Just as Corfu was Odysseus’ last stop on his way home to Ithaca, so the Ionian island was my last stop on a two-month tour of Italy and Greece. I planned to relax on Corfu’s beaches for a few days before heading to France, the last leg of my trip.
I took an overnight ferry from Patras to Kerkyra Town, Corfu's capital on the eastern coast, and hiked to the tourist office in the town center to find a hotel room. Flying by the seat of my pants, I assumed I'd find lodging as easily as I had on my trip so far.
"Everything is booked," the tourist office told me, something I found hard to believe. I remembered hearing about nearby Dassia Beach from some travelers I had met on the ferry. Surely I'd find a place to stay there.
Although early in the day, it was already scorching. The bus to Dassia had no air conditioning and was packed with young travelers like myself, who rammed into me as they made their way to the exit. The uncomfortable seven-mile journey to Dassia proved unfruitful: every hostel and hotel was full.
I rode the bus back to the tourist office in Kerkyra, where the staff telephoned a few hotels without success. They then directed me to the Tourist Police, across town at the Old Port. En route, I saw a sign for rooms in a travel agency window, and hurried to enquire. In no time, the English-speaking clerk found me a room with a family near the main square. I was beyond relieved to find a place to stay, as I had begun to run out of ideas.
My host, a man in his early forties, met me at the agency and escorted me to his house, gallantly carrying one of my bags for me. His wife, tall and slender with short dark hair, served me watermelon and showed me my room. They didn't speak English and I didn't speak Greek so we exchanged the international language of smiles.
After my stressful morning, I wanted to spend the afternoon relaxing at Dassia Beach. When he heard me mention Dassia, my host unexpectedly offered to walk me to the bus stop, waiting until I boarded before he left. I felt so grateful: an hour earlier I was a traveler with no place to rest her head, and now I had hit the Corfu jackpot.
The beach at Dassia was refreshingly cool and the water so crystal clear that I saw schools of fish swimming below. My restful afternoon on the beach and my hosts’ kindness revived my spirits. I decided to stay in Corfu for a few more days.
That evening, I joined my hosts as they watched a television show in English with Greek subtitles about two nuns who had seen UFOs. My hostess showed me some of her crewel work and served me more watermelon. Some Greek guests arrived to spend the night, and one of them, a young woman named Sophia, spoke English rather well and became my interpreter. I learned from her that my female host's name was Nikolia.
Like clockwork, Nikolia's husband escorted me everyday to the bus for Dassia, waited until I boarded it, shook my hand, and returned home. On my second evening, I met my hosts' neighbor, Elena, who spoke some English. As we three sat at the kitchen table, Elena and Nikolia taught me some Greek words by pointing out things in the room. Nikolia served us watermelon, feta cheese, french fries, and crême caramel for dessert.
Nikolia sat with me the following morning as I ate breakfast. Elena was not there to interpret so we were both very quiet. Suddenly she rose from the table, walked to the cupboard, and pulled out plastic bowls of different sizes and colors.
"Tupperware," she said smiling.
She then launched into her sales pitch (in Greek!), demonstrating with great enthusiasm how to secure the lids tightly and seal in freshness. She was clearly Corfu's top Tupperware saleswoman. Seeing these common American household items so far away on a Greek island astonished me. I had no idea Tupperware existed outside the U.S.
Nikolia’s intention was not to sell me any storage items. Rather, she used the Tupperware as a way to connect with me and, endearingly, to overcome our language barrier. Despite my protests, Nikolia insisted I take some plastic tubs with me as a parting gift.
That evening Nikolia, her husband, and I watched Ella Fitzgerald perform live on Greek television. I'm sure they selected that show for me, because Ella was American. The following morning—my last there—Nikolia woke up early to make me breakfast since I had to catch the morning ferry to Italy. I could tell she wanted to know if I would return to Corfu next year. I wanted to say yes, but knew I could not return. So I gave her a hug, trying to hide my tears.
On the ferry to Italy, I gave some backpackers the Tupperware, thinking they needed it more than I did, and because my bags were jammed with books on Greek and Italian art. Although later I regretted giving away Nikolia's Tupperware presents, the thought that they went to other travelers consoles me.
When I returned home, I sent Nikolia and her husband a set of floral printed sheets, which reminded me of the flowers and cypress trees on the island. I received a thank you letter from Nikolia in English, written by a friend.
