“Sure,” I say in a tone that doesn’t convey how bad I want some company. Then I tell him about the popular pub and show him what the concierge wrote down for me.
He laughs. “You’ve changed a lot in the past week. Remember how you threw a fit when we ate in pubs?”
“Well, I understand that it’s different here in Ireland,” I remind him. “Do you need anything in your room before we go?”
He looks down at his T-shirt and jeans and then back at me. “I don’t know, Maddie. You look pretty hot. Do I look good enough to be seen with you?”
I laugh, but I don’t miss the compliment as I tug at his arm. “You look fine, Ryan. But I’m hungry. Let’s go.”
“Should we leave Sid a message about where we’ve gone?”
I consider this. “I left her a note that I was going out for a bite. Maybe that’s enough. I have a feeling she needs some space right now. You know?”
He nods as we head out onto the street. “Yeah, I thought that same thing today. Do you think she’s still feeling bad about Ian?”
“I’d be surprised if she wasn’t.” Then I point to the left. “The concierge said this way. It’s about two blocks down on the same side of the street.” Then I ask him about the shipyard and tell him about the castle. It seems we both had a good day.
“Here we are,” I say as I point to the sign.
The pub is noisy and pretty full when we go inside. But we manage to get a table close to the band, which is just starting to set up. I’m guessing it’ll be loud right here, but at least we get to hear live music.
“I was playing my drum last night,” Ryan says. “Could you guys hear me?”
“No.”
“Good, I was afraid someone might call down and complain.”
“You said you played guitar and bass,” I say now. “How long have you played?”
“Since I was about fifteen. I was in a band for a few years, but we kind of fell apart when we went to college. We still get together to jam sometimes.”
“I was in a band too.”
“No way.”
I laugh. “Yeah. It wasn’t much of a band, but we had fun.”
“A girls’ band?”
“No, we had guys too.”
“And you said you played guitar too?”
“Yeah. I haven’t played much this past year. But playing around with my penny whistle makes me want to get back into music.”
He nods. “I was thinking the same thing. I was wishing I could jam with some people who know a little about Irish music.”
I glance over to where the amplifiers are getting set up. “I don’t think that’s what we’ll be hearing tonight.”
We talk more about music as well as other things more pertinent to our lives back home, and it occurs to me that our friendship seems to be going to a deeper level. I also remember that he said I looked hot tonight. I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to be involved with someone like Ryan. I mean, he’s a great guy, and he’s even a Christian. Why wouldn’t I think about it?
Just as we’re finishing our dinners, the band starts to play. And, man, are they loud! I seriously consider sticking my fingers in my ears, but I don’t want to look that stupid. Fortunately, it seems Ryan has read my expression, because after just one song, he suggests we get out of here.
“Thanks,” I tell him when we’re finally outside and I can hear again.
“That sound system was pretty bad.”
“Not to mention loud,” I reply.
Then we just walk along without saying much for about a block. We’re going in the direction of the hotel, but I’m not really ready to call it a night. And yet I can’t think of anything to suggest.
“Want to find a quieter place?” he asks. “We could get some coffee or dessert or something.”
“Sounds good.”
Then Ryan spots a coffee shop across the street and several doors down. It appears to be open, so we head that way and are relieved to find that, other than some jazz music playing on their sound system, it is relatively quiet in there.
We both order coffee and sit down. But suddenly I feel sort of awkward. It’s that old feeling, like, is this a date? Or are we just two travelers who got stuck together by my aunt, and he’s simply putting up with me? Oh, maybe it doesn’t even matter.
“I didn’t tell you this,” he says as he stirs the cream into his coffee, “but the other day when we drove out to Malin Head, well, I was relieved you came with me. I think it helped to make things easier, you know.”
“Hey, I had a good time. I think your aunt is awesome.”
“It was cool getting to know her, seeing her place….”
“So are you feeling better, you know, about things with your dad?” I hope I’m not being too intrusive, but I am curious.
He shrugs. “It’s still hard to understand, but I guess it’s getting easier. It’s kind of like Ian said, I sort of have to piece things together for myself.”
For some reason this reminds me of Antrim—a puzzle piece I don’t quite get. And before I know it, I’ve told him.
He frowns. “Really?”
“Yeah. I probably shouldn’t have mentioned it. But it was weird seeing that sign on the way to the castle. I mean, it’s not like I really cared where Antrim was located before. But for some reason, it caught my attention, and then when I found it on my map, well, I was surprised at how close it was to Belfast.”
“That does seem strange.”
“And it’s pretty close to the airport too.”
Ryan seems frustrated by this. And now I feel even worse for having brought it up. Maybe we all just need to move on.
“I’m sure there’s some logical explanation,” I say, hoping to brush this all away.
“Do you still have Ian’s business card?”
I nod.
“Maybe I’ll give him a call before we leave Ireland. Just to ask, you know. It’d be easier to do it before I get back home.”
“Yeah, I guess.” I study his troubled expression and want to kick myself for having mentioned Antrim. We were having this good time, and I was actually feeling like we were getting closer. And now he’s all focused on his dad again, looking for answers where there might not be any. When will I learn?
