British Isles Part VI

The rest of my time in Ireland was spend in Tiperary, Treasa's small hometown. The house was just about the perfect place to experience Irish culture, close to the center of town but still out in the middle of nowhere, buried amidst winding country roads, open grassy hills, and farmland. There's a cross and a miniature holy-water fount hanging mezzuzah-style on the inside of the front door, and a framed portrait of the good lord jesus upon their kitchen wall, overlooking the dinner table.
Treasa's parents were wonderful, and really good at conveying their religion and discussing interfaith issues from a cultural and historical perspective. Treasa's Aunt seemed to by much more into the straight theology, and Treasa's dad seemed interested in sparing me the trouble, which made for a couple of funny exchanges:

Sean (father): You know 20 years back we would hear a lot more preaching about sin and damnation, but the focus has shifted away from that
Peggy (aunt): But that's not to say that there isn't still a purgatory and a hell...
Sean: Yes I know Peggy, every time i see you!

For me, Ireland will be remembered as drinking cup after cup of tea in that quaint pink kitchen, sharing whiskey and Poteen (potato moonshine) with Treasa's father, talking religion, culture, politics, and daily life to the sound of the thick Tiperary accent.

Once again, the night before my flight arrived, and I prepared to say goodbye to this green little country. I sat in the rocking chairs with Sean, listening to a story of his. It moved through different settings and ideas and but at some point he mentioned ending up at a pub with live traditional Irish jam. "Sean, are there any jams like that on in town tonight?" "Oh, I think there would be". Ireland, it seems, also intended to get in a final round before last call.

This may have been the king of all the traditional jams that I had seen, and by the end of it, the crowd thinned out, the doors were closed to keep new customers out, and it was just the musicians and the dedicated music enthusiasts. I sang along in harmony and the woman next to me said, "now after that I'd hope we get a song out of you", and so back I was in the jam, on a borrowed guitar, trying my best to remember one of the 3-4 songs I knew. And it was 3-4 songs sung, 3-4 rounds of drinks, and about 3-4am when I returned to the homestead. Treasa was still up with her friends from home, trying to squeeze in the last little bit of Ireland, knowing she could sleep later in Mechelen. I for one was happy to collapse in bed, till the morning light called me back to Belgium.



Epilogue:
The clouds on my flight home were particularly stunning. Glowing, sunset-pink wisps on high, and the most solid, rippled, unbroken surface filling my view below. Under those clouds, home or the closest thing to it right now. Pink faded upon the horizon as the sun set on a wonderful adventure in the British Isles.
My first bit of culture shock came standing on line for the plane. The Belgian attendant walked up to me and flipped through my passport. "You cannot travel on this." Shock. Adrenaline. Recollection. She means I can't priority-board without European ID. "I have a Belgian Identity Card", I say, handing it to her. She looks at it. "Ah. I think this is not valid". Shock. Fear Panic. "No, it says 'till 2008". "Ah". She hands it back and walks away.
I think back to my Scottish passport agent saying "two ticks, love," making sure I was taken care of and knew what was going on. There was a kindness there, a desire to put me at ease amidst lots of scary regulations that might strand me, cost me loads, or otherwise ruin my holiday. I think of the openness and friendliness of the pubs, all the kind strangers I met who wanted to know who I was, and of the invisible walls of privacy that divide me from the Belgians I live amongst, even whilst we sit beside each other in our civilized cafes. Back in Mechelen I made my way to a jazz performance in a bar, hoping to recapture a bit of that Irish spirit. There were rows of wooden bar chairs facing the stage and everyone in attendance sat still, watching as though they were in a concert hall. I had to go upstairs to listen, where I could look around the room as I pleased and imagine that down below, people were shouting each other drinks and chatting away.
My first go on St. Rombouts carillon was spectacular and I was excited to see my composition piece come together in time for class, but disappointed to find Geert out with a bad back and unable to talk about it. Classes were rough today, and overall I find myself caught between excitement to deepen and reinvest in my studies, frustration and loss of passion at the lack of active encouragement for my creative goals from the faculty (Geert will be more encouraging once he's back), and a strong desire to both return to a good rhythm at home and get back out on the road, knowing full well that Christmas-time, the half-way marker of the program, is only 6 weeks away.