As a child, I was captivated by the epic tales of adventure, love, and war in Greek mythology—so much that for awhile, I chose reading them over playing kickball at recess. The Greek gods and goddesses in those beloved stories must have remembered that enthralled girl when they watched over the grown woman who sailed alone to their shores in search of adventure. As they had done in ancient times, these deities helped another traveler overcome obstacles on her long odyssey home.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
TORRE DEL LAGO, ITALY; IL MAESTRO'S VILLA
Like a medieval knight making a pilgrimage to the Holy Land in search of the Holy Grail, I set off to Italy, the birthplace of opera, to visit composer Giacomo Puccini's Villa at Torre del Lago, situated west of Lucca between Lago di Massaciuccoli and the Mediterranean. Within the Tuscan villa's walls, Puccini wrote most of his operas between 1891 and 1921. My quest was to walk through the rooms where he worked.
My passion for opera began when, after returning to San Francisco from teaching English in Milan, I began taking opera lessons. I scoured the library's tapes for material, and fell in love with Puccini’s Manon Lescaut.
Lescaut scorched my soul in a way no other opera had done before. I played sections of the piece over and over. In my fourth year of study, I made my pilgrimage to Italy to visit Puccini’s villa.
Taking a day trip from Lucca, I hopped on a train for the ten-mile ride to the coastal town of Viareggio, where I boarded a bus that took me directly to the villa. The Villa was a modest, two-story house painted in light yellow and gray, fifty yards from the lake. A large palm tree shaded the building, and at the end of the walkway on the left side of the house I found the entrance.
A tall, slender, gray-haired man wearing a red San Francisco 49ers sweatshirt met and escorted visitors into the house. His father had been the villa's caretaker when Puccini was alive.
Our guide escorted us through the small rooms, pointing to various photographs and objects and entertaining us with stories about the composer.
Tre cose piacciono a Puccini: la musica, la caccia, e le donne, he told us. Puccini liked three things: music, hunting, and women.
I glided through the shrine, my feet barely making contact with the floor. The other visitors, only remotely interested in the villa, moved quickly through the small rooms, whereas I wanted to savor each room slowly. As we were not allowed to take photos, I commanded my eyes to memorize everything I saw in the composer's refuge.
In one room, I recognized a photo of the composer as a young man, with his thick dark wavy hair and mustache, that I had often seen in the Caffe Puccini in North Beach in San Francisco. Standing by the maestro's black upright piano, I touched it reverently when the guide wasn't looking, hoping to feel Puccini's spirit.
As the tour came to an end, I worried I wouldn't remember anything of my beloved composer's villa. There simply wasn't enough space or sufficient time to absorb it all.
The other guests scampered out of the villa, thanked the tour guide, and walked quickly to their cars. I lingered behind, reveling in every last moment. I didn't want to leave the villa, not yet. I wasn't finished. I needed more time with the maestro. At the exit I struck up a conversation with the guide.
"There were so many people on the tour I didn't get to see everything. I'm studying opera and love Puccini's music. I came all the way from San Francisco to see the villa. Would it be possible to take the tour again? I will pay to see it once more," I pleaded in Italian. He obliged me and took me back into the house.
"You take however much time you need," he graciously offered, smiling.
As I walked with the guide through the villa again, I relished being the only tourist in the house. I had Puccini all to myself.
The composer's studio looked the way it did the day the maestro died. To the left of the piano facing the window was an elegantly carved wooden table. On it were writing instruments, ink and paper, and an electric brass table lamp that once illuminated the workspace. To the left and right of the piano were white candles. I imagined Puccini composing at night, lost in musical reverie, turning to the table to record the melodies his fingers carved out while embers from the large fireplace warmed the room.
Near the studio, Puccini's son Antonio built a mausoleum of Carrara marble, the same stone Michelangelo used to carve his David and Pietà. Originally buried in Milan, Puccini's remains were transported in 1928 to Torre del Lago, the place he loved the most, four years after his death. Standing beside the black marble sarcophagus, I thanked him for writing such thrilling music.
My eyes photographed all I saw the second time: the blue and red painted shutters, the gold and red art deco wallpaper, the summer sun streaming through the window by the maestro's piano, his hunting gear on the walls, his death mask, and the autographed pictures of other music titans of his era.
While exiting, I thanked the guide for allowing me to walk through the villa again and offered to pay for the second tour. Noting my sincerity and great respect for the composer, he wouldn't accept it. His reward was seeing the adoration of the young opera student from San Francisco who was innamorato di, in love with, Puccini. I think he liked the idea that, even from his grave, Puccini still made a lady's heart flutter.
