THE EMERALD ISLE

by JOSH HARRINGTON

Vacationing in June makes for such a wonderful time during the year: it’s still early enough in the summer that it isn’t blistering hot, the kids aren’t far removed from school-mode, and our favorite destinations are hitting their stride for accommodating waves of tourists. Living in the real world with a full-time job combined with the uncertainty of this year’s travelling season, I find myself pining for the days of annual June vacations. I blame one particular June escapade as the reason why.

As much as people hate being labeled a “tourist,” I’ve always been one to embrace the term. My 8th-Grade English teacher, Sherry Edens, provided my family and me with just the opportunity to wear that badge of honor once again in June of 2014. She coordinated through the school an EF (Education First) organized guided tour to Ireland on a feature trip that they still offer called “The Emerald Isle.” For this excursion, EF flies its customers to the east coast of the island, and you breathe in the salty Irish Sea air as you embark from Dublin to the Ring of Kerry in the southwest corner, before returning to Dublin. This itinerary takes place all in a matter of nine days. As an American, at first, it sounded like a gruelling, Rat Race-style, cannonball run, but, to be quite honest, nine days were more than ample for our tour group to cover the 400 miles, round trip. For reference, Bristow is about 400 miles to St. Louis one way, which is a drive that can be easily made within the span of a day.

My preparation for the trip began with signing up, of course, which was a breeze. My parents were eager to sign up as quickly as possible for this trip of a lifetime; our group was organized nearly a year before, and it was a small group at that. My friends Connor Corwin and Grant Mahaney were among those who came on the trip, which made for a more entertaining experience in gathering their rather peculiar insights. From the get go, the pair were most excited to see the architectural differences between American golf courses and the courses found in Ireland, the latter of which is a mere ferry ride from the

“Home of Golf” at St. Andrews Links in Fife County of Scotland. Golfers.

The next item on my agenda was procuring my passport, and I regret not getting a haircut before accomplishing that task. I look forward to the passport’s expiration so I can finally renew it and travel to a different country without the customs agent assuming I was going for the all-too flattering Ringo Starr cut circa 1964. After that, I got my wardrobe ready, which felt odd as I packed my jeans and sweatshirts in preparation for the cooler weather.

Despite all of my preparation and excitement, my enthusiasm paled in comparison to my parents’. My mother and father were absolutely ecstatic as they had recently begun a genealogy kick and, lo’ and behold, we had some Irish roots.

By the time May rolled around, my brother and my sister both got married within mere weeks of each other, which made for a nice little weight gain to burn off in walking tours. The only thing that stood between my family and the Emerald Isle was an hour flight from Tulsa to Chicago and an eight-hour flight to Dublin.

After a rather short flight to O’Hare International Airport, we met up with the other half of our tour group to enjoy our one and a half hour layover in Chicago. While in the food court, my father and I tried Chicago-style pizza for the first time, which definitely is made better at Savastano’s in Tulsa with all due respect to the Windy City for having devised the concoction. We passed through the gate, and much

to my chagrin, I learned my parents lucked out and got the area adjacent to first class on our international flight, which basically meant they got all the first class amenities at a coach price. I sat with the peons in coach, and we watched the Silver Linings Playbook, which was very enthralling given my crush on the lead actress, Jennifer Lawrence. It was a sort of red eye, but with the time change, we landed at around 10 in the morning in Dublin.

I thought it was just an expression, but, seriously, the whole place is green, I noticed as I gazed out the airplane window. The moment I stepped off the plane, the Dublin International Airport was surreal: I came off the jet bridge and was on foreign soil for the first time. I clutched onto the straps of my carryon backpack a little tighter, and the magnitude of this occasion began to truly manifest to me. I glanced at my friends to see if they had the same gaze of bewilderment, but the only awe I saw in their eyes was their admiration of the large Rory McIlroy mural on the wall across from our gate. Golfers.

We exited the airport terminal, got our stamps at customs, and headed to the baggage claim where we met up with our tour guide, Cathal (pronounced Cawhull, the Irish version of the name Charles). Despite our guide’s insistence on his name’s pronunciation, my Okie father insisted on calling the man “Carl,” which he would eventually answer to on my father’s prompts. It was June 10th, so it was Grant’s birthday, which we celebrated an hour later at a pub with fish and chips.

I’m going to take a brief aside here, and this isn’t a dig at the people who live in Ireland: if you plan to make this trip, either carry an extra carryon full of your favorite condiments and treats, or just plan on dying a little on the inside. As much fun as I had on this trip, I was appalled by all of their gourmet except the shepherd’s pie. At the pub where we celebrated Grant’s birthday, I ordered fish and chips, expecting a deliciously greasy mess of cod and french fries The moment I stepped off the plane, the Dublin International Airport was surreal: I came off the jet bridge and was on foreign soil for the first time. I clutched onto the straps of my carryon backpack a little tighter, and the magnitude of this occasion began to truly manifest to me. “

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n with ketchup and malt vinegar. Needless to say, they either don’t understand the complex nature of deepfrying and adding corn syrup to ketchup, or they love shooting down the hopes and dreams of American tourists.

From our stay in Dublin, we learned the Celtic, Viking, and British history of Ireland’s largest and capital city, and we visited the Trinity College and St. Patrick’s Cathedral (which is an Anglican Church, a fact that dealt a grievous blow to my Irish-Catholic pride). We then journeyed to Galway, where I was introduced to hurling, the Celtic ball and stick sport dubbed “the fastest sport in the world,” and Gaelic football. From Galway, we made our way around the Ring of Kerry, and visited the Cliffs of Moher via a rocky boat ride. It was so rocky that many in our tour group were too queasy to embark out onto the deck to take in the splendor and Atlantic air, particularly, my mother, who clutched onto her sick sack like a purse. We stayed in a garment factory renovated into a grand hotel which sported a large green where we played soccer with some of the locals. While in the Ring of Kerry, we also visited a small town called Waterville, where Charlie Chaplin would stay on holiday. The next day, we visited Blarney Castle and we all kissed the Blarney Stone, which I thought and still think is pretty unsanitary and not for the faint of heart, as you kiss the stone nearly 100 feet above the ground while being held by an elderly man. In fact, we visited and passed probably a hundred castles, of all different ages and shapes and styles. Toward the end of our trip, we even stayed in one such castle, which reminded me more of Hogwarts from the Harry Potter series in that it was harrowing to navigate.

On the next to last day, Cathal took us to the National Horse Farm in Kildare. I am terrified of horses, so I was sweating bullets the entire time.

My nervousness was subdued by humor as this visit garnered my father, Tommy, the nickname “Tommy the Teaser,” after the teaser stallion who resided at the farm. After nine days, our journey had come to an end. The next day we landed in Chicago, and I had the best cheeseburger I’d ever tasted, drenched in ketchup.

There are so many stories from this trip that I can’t even begin to chronicle in this article. For everyday, there was a brand new experience and beautiful sights to take in, and rest assured, Connor and Grant got more than their fill of golf courses. I saw more than I’d ever imagined, and I’m blessed to have my mother who loves and to have had my father who loved me enough to take me on an adventure of that scale at only fourteen years old. I encourage everyone to make one such trip. I encourage everyone to visit the home of your ancestors as you may just walk in their exact footsteps.

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