It’s been another busy week here in Ireland, and a rainy week, too.
Today I worked in the kitchen at the hostel and made one of the cooks cross. She yelled something at me in Latvian, and I got more nervous, so I dropped a pie. Tonight I’m hanging out at the wine shop, closing things up in another hour. We’ve got a bottle of 2007 Moulin Berger Julienas Vayolette open for tasting, a light and summery red that I confess I wouldn’t mind having more than a taste of right now.
It’s Independence Day in America, and I’m missing it, and you.
Someone asked me the other day if I’d be celebrating the 4th of July, and I replied that it’s truly a community holiday. So in other words, not really. In a country that values walls, doors and general privacy so highly, it’s the only holiday I can really think of that is so utterly communal – when you meet your friends and neighbors in yards, streets and parks for food, music, laughter, fireworks, and the like. I spent the last several enjoying the Indianapolis community on the White River Canals and watching the fireworks from the green lawns surrounding the war memorials downtown. In my mind, it’s a day for messy slices of dripping watermelon, smoking hamburgers on the barbeque, cool whip and berries on top of a Betty Crocker sheet cake. It’s a day for lawn chairs and flip flops. Not for looking out the window of a small Irish wine shop onto a street that’s about to turn into a river of rain.
Sorry, I do hate to sound depressing! I just miss America today, and the friends and culture I left behind there. I miss the sunshine, too, haha, but really for the first time I can think of. It hasn’t bothered me before this week. It’s funny that when I moved to Indiana, I missed Montana so much, and now that I’m in Ireland, I miss Indiana. Not that the fireworks echoing off the Briger Mountains don’t have a special place in my heart as well… but my most recent recollection of home is the solid, reliable Midwest.
So it’s your patriotic duty, my dears, to go out and make a night of it tonight, for me. Indulge in a little Cool Whip, which you can’t get here, and buy the biggest watermelon you can find – they cost around $20 each here, so I’ll forego the pleasure. Perhaps next year I will join you.