My passion for opera began when, after returning to San Francisco from teaching English in Milan, I began taking opera lessons. I scoured the library's tapes for material, and fell in love with Puccini’s Manon Lescaut.
Lescaut scorched my soul in a way no other opera had done before. I played sections of the piece over and over. In my fourth year of study, I made my pilgrimage to Italy to visit Puccini’s villa.
Taking a day trip from Lucca, I hopped on a train for the ten-mile ride to the coastal town of Viareggio, where I boarded a bus that took me directly to the villa. The Villa was a modest, two-story house painted in light yellow and gray, fifty yards from the lake. A large palm tree shaded the building, and at the end of the walkway on the left side of the house I found the entrance.
A tall, slender, gray-haired man wearing a red San Francisco 49ers sweatshirt met and escorted visitors into the house. His father had been the villa's caretaker when Puccini was alive.
Our guide escorted us through the small rooms, pointing to various photographs and objects and entertaining us with stories about the composer.
Tre cose piacciono a Puccini: la musica, la caccia, e le donne, he told us. Puccini liked three things: music, hunting, and women.
I glided through the shrine, my feet barely making contact with the floor. The other visitors, only remotely interested in the villa, moved quickly through the small rooms, whereas I wanted to savor each room slowly. As we were not allowed to take photos, I commanded my eyes to memorize everything I saw in the composer's refuge.
In one room, I recognized a photo of the composer as a young man, with his thick dark wavy hair and mustache, that I had often seen in the Caffe Puccini in North Beach in San Francisco. Standing by the maestro's black upright piano, I touched it reverently when the guide wasn't looking, hoping to feel Puccini's spirit.
As the tour came to an end, I worried I wouldn't remember anything of my beloved composer's villa. There simply wasn't enough space or sufficient time to absorb it all.
The other guests scampered out of the villa, thanked the tour guide, and walked quickly to their cars. I lingered behind, reveling in every last moment. I didn't want to leave the villa, not yet. I wasn't finished. I needed more time with the maestro. At the exit I struck up a conversation with the guide.
"There were so many people on the tour I didn't get to see everything. I'm studying opera and love Puccini's music. I came all the way from San Francisco to see the villa. Would it be possible to take the tour again? I will pay to see it once more," I pleaded in Italian. He obliged me and took me back into the house.
"You take however much time you need," he graciously offered, smiling.
As I walked with the guide through the villa again, I relished being the only tourist in the house. I had Puccini all to myself.
The composer's studio looked the way it did the day the maestro died. To the left of the piano facing the window was an elegantly carved wooden table. On it were writing instruments, ink and paper, and an electric brass table lamp that once illuminated the workspace. To the left and right of the piano were white candles. I imagined Puccini composing at night, lost in musical reverie, turning to the table to record the melodies his fingers carved out while embers from the large fireplace warmed the room.
Near the studio, Puccini's son Antonio built a mausoleum of Carrara marble, the same stone Michelangelo used to carve his David and Pietà. Originally buried in Milan, Puccini's remains were transported in 1928 to Torre del Lago, the place he loved the most, four years after his death. Standing beside the black marble sarcophagus, I thanked him for writing such thrilling music.
My eyes photographed all I saw the second time: the blue and red painted shutters, the gold and red art deco wallpaper, the summer sun streaming through the window by the maestro's piano, his hunting gear on the walls, his death mask, and the autographed pictures of other music titans of his era.
While exiting, I thanked the guide for allowing me to walk through the villa again and offered to pay for the second tour. Noting my sincerity and great respect for the composer, he wouldn't accept it. His reward was seeing the adoration of the young opera student from San Francisco who was innamorato di, in love with, Puccini. I think he liked the idea that, even from his grave, Puccini still made a lady's heart flutter.
GRANADA, SPAIN: THE SULTAN'S TEA
An unexpected, late-September afternoon rain bombarded Granada, interrupting my walk in the Albayzín, the old Muslim quarter of the former capital of the Moorish Empire. I found sanctuary from the downpour in an Arab teahouse, or tetería, until the rain subsided.
Golden-velvet light, swirling Middle Eastern music, and incense immediately soothed me as I entered, hushing the noisy, modern world outside. Patrons conversed quietly within the teahouse's pomegranate-painted walls. I found the last unoccupied table in a dark corner on the lower level.
