The Armpit of Ireland

Yesterday was Angela Marie Bermes's birthday. She is 26 years of age and doing fabulously, I must say. Yesterday she told me that the only reason she is my friend is for my blogs, so I thought I would score some friendship points by dedicating an entire blog to her for her birthday present.

I thought that in honor of Berm (and our dinner at the Cladduagh last night) I would do a blarchive. This is a word I just made up. It is a story from the archives of my life. (This story's actual "first" printing is in the Ireland Journal that I believe Bermes has stolen and hidden away). I will do my best to do it justice. This true story is taken from Laurin, Bermes and I's trip to Ireland in 2001. I was freshly graduated from college and looking back in pictures, was having some great hair days. Also keep in mind that the three of us think we are the funniest people we have ever met, so while some of you may not find it amusing, we think it is freaking hilarious.
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After a few days of travel in our tiny bubble of a rental car dubbed the "Mirth Mobile" throughout Ireland's picturesque countryside, we were looking for a place to stop for the night and have some fun. Our itinerary was definitely not planned --the way we plotted our journey was basically moving dot to dot on the map of Ireland. We saw a larger dot with the word Limmerick next to it, so we figured that would be a good place to stop. After extensive research in our "Guidebook of Ireland," we saw that they had some hostels, and that was good enough for us.

As we coasted into the city, we noticed that there was no one around on the streets. Not a soul. I felt as though we were in a Western ghost town, and I think that the tumbleweeds blowing by didn't help. We then we remembered that it was "Bank Holiday Weekend," and tried to convince ourselves that every person in Limerick was elsewhere enjoying their Bank Holiday.

So, cautiously we drove to the hostel and checked into our digs for the night. When Bermes made a comment to the Hostel Master (if that's what they're called) about the non-happeningness of Limerick she got very upset.
"This place is a ghost town!" Bermes said.
"I don't' know what you're talking about," the little Irish Hostel Master snapped, obviously offended at such notion. "There are plenty of people here."

We nodded and walked away uncomfortably, trying to avoid any confrontations . We didn't want the only people we have seen in Limerick to hate us. When we got to our shady hostel room, we dropped off our stuff on some beds in the corner and promptly turned around to avoid spending any amount of time in there. We needed to get something to eat ... more importantly we needed to find a place to eat that was populated by humans.

We end up finding a hip little bar/restaurant somewhere in the city, and sat down outside under heating devices, that we dubbed the "heat trees." We were so excited and amazed to find such an oasis in the desert of a town. I suppose in our excitement we didn't realize how many ciders we had drank. By the time it had gotten dark we realized we hadn't eaten a thing, and we were getting pretty drunk. So, we stumble through the city looking for a fine dining establishment for three drunk, greasy American girls. (I will fast forward through a little of the next part, because I fear this may be boring some of you).

We end up finding some fast food place on some street (it is still a little fuzzy). I definitely remember my meal included french fries (or chips as they say in Ireland) because I was enraged that they charged me 10 pence for a packet of ketchup. I suppose I was making some semi-drunk witty comments about how I love ketchup and it would be very expensive for me to eat ketchup if they charged per packet in the United States. In the midst of my ramblings, a man's voice with an Irish accent called out Angie's name. This was perhaps one of the most random happenings in Limerick. Granted, Bermes had lived in Ireland for the year, we were miles and miles away from her university, and of course don't forget we were in Limerick for God's sakes.

When she turns around to see who this person is, she realizes it is John Cusack! Well, not really, but he totally looked like John Cusack. He ended up being a guy that was in one of her classes at her Belfast University and he just happened to be waiting for a bus (I know, soooooooo random)after visiting one of his friends in Limerick. We were all very excited to see someone that she at least semi-knew. So, we talk John Cusack into staying another night in Limerick and showing us around.

We end up going to bars here and there. Throughout the night I ask him about all of the Mullally's that he knows, and keep repeating to him that I am SO Irish. I knew that I was way into the Irish-ness of it all when we were watching an Irish band play some Irish songs and I was getting teary-eyed about being in my homeland. I think it was the all of the ciders.

The night was coming to a close, which meant that we were to be heading back to our lovely hostel. John Cusack was still hanging around, and he was appalled that we were staying in a hostel.
"Why don't you stay at my friend's apartment tonight," he asks.
I have to say that I was not involved in any of the decision making that night ... for many reasons. I am not sure if I would have made the Executive Decision to stay at John Cusack's friend's apartment. And, I know that I especially would not have agreed to walk there. He claimed that we were only a few miles away, but I am convinced that it was a good three miles. Which is a long way while you are spitting every five steps and trying to stay in a straight line.

Nonetheless, we made it there. I also seem to remember that we had to break in to it, which at the time didn't seem at all odd to me, but now it makes me a little nervous. I didn't seem to live up to my Irish genes, and could not finish another beer, so I made myself a little bed on the leather couch in the family room. Laurin and Bermes stayed up with John Cusack, so I cannot officially report on the rest of the night. The next part I remember, oh so very clearly.

I wake up after what seems to be about 2 hours of sleep to Laurin, Bermes and John Cusack peering down at me on the leather couch. I was covered in blankets and, please, for reasons that will make sense in a little bit, let me tell you what I was wearing. I had on pants, a tee shirt, a sweater and a fleece vest. (Don't forget that information). Laying there an intense feeling of panic swept over me. Why do I feel damp? I slowly sit up and move around, patting the leather couch. I quickly look down, and oh the horror! There is a huge wet spot where my body was. I feel around on myself, searching for any clues of where this dampness is coming from. I then excuse myself to go the bathroom. I know what you are thinking, but there was no evidence to prove that I had indeed gone to the bathroom on the leather couch. There was no smell, no localized wet spot. I was only strangely damp.

So, I return to the couch (safely covered by the blanket), and give an urgent look to my friends for us to get out of there as soon as possible. We dash out of the door and begin our three mile journey, hung over, back to the shady hostel. I tell them of my saturation, and they too, are puzzled.

Later on, we were reading some books about Ireland and decided to see what it had to say about Limerick. Apparently, my saturation was fitting, for this book dubbed Limerick the "Armpit of Ireland." Seems to me that would have been important to know before we got there, but hey, you live, you learn.