The Poles of Ireland

I was in the shower this morning. It was a morning unlike most others. I was able to sleep in without my mother calling me to ask if I can help her out with a run to the antique mall. In fact, nobody has called me today. It is almost one in the afternoon, and like yesterday, the thought to grab something to eat hasn't even crossed my mind yet. This is often the case for a guy like me.

In the shower this morning I was thinking about the racial tensions between the Poles and the Irish in Ireland. I had just read this article in the Seattle Times about this fugitive Pole who all the Irish police had been looking for. Apparently there was this horrible driver that kept getting pulled over - all over the country from Waterford to Mayo - and it turned out his name was just the Polish word for 'Drivers License.' So it turned out there were many, many Poles getting pulled over for bad driving and when they gave their name - they were just saying "drivers license" in Polish. It sounds kinda weird ... like maybe the Irish need to get more information when they pull someone over, but who am I to judge another culture?

Anyway, in the shower this morning I was trying to create a commercial in my head that could be broadcast worldwide that would demonstrate how much better equipped America is to handle the influx of immigrants and different cultures - no matter what your background.

It was sorta stealing the VISA commercial idea ... where they are like "Pearl necklace $500, Rusty Trombone $37, dirty sanchez $7 - spending your honeymoon in Vegas - priceless." You know that one?

Well, there I was in the shower - and I had already come up with the punch line so I was trying to figure out ideas to support it ... like a bunch of Germans playing accordions showing to an English high noon tea party .... or a bunch of Poles trying to have a Polish wedding in an Irish pub ... and it would cut to the punch line of "Being able to express your cultural identity without getting shot in the face - priceless." And it would be this add for America ... the film would cut to sweeping landscapes or something like that and a voice would come over and say "America - the world's melting pot." It would be an immigration video or something ... or maybe just a PR piece?

And so I was thinking about all this stuff in the shower ... but then I remembered my own experience with Poles in Ireland, and I became quite irate. All of a sudden I didn't want to defend their cultural sensibilities anymore because I was remembering my WORST hostel experience in Dublin, and how it went something like this ...

So there I was in Dublin. I had been there for a couple days and flying out to Europe had been so stressful and so sleep depriving that I had developed a cold core on my lip (they always come about when I am stressed out and sleep deprived.) So far, three days into my stay in Dublin my trip had been a disaster. I was hoping to meet Irish ladies ... hang out with Irish dudes - see all the sights and sounds and make great lifelong Irish friends. But I was so self conscious that I had become the weirdo getting drunk in the corner by myself ... wandering from bar to bar to bar with notepad in hand - writing about my feelings like some beatnik retard American. Afraid to talk to anyone because I was so self conscious.

I was all set to leave Dublin for Kilkenny, when I met this French gal named Marion who didn't seem to care whether or not I had a cold sore on my face. She was super nice and sorta pretty and we spent an entire day running around to free museums and the like - so I decided that I would stay an extra two nights in Dublin versus leaving that night. I was able to extend my stay in my hostel for one night, but the following night was Friday and it was all booked up. So Marion and I walked all over Dublin trying to find a hostel I could stay in the following night. I was rejected by one after another.

Finally we came across a hostel ... a little storefront off the beaten path ... and it was run by a POLISH lady. I asked if she had a bed for the FOLLOWING NIGHT and she was all "Yes, yes, of course - we have great room for you." She asked that I pay her in advance and we left with a feeling of accomplishment.

However, at that point Marion and I had some weird cultural miscommunications going on and I was becoming increasingly irritated at trying to interpret her broken English through her thick French accent. We ended up parting ways with no real interest in meeting up again later.

The next day, wandering around alone again, I stumbled across the 100 year anniversary party of the Irish political party, Sinn Fein. There was a large crowd gathered - I believe it was even in front of the post office where during the Easter Rising of 1916 so many brave men gave their lives in defiance of the British rule. I saw bands perform, and the great Gerry Adams gave a speech in both the native Irish language and the imperialist English that I have grown to love.

Throughout the entire event there was this pungent man standing next to me smelling of many sharp colognes, who kept making observations and taking pictures and sharing them with me. He was shorter than myself and was obviously not Irish. I thought he was from Eastern Europe but it turned out he was Israeli. We chatted for awhile after the event was over and he invited me to go out to eat at some Chinese restaurant called Charlies. It was there he told me about his lavish gay lifestyle and how he was the lead shoe buyer for a major shoe company. We talked about life, love, the pursuit of happiness and afterwords he invited me to his hotel.

In retrospect the invitation was probably harmless but my gaydar was on full red alert and I was afraid of being taken advantage of krav maga style.

We parted ways and I gathered my things and headed to the POLISH hostel for a night of rest and relaxation. I showed up at the door, where the woman was standing in the foyer smoking a cigarette under an orange glow cast by a beaten street light.

"Where have you been?" She looked at me like a cunning serpent ready to strike an unsuspecting mouse.

To make matters worse, I misinterpreted the question. I thought it was like "Hey bro, what have you been up to since the last time I saw you" so I shared all my adventures with her until she cut me off.

"You were not in room last night" she said looking away, taking another drag from her cigarette.

"Oh, well actually I had paid for tonight," I said - fully aware that every other hostel in town had been booked already and if she was booked I would have nowhere to stay.

"Silence! No, you have not paid for tonight! I have note say you pay last night, you have not pay tonight."

Staring off into space she sucked the life out of her dying cigarette.

At this point I set my guitar down and tried to turn on some of my charm. "Well, I think there was a misunderstanding. You see, I came specifically to you last night knowing that all other hostels would be booked up tonight, and I made a reservation for today for that reason." After the words spilled from my mouth I thought about how bad it had just sounded.

"That is not what my note say," she said matter of factly.

It was starting to rain.

"Well, ok then. Do you have any rooms for tonight" I asked, fighting back the anger.

She tossed her cigarette out into the street and looking down on me she smiled like the wicked bitch that she was, and turned around into the building. "Let us see."

We walked into the hostel and I booked another room.

"You do know it is five Euro extra for weekend night?"

"Yeah, whatever, I don't care."

She took advantage of the fact that I was exhausted. My body had that feeling that comes after wearing the same clothes for days in a row. Some people can describe such muckiness as a case of 'swamp ass.' My legs were chaffing from the friction ensued by walking many, many miles. After paying a ridiculous amount for my bunk I went into my room and threw my backpack down onto a weak Chinese made bed frame that appeared stressed to the max from the weight.

"At least the sheets appear to have been washed" I said to myself.

I changed down to my underwear and walked into the shower room. The place was filthy ... I had to walk through a layer of mud created by the bottoms of other people's shoes mixing with the moisture from the shower. Once in the shower there was no way to turn it on without getting that initial blast of cold water. I extended my body as far away from the nozzle and pushed the button for the water. You had to keep your finger pressure on the button to get any water to come out. What's more, the water never got any warmer - it was just ice cold water.

At this point I was shivering ... knowing that I probably wouldn't feel warm again for at least 24 hours ... ice cold from the inescapable spray ... feeling dirty and grimy and disgusting ... I dove head first into the stream and took the coldest shower of my life in the most ungodly expensive hostel I have ever paid for - brought to me in part by the beautiful Polish immigrants who apparently, are pissing off all the Irish of Ireland.

fin