I realized how weary my tourist body was the moment I sat down. I had spent most of the day exploring every magnificent inch of the Alhambra and Generalife gardens. Moorish sculpture, mosaics, columns, arches, and Arabic inscriptions had entertained me for hours as I maintained a marathon pace, fulfilling my dream to walk the palace and its grounds.
The young, dark-haired waitress handed me a menu with a tantalizing selection of teas and sweets. Orange, jasmine, cinnamon, cardamom, and bergamot teas—along with some delightfully mysterious infusions—tempted me. One particular blend of eight different teas called out to me. Like a cowboy ordering a double shot of whiskey at a saloon after a long day riding, I chose that tea.
The hostess returned shortly and gracefully placed a small, silver teapot with ornate geometric designs on the knee-high table. I opened the lid reverently, inhaled the teapot’s contents, and closed my eyes. The aroma instantly enticed me.
I poured the infusion into a small, gold-trimmed glass etched with white floral designs, and lifted it to my lips. The magical, milky liquid coursed down my throat and through my body, gently sedating me with its calming waves. Surely this was the beverage that revived and quenched the thirst of the sultans so many centuries ago.
As it took away my chill and fatigue, the warm brew—combined with the calming music, floating incense, and tranquility of the teahouse—connected me to the Moorish culture. I felt the power of the empire, the heart of its people, their reverence for beauty.
Earlier in the day I had experienced the majesty of the Alhambra and the loveliness of its lush gardens from a visual, exterior perspective. The tea enabled me to experience the culture from within.
I ordered another pot, not wanting the moment to end. A type of communion occurred that afternoon: the Moors and I became as one.
At dinner that evening, my thoughts meandered back to the Arab teahouse. As I drifted off to sleep around midnight, in my hotel below the illuminated Alhambra, I vowed to return to that Arab teahouse the next morning to indulge myself one last time before I returned to Madrid.
To my disappointment, the teahouse was closed. No sign on the door listed its business hours or even its name. I wandered through the narrow streets of the Albayzin, dejected as though I had lost a lover.
My spirits brightened when I found a tea shop just as it was opening its doors for business. Certainly I would be able to find the enchanted tea there.
The proprietor, wearing a turban and dressed in a long, snowy white robe, stood by the shop's door, beckoning me as though he knew what I sought. A young woman in a billowy dress stood behind the counter of the small, modestly stocked store. Near the window, I found a small selection of cellophane-wrapped teas, one of which was labeled Sueños de Alhambra: Dreams of Alhambra. I held it to my nose. Confident it was the tea I had savored the day before, I purchased it.
When I returned to San Francisco the following week, I immediately brewed the tea, hoping to reconnect with the Moors as I had thousands of miles away at the teahouse in Granada. Yet although the tea was delicious, it did not produce the magical effect I expected. I realized then that only in Granada, below the Alhambra, does the tea releases its powers.
Now and again, I open my jar of tea, inhale the contents, and remember when, for a brief moment, my soul merged with the ancient Moorish world. I am forever indebted to the rain that day in Granada for changing my path—and to my own stubbornness in refusing to pack an umbrella.
Golden-velvet light, swirling Middle Eastern music, and incense immediately soothed me as I entered, hushing the noisy, modern world outside. Patrons conversed quietly within the teahouse's pomegranate-painted walls. I found the last unoccupied table in a dark corner on the lower level.
I realized how weary my tourist body was the moment I sat down. I had spent most of the day exploring every magnificent inch of the Alhambra and Generalife gardens. Moorish sculpture, mosaics, columns, arches, and Arabic inscriptions had entertained me for hours as I maintained a marathon pace, fulfilling my dream to walk the palace and its grounds.
The young, dark-haired waitress handed me a menu with a tantalizing selection of teas and sweets. Orange, jasmine, cinnamon, cardamom, and bergamot teas—along with some delightfully mysterious infusions—tempted me. One particular blend of eight different teas called out to me. Like a cowboy ordering a double shot of whiskey at a saloon after a long day riding, I chose that tea.
The hostess returned shortly and gracefully placed a small, silver teapot with ornate geometric designs on the knee-high table. I opened the lid reverently, inhaled the teapot’s contents, and closed my eyes. The aroma instantly enticed me.
I poured the infusion into a small, gold-trimmed glass etched with white floral designs, and lifted it to my lips. The magical, milky liquid coursed down my throat and through my body, gently sedating me with its calming waves. Surely this was the beverage that revived and quenched the thirst of the sultans so many centuries ago.
