Bizarro World

What a bizarre day. It started with the oddest hangover ever, followed by a ride halfway to work, which means my two minute commute was cut in half so I could pick up a breakfast roll for Carmel while she opened the office and made coffee for me. From there, the day went along pretty much as normal but then I went to meet an old friend for drinks.

I received an email earlier this week, from a mutual friend, letting me know that a guy I went to college with was in town on business and wanted to meet me. Great. Dandy. Fantastic. Except the last time I remember seeing him, we were in my favorite restaurant in Dallas, he was blasted out of his mind and I had a migraine. The head butt was really the death knell of the evening, since both my boyfriend and his both wanted to throttle him. I’ve never seen anyone pulled from a restaurant with such speed before. So when I agreed to meet him, I decided it was best to bring some friends along, just in case. Who knew the whole of Dublin would turn out? For some unbelievable reason, the sky cleared, the sun shone, and it was legitimately summertime tonight after work. Given that it’s been raining for well over a month, every soul in Dublin hit the few pubs that have patios in the sun for after work drinks. When I arrived, my friends were people watching and picking out husbands and I quite happily joined them. It was a great evening to be out in Dublin.

So the old friend arrived, and we had a catch up and then we went to dinner. And he talked about living in London, and what he’s been doing since we’ve last seen each other (7 years ago) and what his job I like, and where he’s traveled, and what’s happening with his old boyfriend, and about his new friends, and all his new coworkers and his afternoon in Dublin on his first trip here.

The food was divine.

And then Finn and I went for a drink while he trundled back to his hotel, since he has to be coherent at 8am tomorrow.

Finn and I had one drink at the Bank and as we were leaving, a man approached to tell us that his two friends thought we were fantastic looking and we should really go over and say hello. He then went on to declare himself the world’s worst matchmaker, which neither Finn nor I was in a rush to correct, and then sort of babbled for a bit before leaving quite abruptly. We laughed and walked out, me thinking ‘that’s typical of the Dublin man. Stare all night but don’t make a move until she’s halfway out the door’ No balls in this town, I swear.

On the way home, the taxi driver and I were chatting a bit, which is normal, but things got really odd when he said he didn’t speak any Irish. Fair enough, neither does anyone I know, but they all have enough of it in their background to hazard a guess. He spent the rest of the trip telling me that he considered himself British, well, Irish since he’s Dublin born and raised, but he’s from a long line of French Huguenots, traceable in some church document in some hyper-anglicized church in Dublin. In fact, he’s the treasurer of some Men’s Only Protestant group in Dublin. Just as we approached the house, and I began to get really nervous, he started telling me he was also a member of the Orange Order and was I Canadian? Sincere disappointment when I told him I was American. I was quite happy to be home. Because the thing is, he was infinitely proud of the Huguenot heritage, pointing out every instance of the city that owes its inception to the Huguenots and every prominent member of Dublin history who had a French surname. By the time I exited the cab, he was positively glowing with nationalistic pride. For a country he’s never lived in.

And there’s the rub. I, as an American, cannot espouse such enthusiasm for my homeland. I, as an American, cannot claim such pride in my heritage. I cannot claim to be Irish, since I am the only member of my family in many generations to actually live here. I cannot take pride in my political affiliations because no one likes our president. But here is this man, who is Irish down to his accent, espousing his French-ness to me, his isolationist club ties and his activities in a group responsible for quite a bit of violence. How the hell am I supposed to feel when presented with that? I’m not supposed to be proud of being an American because most of the world hates our president. Fine. I’ll stop being proud but you have to relinquish all your American goods. Most of the inventions/products/items in peoples houses are American. We invented the light bulb and the car, we’re the ones that brought the assembly line to the world and revolutionized computers; we produce most of the movies and quite a bit of the popular music; you might not like it, but when was the last time you said no to a coke or a Starbucks or Levis on the basis of a general American Boycott? In a country that has given so much to the world, and a world that has taken so happily, why am I not allowed to be proud of my homeland? Because you don’t like my president. And here’s the other rub of the evening.

I don’t like Americans. Succinctly, I don’t like the type of American I was with tonight. He dominated the conversation, he interrupted while others were talking, he asked questions only to reveal the answer of himself. And I hate that about people. Don’t ask me about horses just so you can tell me you have horses. Don’t interrupt the story to tell us your experience with something sort of related to the matter. Tell me something that matters and that isn’t your job. I actually said at one point: enough work! You are more than your job. He kept talking about work. It’s one of the deplorable characteristics about Americans. We talk about work in intimate detail to anyone who will listen. Anyone at all. Busboys. Bank tellers. Trash collectors. He actually told the waitress we were architects and that accounted for our exceptionally tidy table. She was pulling our plates because they were closing down and the staff wanted to go home. What that has to do with us being architects, I’ll never know.

So tomorrow, I’ll answer my phone and find out where to meet him for dinner and drinks and at some point in the evening, we’ll go to the George, because his friend was here once and said it was a good bar. When I recommended another bar that my friends favor, he said to me ‘Honey! My friend said this is the best bar to go to. You have no idea.’ I live here and have been there on several occasions. What the hell would I know? I certainly wouldn’t have the faintest idea if it’s a good place, I’m not a gay man. How could I possibly know?

Ummm… have you met my friends?

It’s been a bizarre day. And none of it ties together in a Hollywood Red Bow. I didn’t learn anything. I have no greater insights. My life isn’t necessarily richer for having left the house this evening. It is, however, more colorful and maybe that’s the only point.