terrible it can be across the great divide of that treacly river.
Not all bad
To me, these are not stereo-types, but the norm. But it's not all bad. There are many facets of life in this country that shame me in my Scottishness.
I am constantly embarrassed by the generosity of the Irish. When I try to emulate this laissez-faire relationship with the punt, I can never quite override the frugality (never meanness) for which we Scots are infamous. I can only envy this classy disregard for money, and the secret understanding of the Irish that money is of value only if you have friends to spend it with.
I believe this country will forever remain an enigma to me. The deceptive similarity to my native land, makes the gulf between our cultural attributes doubly shocking. Yet, if I cannot find it in me to warm to Dublin, Dublin has warmed to me. The relaxed mania of this city, pulsing disorderedly to internal rhythms has enthralled me with its charms.
Ireland is a country that I would challenge anyone not to love, and feel at home in. I betray my nationalism loving another place and people. Perhaps that is why I fight it so much.