As it took away my chill and fatigue, the warm brew—combined with the calming music, floating incense, and tranquility of the teahouse—connected me to the Moorish culture. I felt the power of the empire, the heart of its people, their reverence for beauty.
Earlier in the day I had experienced the majesty of the Alhambra and the loveliness of its lush gardens from a visual, exterior perspective. The tea enabled me to experience the culture from within.
I ordered another pot, not wanting the moment to end. A type of communion occurred that afternoon: the Moors and I became as one.
At dinner that evening, my thoughts meandered back to the Arab teahouse. As I drifted off to sleep around midnight, in my hotel below the illuminated Alhambra, I vowed to return to that Arab teahouse the next morning to indulge myself one last time before I returned to Madrid.
To my disappointment, the teahouse was closed. No sign on the door listed its business hours or even its name. I wandered through the narrow streets of the Albayzin, dejected as though I had lost a lover.
My spirits brightened when I found a tea shop just as it was opening its doors for business. Certainly I would be able to find the enchanted tea there.
The proprietor, wearing a turban and dressed in a long, snowy white robe, stood by the shop's door, beckoning me as though he knew what I sought. A young woman in a billowy dress stood behind the counter of the small, modestly stocked store. Near the window, I found a small selection of cellophane-wrapped teas, one of which was labeled Sueños de Alhambra: Dreams of Alhambra. I held it to my nose. Confident it was the tea I had savored the day before, I purchased it.
When I returned to San Francisco the following week, I immediately brewed the tea, hoping to reconnect with the Moors as I had thousands of miles away at the teahouse in Granada. Yet although the tea was delicious, it did not produce the magical effect I expected. I realized then that only in Granada, below the Alhambra, does the tea releases its powers.
Now and again, I open my jar of tea, inhale the contents, and remember when, for a brief moment, my soul merged with the ancient Moorish world. I am forever indebted to the rain that day in Granada for changing my path—and to my own stubbornness in refusing to pack an umbrella.
Sunday, July 1, 2007
BELFAST, NORTHERN IRELAND: CROCUS STREET
As the bus pulled out of Belfast’s Europa Bus Terminal just before noon, I looked west to the Falls Road and Shankill Road areas and cried.
Get a hold of yourself, I told myself. I didn’t want the two women sitting nearby see me crying so I quickly fished a tissue out of my bag, dabbed my eyes and cheeks and composed myself.
The tears that came as I left Northern Ireland’s capital surprised me. My visit was enjoyable, in fact better than expected, however the highly anticipated destination of my three-week journey was visiting the Ulster American Folk Park in Omagh, County Tyrone. Clearly, something important had happened during my visit to Belfast, something that hadn’t surfaced until I was on the bus to Omagh.
The only reason I went to Belfast in the first place was because it was the most convenient and inexpensive way to get to Northern Ireland from Ayrshire, Scotland, by train and ferry. My desire to see the land where my Protestant Scots-Irish ancestors had lived and trace their migration from Scotland to Northern Ireland had brought me to the British Isles.
The unusual oppressive heat that July made traveling difficult, slowing my pace significantly. After riding the rails through the Scottish highlands, mesmerized by its haunting moors, I had nearly scrapped visiting Northern Ireland entirely my final week to explore more of bonnie northern Scotland where it would be cooler. But my desire to see Ayrshire in southwest Scotland, where many Scots-Irish had lived before sailing across the North Channel to Northern Ireland, was very strong. In addition, knowing that I may never have the time or money again to travel there, I continued with my original itinerary, riding the train to the end of the line in Stranaer, where I boarded the ferry to Belfast.
Before I ever set foot in Belfast it intimidated me for it was ground zero during the Troubles. As a teenager I often saw on the evening news bombed out cars and buildings, tanks, soldiers carrying guns, wounded lying in the streets, and angry, crying people. It wasn’t until I read a book on the history of the Scots Irish that I full understood the reasons for the conflict between the Catholics and Protestants. Even though the violence between the two sides diminished with the Good Friday agreement and they were working on a peace accord, those images of the civil war in Northern Ireland still haunted me. I had hoped to pass through Belfast on that trip and not stay there at all. But by the time the ferry docked, I was too exhausted by the long journey from Edinburgh and the sweltering heat to continue any further.