Fifteen
Want to take a black-taxi tour today?” Sid asks us at breakfast. It’s our last day in Belfast, and she’s almost done with her peace-camp research and, as a result, seems in a pretty good mood.
“What’s that?” I ask as I butter my toast.
“It’s a tour of West Belfast,” she tells me.
“And?” I still don’t get it.
“It’s where the troubles took place,” Ryan fills in.
“How come you always know so much?” I tease him.
“I’ve done my research.” He turns to Sid. “And I’d really like to see it. I heard you can even get a glimpse of the Sinn Féin headquarters.”
“What does that mean?” I ask. “Sinn Féin? I’ve heard it before. Is it the name of someone?”
“It means ‘ourselves,’” my aunt informs me.
“It’s about Irish self-rule,” Ryan continues. “In the early part of the twentieth century, there was this huge turnover in the Irish parliament. I think it was about 1918 or so. But Irishmen were elected to the majority of parliament seats, booting out the British loyalists. And then the new Irish representatives refused to meet in England. They insisted on Dublin instead. And as a result, things got sticky.”
“That was the official beginning of the IRA,” my aunt finishes for him.
“Thanks for the history lesson,” I tell them. Actually, I’m glad to know this. It helps me to understand this country a little better.
“So you up for a black-taxi tour, then?”
“Sounds good to me.”
We check out of our hotel and put our bags in the car. And at ten o’clock the taxi arrives and takes us into West Belfast.
“This is Falls Road,” the driver tells us.
“Mostly Catholic republicans live here.” Then he points out the Sinn Fein headquarters, and Ryan leans out the window to get a shot.
“They’re really into graffiti here,” I observe.
“We prefer to think of it as art,” he tells me.
I notice strings of fluttering flags along the roadside. “What’s that?” I ask.
“Them’s the Easter lilies,” says the driver.
“Easter lilies?” I’m confused. For one thing, they look nothing like lilies, and besides that, it’s June.
“To remind us of them that died in the Easter Rising back in 1916, as well as for them that’s died since.”
“The Easter Rising preceded the Irish War of Independence,” Ryan adds.
“Tha’s right.” The driver nods vigorously, as if he’s impressed with Ryan’s grasp of Irish history. I know I am.
The driver points out more things, explaining some of the meaning behind the graffiti art. “That one there’s for the H-Block Martyrs,” he says as he points to a large and well-done mural.
Okay, I’m thinking, does he mean H&R Block? And what does that have to do with Ireland?
“Bobby Sands,” my aunt says.
“Tha’s right.” The driver nods again. “Him’s the inspiration behind it all.”
Ryan looks at me and grins. “You have confusion written all over your face, Maddie.”
I kind of shrug.
“Bobby Sands went on a hunger strike,” Sid explains, “and some fellow IRA inmates followed suit.”
“And died,” adds Ryan.
“They starved themselves to death?” I ask.
“Tha’s right.” The driver slows down and points to what appears to be a cemetery. “Most of ’em are buried there. Tha’s Milltown Cemetery.”
He parks nearby, and we all sit in the taxi and just look.
“Now would you like to see the other side o’ things?”
“Sure,” my aunt tells him.
He drives on until we come to some sort of an entrance. There are tall gates painted red and white, and he drives through.
“Welcome to Shankill Road,” he tells us.
“This is the Protestant side,” Sid adds.
We drive alongside a tall, imposing wall that seems to slice through the neighborhoods like a knife. It appears to be made of concrete blocks, and the bottom part is painted white and covered with all sorts of graffiti. I notice that the houses on the other side, the Catholic side, are crowded together and sit very close to the wall, whereas this side, the Protestant side, seems much more open, and the houses are situated a comfortable distance from the wall. I wonder why that is.
“Tha’s the peace wall,” the driver says, pointing to the ominous barrier. “Put there to keep the Catholics and the Protestants from killing each other.”
He slows down so we can actually look out the window and read the graffiti. Soon we are reading slogans out loud to each other.
“Be the solution you want to see in the world,” Sid reads. “Gandhi.”
“How about this?” I say. “So many tears, too many years, no more spilled blood, let’s learn to love.”
“That’s nice,” my aunt says.
“Here’s a good one,” says Ryan. “You all believe in the same God, so listen to him.”
“Amen,” I add to this. And Sid echoes my sentiment.
Then the driver shows us places where we can see traces of bombings, and Sid takes photos.
“Some thought we were done with all that,” he says as he drives us back toward the city. “But last week we had another.”
“The Orange Rose?” says Sid.
“Aye. Nasty bit o’ business, that was.”
“Can you drive us by?” she asks. “To get some photos?”
“I’m not sure I can get through there,” he says. “The street was blocked off just a couple of days ago.”
“I’m a journalist,” she tells him. “It’s for a story.”
He nods. “We’ll see what we can do.”
As it turns out, the street is no longer blocked, and he slowly drives past a brick building with sheets of plywood covering what must’ve been blown-out windows. Sid snaps a number of photos.
“Too bad,” she says as she leans back into the seat.
