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Going home, to a place he'd never been before -- land of Grandpa, Guinness and neverending green • Part One of a series By
Bryce Petersen Jr.
The object of his affection: The green of Ireland, seen here at the Cliffs of Moher on the west coast. / Photo by Kenna Dyches, sister of the author. I'm near the bus station in London, waiting for 8 o'clock. I didn't fly all this way to see Buckingham Palace. I've been in London three days and I still don't know where the palace is and I don't much care. I want to see cliffs and birds and the dense, lush verdure of the countryside. I want to hear singing and everyman poets in shamrocked Irish pubs. I want to touch the hair of an Irish maiden and kiss her in the constant rain. I want to drink from the fountain of Guinness and devour a hearty Irish breakfast. I
don't care about Big Ben or I want to find the home my great-grandfather lived in, I want to see the church where he married the Quaker girl I read about. I want to walk the streets that he walked and see the graveyard where he was buried. London is incidental. I don't care about Big Ben or Westminster Abbey or Buckingham Palace, I haven't heard any stories about England. I know about John Lennon, Johnny Rotten and Jonathan Swift, I guess, but I didn't meet any of them. My grandpa didn't tell me about the forests, birds, beaches of England. He visited Ireland when I was 8 and began this obsession. But it's late May. I have until Aug. 10, I might as well tell people I've been to London and seen St. Paul's Cathedral; the markets at Leicester Square, full of odd trinkets and strange clothes; Crystal Gardens, a park in Brixton, quite by accident, after a long, lost night taking the wrong tube and the wrong bus and the wrong street to the cold, clear, quiet horse track; I might as well tell one mildly interesting story from London. In the hostel one day, I heard some good music. I asked a funny employee who it was. "I don't know. I wouldn't even be listening to this if Sky [the English incarnation of the Fox network] was on," he answered. "This tape was made for me by a girl in Pittsburgh. She was very passionate about music. I mean, I like a girl to be passionate but not about music. She said, 'Oh, listen to this one, listen to this one,' but I had other things on my mind," That was the end of that conversation. I haven't slept much, I've been too busy getting lost to get over the jet lag. Tonight will be long, too: Twelve hours on a bus. But then . . . pubs, drink, song, stories, I just have to get across the border and all will be well. Now, I'm wandering the streets near the bus station, trying to kill two hours. There's a big cement wall, with coiled barbed wire on top. It's too high to see over, but I get curious. I'm hopping, craning, walking along, climbing on benches to see what's inside the wall, when a couple of policemen stop their little boxy car and walk toward me. "I see you're taking a rather close look at the Palace," one says. "The Palace?" "Buckingham Palace. The Japanese prime minister is visiting today." "Really? How do you get to where you can see the Palace?" I manage to convince them that I'm a worthless, mindless, innocent American idiot-tourist, and I spend the next hour lounging on the grass, watching a pompous brass band, the ranks marching in perfect time and order. I can't help but think that there must be a larger, quieter group that is much better prepared to defend the Palace. I wonder if these chaps even have loaded guns. I imagine a tiny Queen, in a chair much too big for her, sitting small and befuddled on her throne, in the midst of a swarm of people talking to everyone but her. In this way, I occupy myself until departure. Somewhere in Wales -- too bumpy to sleep, too tired to talk -- the driver trades our tickets for new ones with a long explanation of ferry transfers and ticket takers, assuring us we'll get there. Nobody knows exactly what he's talking about. "We'll just trust you," someone says for all of us. The bus lurches to a stop as I finally dose off. Off we go, into the line for bags, line up, take out your tickets, check your bags, line up. It's 3 a.m. Eyes a little blurry. Girl -- lots of bags. Kid -- stamping his feet. Mom -- Go back to sleep. Girl -- lopsided -- slips on a patch of wet, topples into a man next to her -- lets out a funny little shriek. He -- startled -- smiles as she giggles, apologizes -- Sorry about the scare -- and sees her brother roll his eyes. I slipped! she tells him. He looks away. People are ornery, silly, snappy, irritable at 3 a.m. in a long line for a ferry. On the ferry, I walk past the duty-free bar. A beer costs 3 pounds, or $5. I find an empty seat, let the waves rock me to sleep. Fitful. Announcements. In case of capsize there are life boats. Well-trained crew. Perfect safety record. Just a precaution. Excitement. I've dreamed of Ireland since the day Grandpa showed me all those green pictures of castles, since I picked up Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, since I heard The Pogues. As we land my stomach spins as I realize I am finally here. First. To the hostel. Get rid of this bag. Next. Breakfast. Then. O'Connell Street, Grafton Street, Temple Bar. Statues, cathedrals, art museums, music mags, buskers -- So much to do and so little time. I only have till August. My head wobbles and I realize it has been 28 hours since I've slept. Here I am in Ireland, riding on a different bus with a different name, with a driver with a different accent. But it has the same musty, sweaty stench of last night's coach and the same lurching that keeps me starting, startled, awake. I've been up all night or asleep all day, still awake at 7 a.m. or asleep by 6 p.m., each day of my trip and now there's this big football player from California if you believe that. He's big enough, he's got a "Cal" hat on, and his name is Carlos. I know because this English punk is saying "Carlos" through crooked teeth from across the aisle and Carlos is saying, "Yeah, baby." I don't know why he calls this crooked-toothed, spiky-haired punk a baby but they both smell like alcohol and I hope they'll shut up because as Carlos' Yeah babys get more harsh I get a sick feeling in my gut. I'm listening to: Carlos. Yeah baby. You're not in America anymore Carlos. I know baby. Carlos. Yeah baby. You like my shirt Carlos? Yeah baby. Of course you do you f--- faggot. Laughter. Soon it's degenerated to, You bloody bastard Carlos, and, You're not in America anymore Carlos, you're in England, I mean Ireland. You bloody bastard. Carlos can't take this, he is large and proud. Soon, Carlos is on top of the skinny little punk. The rest of us are turned around watching openly now, the driver is stopping the bus, the punk is grimacing and grinding his teeth, in equal parts fear and defiance, and Carlos is pounding and cursing and the driver is on his way back. When he arrives, Carlos shouts, Get this drunk f--- off the bus. Arms out and flexed like a body builder, Carlos' face is red. He is removed to the front of the bus. Even in his isolation, I'm sure he could hear the banter of the punk and the punk's friend. "F--- Yankee, can't do that to me." "At the station, we'll get him all right," etc. A tired horror creeps over me. More than ever I feel the need for sleep. But all I can see are visions of alleys and blood. I see the green of Ireland stained, like 1916 or that famous Sunday in the North. The victor will run off, war paint smeared, looking like the bow on the green wreath of Ireland. It doesn't take that long. I saw the Bic in the punk's hand, so did everyone else. Nobody spoke up, not even Carlos' friend, a fact that did not go unnoticed by poor Carlos when he came back, blood running down his face, curses flowing out of his mouth, directed at the now-ejected punk; his friend, who had failed to warn him; England, which had produced such a . . . , and Ireland, which had such an obvious lack of control on its buses -- meanwhile, I slump lower in my seat, hoping not to be recognized as a compatriot. Erin Go Bragh! The bus stops. I smell the oil and exhaust of the station and see the immense Custom House. A bridge floats across the River Liffey, a train rumbles above. Passengers scramble for bags. I wait. Look. Listen. Smell. Ireland.
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