The friendly, efficient Belfast Welcome Centre staff found me an affordable bed and breakfast on Crocus Street in the Falls Road area. I was so weary from the heat and the voyage, I completely forgot that many confrontations took place in that part of Belfast, the IRA base. I didn’t even notice the Sinn Fein headquarters from the bus. I also missed my stop, but fortunately a nurse I asked for directions, Ms. Gillespie, graciously escorted me to Springfield Road, the road that would take me to Crocus Street. We wound up talking on Falls Road for half an hour.
Paddy, the bed and breakfast host, instantly made me feel at home, giving me free reign of the living and dining rooms and leaving a bowl of chocolate out so I could indulge while watching CNN. I learned from him that I was staying in Catholic Belfast. How ironic, I thought, that I wound up staying in a place I wanted to avoid. But I was too tired to go elsewhere, and the kindness and hospitality I experienced those first hours in Belfast mystically began to melt away all apprehensions. The sound of children playing in the adjacent backyard below my room seemed to be a good sign too, warming my spirits. As I drifted off to sleep, I knew I would be fine. Belfast and I had become fast friends.
The next morning as I sipped tea and the sun streamed through the large living room windows, Paddy sang in the kitchen while cooking my breakfast. Feeling revived, comfortable and no longer afraid of Belfast, I decided to explore the city by taking the red double-decker tour bus.
I saw a tranquil Belfast that day, in fact, a vibrant and interesting place. I stayed on the bus to go around the city again, and as I approached Shankill Road, the heart of Protestant Belfast, confidence spurred me to take a closer look so I hopped off. I wandered around, viewing murals painted on the sides of buildings memorializing those who had died during the Troubles. One depicted five men, members of the Ulster Volunteer Force, their black, gray and white portraits painted on sky blue, their names below in red.
Later I hopped off the tour bus at Falls Road to visit the memorial garden. In the back past the flowerbeds was a large, black granite monument. On the left side, carved in white, was a woman, her eyes closed, holding a dead man in her arms. Celtic animals and designs in gold interwove, crowning them. In the center, also elegantly inscribed in gold, were the names of the Irish Republican Army and Sinn Fein members who died.
The following morning during breakfast I asked Paddy if he had known any of the people whose names were inscribed in the memorial garden on Falls Road. His face became somber. It turned out that he had known one of them as a child, and that a British soldier had shot and killed him across the street. Hearing that a man died just outside the front door of the bed and breakfast where I was eating my eggs and toast stunned and silenced me. But I didn’t have time to thoroughly digest the tale for I had to pack my bags and catch the bus to Omagh. I quickly filed Paddy’s story away.
What stirred something within me and triggered those tears as I rode the bus out of Belfast later that morning was the sight of her once war torn neighborhoods and Paddy’s story about the boy he once knew who died across the street. At that moment, my mind had processed all I had experienced in Belfast. A wave of grief rolled over me. I felt Belfast’s sorrow, all of Northern Ireland’s pain. Those tears I wept were for the Catholics and Protestants whose names I had seen on the walls and monuments who perished during the Troubles, men and women of my generation. They were tears I should have cried all those years ago when I watched the news but didn’t. Tears that should have appeared the day before when I saw the memorial murals on Shankill Road and the memorial garden on Falls Road, Belfast’s scars, but didn’t.
For the first time in my world travels, I had walked on the battlefield of a war which took place in my lifetime, fought by distant kin in neighborhoods that in small ways looked similar to my own. Paddy’s story and the memorials to the fallen connected me to the depth and magnitude of Northern Ireland’s civil war in a way no news report, book or film could ever have done.
All those I met in Belfast those two days—Paddy, Ms. Gillespie, the tour guide, pharmacy clerk, taxi and bus drivers, fish and chips lady, and tourist staff—they were the survivors of that horrific conflict. What incredible strength they have within to carry on.
Additionally, until I visited Belfast I never knew the gratitude of its people to my country for assisting in the peace process. Paddy told me, “If it weren’t for your President Clinton, there’d be no peace in Northern Ireland.” The tour guide said that the suite at the Hilton Hotel where the former president stayed while he helped the two enemies negotiate peace was named “The Clinton Suite”. Hearing that my country helped stop the bloodshed in Northern Ireland fills me with pride, as I rarely hear anything positive about my country’s actions these days.