“Do you think this will ever end?” Ryan asks the driver. “Is there any chance for peace here?”
“Not unless all the loyalists pick up and leave,” he says. “And that’s not likely to happen.”
“I’m guessing you’re Catholic,” Ryan ventures.
The driver nods. “But I believe in peace.” He reaches for a photo of three young children that’s attached by a magnet to his dashboard and holds it up for us to see. “I grew up during the troubles, and I don’t want my family to go through that.”
“I don’t blame you,” my aunt tells him as she looks at the photo. “Cute kids.”
“Thanks.” He puts the photo back.
“Have you heard much about this new IRA?” she asks. “What they’re calling the Real IRA?”
“Aye. Everyone’s heard o’ them.”
“What do you think of their organization?”
He shakes his head with a frown. “No’ so much.”
“Do you think they’re serious?”
“You saw the Orange Rose,” he reminds her.
“Do you think they’re a very large organization?”
He seems to consider this. “I hope not. But I fear what they lack in numbers they will make up for in violence.”
“Oh.” I can see her making a mental note of this comment.
“And I hear they are a vengeful lot.”
“How’s that?” my aunt persists.
“There’s an old Irish saying that suits them to a T,” he says. “For every Irishman on the fire, there will always be another ready to turn the spit.”
“What’s that mean?” asks Ryan.
“In the case of the Real IRA, it means they will turn on their own if their own turn away from the cause.”
Sid actually digs in her bag for her notebook now and quickly writes these things down.
Before long, our tour ends, and we’re back at our hotel. Sid gives the driver a generous tip, and we all thank him for the informative tour.
“We have time to get some lunch before we head out,” Sid tells us. “How about something within walking distance?”
Ryan and I tell her about the pub we visited last night. “The food was great,” he says, “but the music was really loud.”
“They probably wouldn’t have music in the daytime,” I say. And so we decide to head back to the Ádh Mór!
“What does ádh mór mean?” I ask the waitress when she comes to take our order.
First she corrects my pronunciation. Then she tells me it means “good luck” or “cheers.”
“Kind of like that old TV sitcom,” Sid says.
The waitress nods, then actually sings a line from the theme song. “Sometimes you wanna go where everybody knows your name.”
We laugh and even clap for her. Then she takes a bow, along with our order.
“So you favor the Catholic pubs in Belfast?” my aunt teases Ryan.
“How do you know it’s Catholic?” I ask.
“It’s just a guess. But establishments that use the Irish language are often republican and often Catholic.” She points to a green banner. “And that’s a pretty good clue.”
“What?” I ask.
“The color green. It usually stands for Irish republicans. And orange is for national loyalists.”
“Is that why the Protestant pub was called the Orange Rose?”
She nods, then frowns. “Sometimes I just get so angry at all this.”
“All this what?” I ask.
“Division. Strife. Violence. Hatred.” She shakes her head in disgust. “I’ve never particularly cared for the IRA or their methods.”
“You and my mom both,” Ryan says with a bit of impatience.
“
It’s cost your family a lot,” she reminds him. “And lots of other people even more.”
“But you’ve got to see why they did it,” he tells her. “You’ve got to understand where they were coming from.”
“Maybe. Or maybe I thought I did. But I’m not so sure anymore. And to think that the RIRA is the offspring of the old IRA.” She lets out a long, jagged sigh. “Well, it just makes me sick.”
“They’re not the same organization,” he says. “The original IRA has agreed to the peace talks and the disarmament.”
“So they say.”
“You don’t believe them?”
“I don’t know. But I’m finding that the older I get, the less tolerant I am for violent activities of any kind.”
“Our country has some pretty violent roots, if you think about our own fight for independence,” Ryan reminds her.
“Yes, yes…I’m well aware of that. And in some ways our situation wasn’t much different from here.”
“Bloodier,” he says. “And what about the Civil War? That’s similar too.”
“I know, I know.” She rolls her eyes. “I guess I’m just saying I hate war and violence in general. Okay?”
“I know what you mean,” I agree. “It was so sad seeing West Belfast literally split in half by that ugly wall.”
“I keep thinking of that quote I read on the peace wall today,” Ryan says, “about believing in the same God but not listening to him. I think that might be a universal problem.”
Sixteen
We have just enough time to make it to the peace camp for my appointment,” Sid tells us as we’re finishing lunch.
“When’s your appointment?” I ask before drinking the last of my lemon soda.
“Three.” She signs the receipt for her Visa card.
“But its already after two,” Ryan points out.
“We’re fine,” she assures him.
It takes about fifteen minutes to get outside of the city, and then Sid heads north on the highway. After about twenty minutes of driving, she slows down and exits the highway. I notice that the sign where she turns off says Antrim, and I can’t help but reach from the backseat to nudge Ryan. He nods back at me as if he, too, has noticed.
“Where is the camp?” I ask.
“It’s just north of Antrim. As I told you, its on an estate that was donated by a wealthy family back in the early seventies. The wife was Catholic and the husband Protestant.”
Notes from a Spinning Planet—Ireland Page 14