Verdant Vagrant

Riverrun down the Liffey and upon a tumbling two-story bus which scampers through the streets of Dublin and South towards Belfield, the ground sodden with rain never stoops under my reckless weight. Though the sullen streets speckled with litter are overwrought, still dwarfed by the ominous shadow which hangs upon the frontage of Dublin Castle, there is a Celtic tiger which leaps forward and fumes against its former master. Yet its stripes have faded and its claws have been trimmed by American decadence. It feigns and redraws, to once again lay with the lamb it once so adored.

Yes, the Celtic Tiger took off in Ireland, a huge economic boom which gave Ireland the sixth highest per capita income in the world. This tiger had managed to emerge from the former abhorrent and gloomy English aristocracy holed up in Dublin Castle (the seat of British power for many centuries). Is there something to be learned by the Irish striving to be too like us Americans? I believe so. There is a real resentment among the people. Two young Celts approached us in a bar in Temple Bar, passing out fliers execrating Neo-Nazism in Dublin. How far has the serpent of vanity and greed slithered between the toes of Dubliners that such blatant hate could ever emerge?

With sincere confidence I would like to say there is verily a faith in human-kind which pervades the Irish spirit. It weathers the rain, and paints the Wicklow Mountains a serene and prominent green, gentle and nurturing the soul. The verdant hills are fecund, and clear for miles, as ubiquitous as the selfless nature of this grand race. I can see how Ireland is wary of the EU, for their confidence in one another is so fervent yet tacit that to extend that acceptance to so many other disingenuous Europeans might forever swallow it up.

Yet despite this rising resentment, the descending hills of the Wicklow Mountains remain as fertile as ever. I have found the utmost ease in approaching anyone in Ireland with my troubles. In return, I have been gifted simple and bright grace. But, to the Irish it is not a gift, it is a necessity. No wonder the country has been glazed in bountiful palettes of green, for they most certainly do nurture one another as if they were each other’s brother. I have already met three Irish girls who talked my ear off about cultural differences, so that I would understand better. And then without delay offered to show me around outside the city on our next meeting. There is never a bus driver unwilling to let you off where you need to be, to give you directions, or hold up an entire bus of people in order that you might gather yourself. People smile at you as you pass, say hello as you wander. Why just the other night we were reprimanded by security officers for carrying beer around. He then promptly advised us to acquire a better stout. Dublin is crowded, but not frantic. Somehow the putrefaction that infuses interaction in cities such as New York has not reached this isolated island.

Though hardship has hit the island like an afternoon rainfall, unexpected and inundating, I do not expect this Irish spirit to be washed away by the oncoming tide. For Éire has known hardship, and has dealt with it by strengthening their faith in one another.