No longer are Northern Ireland’s Troubles an event that occurred thousands of miles away or black and white images flickering on a small screen. Now when I meet people from Northern Ireland, I feel more compassion. I also eagerly follow the news regarding the Irish and British governments as they work to implement the St. Andrews agreement, encouraging them to find ways for all in Northern Ireland to live together in peace. The only fear I have now is what role my ancestors might have played in Northern Ireland’s turbulent history.
There is no doubt in my mind now as I look back on my visit that it was my destiny to spend time in Belfast and stay on Crocus Street. At the beginning of the street stands Jimmy's TV Repair Shop, and around the corner on Springfield Road a few steps away stands Collins Family Butcher Shop. I smiled when I first saw them as Collins is my father’s name and Jimmy my uncle’s. Their ancestors were Scots-Irish, settling in North Carolina, Mississippi,Tennessee and Kentucky. As I said my goodbyes to Paddy, I pointed out to the shops and said, “My father and uncle must have brought me to Crocus Street.”
Not only did the King brothers steer my path to that Falls Road street in Belfast, they guided and watched over me throughout my stay there so that I'd feel the gravity of the violence that took place in those streets, just as those living there were shaken to their core. And that I, the first in the my branch to return to Ireland, would grieve for all the lives that were extinguished during that horrific civil war that slammed Northern Ireland, our homeland.
Get a hold of yourself, I told myself. I didn’t want the two women sitting nearby see me crying so I quickly fished a tissue out of my bag, dabbed my eyes and cheeks and composed myself.
The tears that came as I left Northern Ireland’s capital surprised me. My visit was enjoyable, in fact better than expected, however the highly anticipated destination of my three-week journey was visiting the Ulster American Folk Park in Omagh, County Tyrone. Clearly, something important had happened during my visit to Belfast, something that hadn’t surfaced until I was on the bus to Omagh.
The only reason I went to Belfast in the first place was because it was the most convenient and inexpensive way to get to Northern Ireland from Ayrshire, Scotland, by train and ferry. My desire to see the land where my Protestant Scots-Irish ancestors had lived and trace their migration from Scotland to Northern Ireland had brought me to the British Isles.
The unusual oppressive heat that July made traveling difficult, slowing my pace significantly. After riding the rails through the Scottish highlands, mesmerized by its haunting moors, I had nearly scrapped visiting Northern Ireland entirely my final week to explore more of bonnie northern Scotland where it would be cooler. But my desire to see Ayrshire in southwest Scotland, where many Scots-Irish had lived before sailing across the North Channel to Northern Ireland, was very strong. In addition, knowing that I may never have the time or money again to travel there, I continued with my original itinerary, riding the train to the end of the line in Stranaer, where I boarded the ferry to Belfast.
Before I ever set foot in Belfast it intimidated me for it was ground zero during the Troubles. As a teenager I often saw on the evening news bombed out cars and buildings, tanks, soldiers carrying guns, wounded lying in the streets, and angry, crying people. It wasn’t until I read a book on the history of the Scots Irish that I full understood the reasons for the conflict between the Catholics and Protestants. Even though the violence between the two sides diminished with the Good Friday agreement and they were working on a peace accord, those images of the civil war in Northern Ireland still haunted me. I had hoped to pass through Belfast on that trip and not stay there at all. But by the time the ferry docked, I was too exhausted by the long journey from Edinburgh and the sweltering heat to continue any further.
The friendly, efficient Belfast Welcome Centre staff found me an affordable bed and breakfast on Crocus Street in the Falls Road area. I was so weary from the heat and the voyage, I completely forgot that many confrontations took place in that part of Belfast, the IRA base. I didn’t even notice the Sinn Fein headquarters from the bus. I also missed my stop, but fortunately a nurse I asked for directions, Ms. Gillespie, graciously escorted me to Springfield Road, the road that would take me to Crocus Street. We wound up talking on Falls Road for half an hour.
Paddy, the bed and breakfast host, instantly made me feel at home, giving me free reign of the living and dining rooms and leaving a bowl of chocolate out so I could indulge while watching CNN. I learned from him that I was staying in Catholic Belfast. How ironic, I thought, that I wound up staying in a place I wanted to avoid. But I was too tired to go elsewhere, and the kindness and hospitality I experienced those first hours in Belfast mystically began to melt away all apprehensions. The sound of children playing in the adjacent backyard below my room seemed to be a good sign too, warming my spirits. As I drifted off to sleep, I knew I would be fine. Belfast and I had become fast friends.
The next morning as I sipped tea and the sun streamed through the large living room windows, Paddy sang in the kitchen while cooking my breakfast. Feeling revived, comfortable and no longer afraid of Belfast, I decided to explore the city by taking the red double-decker tour bus.
