8 Balls & 8 Reelers #6: A (sober) Irish Vacation
8 Balls & 8 Reelers #6: A (sober) Irish Vacation
Ah, the sounds and heatstrokes of summer. It’s that time of the year, folks. Merely a week ago I sat outside for all of 2 minutes before I told myself: “Why am I sweating? Welcome to Massachusetts, folks. Spin the wheel to choose which season you die in. This year’s special being a heatwave of average temperatures above 100 degrees in the land where it used to snow 6+ feet come winter. Somethingsomething climate change reeeeee.
THANKFULLY the good folks of my extended family, with Minority Report level precognition, booked a week long vacation to Southern Ireland. Armed with a shoddy T2i Canon and an annoying clan of step brothers, I ventured off into a much-needed cool down, both literally and mentally, from the Apocalyptic sunshine.
Given my perpetual Irish tan of being sunburned 24/7, I figured I would fit right in. I highly suggest avoid wearing a backwards baseball cap. And don’t pronounce “Celtics” like the basketball team. Please… I beg you…
A Sober Idiot’s Guide to Ireland
Part 1: Arrival in Dublin
Toddlers are ugly, emotionally abusive creatures. Just evil stuff. Don’t recommend sitting next to them on a transcontinental flight, especially when you’re watching a Kore-eda movie. I recommend standing, disguised as multiple bathroom trips for half of the 5 hour flight time. I don’t sleep well, if at all, on any vehicle. I think unconsciousness chose to save me in that moment before I became rather unspiritual.
Jet lagged and hangry, the bright grey skies of Dublin welcomed me with a euphoric mild breeze. The country opened up immediately. I know the first thought you have: “Ryan, isn’t Ireland a big drinking country? How could you cross such accursed terrain?”
Yes.
And no.
While it is not uncommon to spot a construction worker enjoying a lager with his 11am lunch, the myth of sacred drink is just that. A myth. You can enter any pub (as I did multiple times, being a great fan of pub food), and no one will bat an eye if you have a diet coke in your hands. Actual drunkenness was also a rare sight in my time beyond a light buzz. People are generally warm and moderate.
So there is plenty to do without drinking, or the worry of being singled out and left out of community. I was also far from the only sober person in any given setting. Though my search for an Irish AA meeting was in vain (I was not driving an hour away with a car I didn’t have nor know how to drive), I was able to keep ample recovery with a routine check in with homeward fellows and online spaces.
That being stated, lets get the touristy stuff out of the way, starting with The Book of Kells. I had actually visited Trinity College years ago with a middle school trip. I remember none of it. Being a sporadic history buff, early medieval and viking era Ireland is, too say the least, intriguing. The consolidation of early Christianity butting heads with Irish folklore is a wondrous merging of powers. The book itself, along with the Trinity Library, had me shedding a tear bearing witness to a modern Babylon.
My next stop was obviously the Irish Film Institute, not a few blocks away. I salivated at the sight of a Criterion Closet-esque video store at its entrance, where I surrendered to my physical media obsessed urges, and purchase several films, including many hard finds in the US, including Akria Kurosawa’s Ran, Aki Kaurismäki’s Fallen Leaves (no release in the US), and Rose Plays Julie, a lovely independent Irish film from husband-wife duo Christine Molloy and Joe Lawlor. I highly recommend checking out there work, some of which is currently programmed on Mubi.
The next morning, the family and I were off to the south.
Part 2: Fishy Kinsale
I mean… come on. Look at those views. (This is at 10:30pm local time. My sleep is irreparably damaged.)
After a quick pit stop at lovely Waterford street market, we made it to our Airbnb fairly late, where we found out the hard way that my brother had a secret tree nut allergy he had somehow forgot to tell his entire family after making pesto.
We spent most of our days exploring Kinsale’s port, a historic fishing hobble, where the skeletons of churches, homesteads, and Troubles hide between the cracks of tourist traps and bookstores. So. Many. Bookstores… Shout out of Prim’s Bookshop and their cheery resident good boy doggo.
