3:30 p.m.
We cut it close yet again, arriving only a few minutes before the bus is scheduled to leave. Traffic overwhelms downtown Cork and it is only 3:00 p.m. The traffic makes me feel like I’m at home outside of the Washington metropolitan area. As the group takes their seats throughout the bus, I head toward the back. The bus will soon be departing for Middleton, home of the Jameson Factory and the next planned group outing.
Seated in the very last row of the bus is an Irish teenage lad with crooked teeth, spiky hair and a bright red jersey on. He sits in silence for a few minutes before asking a group of us what we are doing in Ireland. We tell him we are a group of students from the states studying in various cities for six weeks. We tell him where we have been and where we will be going. Killarney, Galway and Dublin are next, we say. “I fucking hate Dublin,” he blurts out. He then says that Dubliners think they are better than everyone else. That seems to be a common notion among the locals here. I guess I’ll just have to wait and see for myself if all the negativity about the country’s capital is what it’s been made out to be.
One of the girls asks him if the summers are always this warm. I still don’t know how we’ve gotten so lucky with this weather. It’s been two weeks now and we’ve only seen a couple days of rain. I haven’t used my fleece or sweatshirt once. Pretty spectacular.
“No way,” he replies. “They’re usually so fucking cold.”
His cursing is becoming more frequent and is beginning to get on my nerves. Irish men use the “f” word often, disregarding if women are around or not. Seems to be part of their culture.
Another girl then asks him his opinion on the worst group of tourists. I’m hoping he doesn’t say Americans.
“Definitely the Mexicans,” he says. “They fucking come over here in big groups during the summer and stay forever.” By forever he means four weeks. I wonder what he really thinks of our group who is staying here for six.
Just as he describes his annoyance with Mexican tourists, we pull up side by side with another bus. A group of Mexicans looks at us through the glass. We all have a laugh. “See what I mean.”
Our stop in Middleton is quickly approaching. The lad makes sure to point out to us where we need to get off, as if we can’t read a bus schedule and don’t already know. I ask him if he is from Middleton, but he says he is from Ballycotton, a small town in between Middleton and Youghal. I tell him about my trip to Youghal and how much I loved the coastal town, but he doesn’t seem interested. “Well you must go to Dingle,” he interrupts. “Fungie the dolphin is there. That is the best fucking dolphin.” (Fungie is the dolphin that inhabits Dingle Bay, interacting with humans on a regular basis).
In the middle of his story on Dingle and Fungie, we arrive in Middleton. We exchange goodbyes and he tells us to enjoy our time in town. “You must check out the Jameson factory,” he adds. We tell him that’s where we are headed. It was quite the random conversation, but entertaining nonetheless.
Now it’s time for whiskey.
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