I saw a tranquil Belfast that day, in fact, a vibrant and interesting place. I stayed on the bus to go around the city again, and as I approached Shankill Road, the heart of Protestant Belfast, confidence spurred me to take a closer look so I hopped off. I wandered around, viewing murals painted on the sides of buildings memorializing those who had died during the Troubles. One depicted five men, members of the Ulster Volunteer Force, their black, gray and white portraits painted on sky blue, their names below in red.
Later I hopped off the tour bus at Falls Road to visit the memorial garden. In the back past the flowerbeds was a large, black granite monument. On the left side, carved in white, was a woman, her eyes closed, holding a dead man in her arms. Celtic animals and designs in gold interwove, crowning them. In the center, also elegantly inscribed in gold, were the names of the Irish Republican Army and Sinn Fein members who died.
The following morning during breakfast I asked Paddy if he had known any of the people whose names were inscribed in the memorial garden on Falls Road. His face became somber. It turned out that he had known one of them as a child, and that a British soldier had shot and killed him across the street. Hearing that a man died just outside the front door of the bed and breakfast where I was eating my eggs and toast stunned and silenced me. But I didn’t have time to thoroughly digest the tale for I had to pack my bags and catch the bus to Omagh. I quickly filed Paddy’s story away.
What stirred something within me and triggered those tears as I rode the bus out of Belfast later that morning was the sight of her once war torn neighborhoods and Paddy’s story about the boy he once knew who died across the street. At that moment, my mind had processed all I had experienced in Belfast. A wave of grief rolled over me. I felt Belfast’s sorrow, all of Northern Ireland’s pain. Those tears I wept were for the Catholics and Protestants whose names I had seen on the walls and monuments who perished during the Troubles, men and women of my generation. They were tears I should have cried all those years ago when I watched the news but didn’t. Tears that should have appeared the day before when I saw the memorial murals on Shankill Road and the memorial garden on Falls Road, Belfast’s scars, but didn’t.
For the first time in my world travels, I had walked on the battlefield of a war which took place in my lifetime, fought by distant kin in neighborhoods that in small ways looked similar to my own. Paddy’s story and the memorials to the fallen connected me to the depth and magnitude of Northern Ireland’s civil war in a way no news report, book or film could ever have done.
All those I met in Belfast those two days—Paddy, Ms. Gillespie, the tour guide, pharmacy clerk, taxi and bus drivers, fish and chips lady, and tourist staff—they were the survivors of that horrific conflict. What incredible strength they have within to carry on.
Additionally, until I visited Belfast I never knew the gratitude of its people to my country for assisting in the peace process. Paddy told me, “If it weren’t for your President Clinton, there’d be no peace in Northern Ireland.” The tour guide said that the suite at the Hilton Hotel where the former president stayed while he helped the two enemies negotiate peace was named “The Clinton Suite”. Hearing that my country helped stop the bloodshed in Northern Ireland fills me with pride, as I rarely hear anything positive about my country’s actions these days.
No longer are Northern Ireland’s Troubles an event that occurred thousands of miles away or black and white images flickering on a small screen. Now when I meet people from Northern Ireland, I feel more compassion. I also eagerly follow the news regarding the Irish and British governments as they work to implement the St. Andrews agreement, encouraging them to find ways for all in Northern Ireland to live together in peace. The only fear I have now is what role my ancestors might have played in Northern Ireland’s turbulent history.
There is no doubt in my mind now as I look back on my visit that it was my destiny to spend time in Belfast and stay on Crocus Street. At the beginning of the street stands Jimmy's TV Repair Shop, and around the corner on Springfield Road a few steps away stands Collins Family Butcher Shop. I smiled when I first saw them as Collins is my father’s name and Jimmy my uncle’s. Their ancestors were Scots-Irish, settling in North Carolina, Mississippi,Tennessee and Kentucky. As I said my goodbyes to Paddy, I pointed out to the shops and said, “My father and uncle must have brought me to Crocus Street.”
Not only did the King brothers steer my path to that Falls Road street in Belfast, they guided and watched over me throughout my stay there so that I'd feel the gravity of the violence that took place in those streets, just as those living there were shaken to their core. And that I, the first in the my branch to return to Ireland, would grieve for all the lives that were extinguished during that horrific civil war that slammed Northern Ireland, our homeland.
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