It was on the second day during our march to Cork where I began to see signs of the underseeding anti-colonialsim that makes me proud to be an Irishman. Ireland has been particularly vocal about their denouncements of the War in Gaza and the ongoing genocide against the Palestinian population. Not only was the town masked by globe trotting statements of graffiti, but large crowds continued to protest and highlight the monstrosities to this day, given the Irish history of their own oppression that many Irish Americans tend to forget. More on that later.
Part 3: Exodus (to Dublin)
It was our second, longer time in Dublin that had me relishing the small details of urban Irish life, like “close door” buttons on elevators that actually work, thrift shops with actual thrifty pricing, street performers unleashing Irish Folk takes on No Diggity and Three Little Birds. Don’t forget the lemons served underneath the ice in soft drinks. You know what they say: before life gives you lemons, you have to drill through antarctic ice to get to it.
Halfway through our second round with the capital, after an unfortunate, not-my-choice lunch of Hard Rock Cafe appetizers (kill me), we did something that I must confess, was not very cash money of me as a sober person.
We visited the Guinness Storehouse and Factory. GASP! SHOUTS! SCREAMS!
Was this a good idea? Probably not. But as a sober person, I gave myself a major gift: the permission to leave. Note: I did not utilize this, as I became enraptured in the museum and a drink or drug was, ironically, as far away a thought as possible, but having that option, and the ability to choose it, is sometimes all you need to recognize that you have freedom and are allowed to take time for yourself if you are not ready.
If you are comfortable in your sobriety, I actually would highly recommend checking out the museum. Not only is the history and inner workings of Ireland’s token industry a fascinating ordeal, but I found myself enraptured in the advertising exhibit. From the highlight of ads, there is an interesting gateway into the evolution of Irish pop culture, and its influences from other cultures and cinematic progress, all book-ended by a campaign headed by the great filmmaker Jonathan Glazer. And coming full circle, they gave special props to the Irish Film Institute and the importance of preservation and the study of cinematic history. Rules.
In a grand finale to our trip, we toured the Kilmainham Gaol. Ireland, like many nations, has a history written in blood. A staple being the Irish Republican Army (Not those Republicans. Me and my friends hate those Republicans.)
The strong president of Pro-Palestinian intrigue only makes sense. British oppression, occupation, and genocide against the Irish peoples is an open and widely recognize wound that is not ignored, as is the following Civil War and Troubles, a sore sport of their own. Though it is not ignored, and they chose, like all nations should, to grow from their mistakes, rather than using the excuse of historical oppression to subjugate others.
Stuff I Read and Watched on the Trip
Sadly, on the return trip, my queue of movies downloaded on Mubi and the Criterion Channel choked and died. And though I was unable to finish Kore-eda’s The Third Murder, a fascinating departure into the crime genre, I thankfully had other alternatives.
I had finished Ryan Cahill’s self published fantasy novel Of Blood and Fire halfway through the trip. Needless to say, after hearing only good things, I came away slightly disappointed. The prose was perhaps a little too digestible and adolescent for the mature themes and realistic violence strewn throughout. In spite of its large page count, I actually believe it could be improved with more. More insight into the inner workings of the characters’ thoughts. I wanted to know more, and feel the needless underdevelopment. I actually plan on continuing the series, not only to support the indie publisher, but there were things that actually fascinated me in terms of setup and worldbuilding.
Moshe Kasher’s autobiography Kasher in the Rye: The True Tale of a White Boy from Oakland Who Became a Drug Addict, Criminal, Mental Patient, and Then Turned 16 is a mouthful, both in title and content. Kasher is someone who knows himself, and is while at times ashamed, acknowledges and bears the weight. Heartbreaking, and rapturously funny, Kasher’s unique experience as a Jewish youth in Oakland in the midst of crises both religious and pubescent is both original and relatable. A must read for young people in recovery.
Amazing!