by Diane Quinn

Created on: July 23, 2011

“God save us, there’s another roundabout ahead the size of a football field,” her husband announced as if he were about to drive into a tsunami.

“It’s okay,” she cooed trying to soothe the situation.  “We should exit the roundabout toward Kinsale on N27.  Try to stay in the far left lane because it should be the very first exit.”  She hoped he didn’t notice that her hands were white squeezing the life out of her plastic water bottle.

Driving in Ireland had become a stress induced hell during their first vacation day.  What her husband thought would be “no problem, honey!” had turned into a very big problem.  He had underestimated the difficulties of navigating from the opposite side of the road in a backwards designed car with no opportunity to practice.  After they had picked up their rental car very early that morning, off they went into a maze of roundabouts at Shannon Airport where everyone knew where they were going except for them.  

Surviving rush hour travel in Limerick, including a couple of untimely road detours, had the air in the car steaming from her husband’s Irish temper.  Their American sized Toyota seemed to morph into a Hummer on tiny, two-lane roads.  Car-eating, bleeding heart bushes cunningly hid ancient stone walls and tried to snatch at their car often collapsing the passenger side rear view mirror.  

“Are we there yet?” He asked as a giant and confusing road sign with English and Gaelic spellings of city names came into view.  “Yes, take a left NOW!” she directed with authority.  He managed the turn well enough without sideswiping any unsuspecting Irish commuters.  

They both sighed with relief.  “I swear,” he muttered, “When we get to Kinsale I’m parking this deathtrap until our two nights there are over.”  She couldn’t help but feel a twinge of satisfaction.  For the first time in their marriage, her husband had actually been following her directions.  A fact she would cheerfully remind him about during an opportune moment sometime in the future. 

Satisfaction aside, she was somewhat disappointed. “But my itinerary includes the city of Cork tomorrow,” She had carefully planned every step of their trip.  “Don’t you want to see Cork’s famous port where your great grandfather left Ireland to immigrate to America?” 

“I don’t care anymore. He’s dead, and I’m trying to stay alive. All I want is a cold beer, a good meal, and a decent night’s sleep on a comfortable bed.  I don’t even care what it costs!  We have credit cards and Euro’s, that’s all the wampum we need for a couple of days.”

His wish came true that night when gratitude overcame any tensions from the day.  Their comfortable room in a small hotel overlooked Kinsale’s fishing boat dotted harbor.  He enjoyed a cold Irish beer after which they feasted on the fresh catch-of-the-day at an inviting restaurant with charming servers.  They began to relax and settle into a mood of Irish zeitgeist as the sun dipped into the sea and the last sailboats made it to harbor.

Leprechauns may have been up to their dirty tricks earlier in the day, but her husband’s Irish luck had found him again.  With bellies full and heads relaxed, they were hopeful that more good luck would extend into the next eight days as American tourists in Ireland

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