The Emerald Isle

I'm at the airport (again). Again.

It's 3am and I'm waiting for security to open so that I can get felt up and find my departure gate. I would be grumpier about sitting here except that I've been awake at 3am each day since I left home, and am looking forward to the time warp that exist on my next couple of international flights. Glorious sleep awaits (albeit in short bursts interrupted by the window or middle seat passenger disturbing me so they can climb out to pee).

I've now been to Ireland. Technically. My two and a half days were spent in a jet-lagged haze, but I did get to see some scenery on the 40 min drive from the airport. Headquarters is in a smallish town called Dun Laoghaire, which is apparently host to a number of notable Irish including Bono and Sinead O'Conner. I was told that Sinead could often be seen having coffee down the street. I didn't bump into her. I was too busy shaking hands with people I really need to remember but have already forgotten (I think we need to invest in a photo directory), getting overloaded with information that is now available for my reading pleasure on memory stick, and smiling nicely while donning a logo t-shirt for my personnel file. Oh, and I had security training, which was boring and obvious until the kidnapping section - that included What To Expect If You Are Kidnapped - which was a little unnerving. At least if something happens, I get kidnapped and they go off-script, I can tell them "you're doing it wrong".

As a white Canadian, when asked where I'm from, I get to say Canada (as apposed to any Canadians who look 'ethnic' who usually get asked, "ya, but where are you REALLY from?"). If asked "what is your heritage" (not that many people do, nay for a few primary school projects), I would say Irish. This is on the basis that my Grandfather was proud of our Irish heritage, my family sends St. Patrick's day cards, knows all the words to When Irish Eyes Are Smiling and all even turned up one year to march in Montreal's St. Patrick's day parade (I got to sit in a white horse drawn carriage with my Pops, who was dapper in a top hat with fresh shamrocks on the brim). It was a true display of Irish pride and something my grandfather had always wanted to do. So when I got offered a job with an Irish organization (at the last minute as many of you know all too well), I thought it was a sign. I think a part of me also thought that I might feel a bit connected to Ireland. I'll admit, it was a bit disappointing. Not a single person stopped me on the street and said "welcome home, glad you're back", or commented on my strong Irish surname. It was deflating. Just like the first time I voted. Where was the parade in my honor? The accolades and applause?

Then through my tunnel vision I remembered. When my youngest cousin was born a couple of years ago, my grandfathers brother updated our family tree and it ended up in my inbox. I looked at it and replied immediately - "hasn't anyone noticed that not a single person on this family tree was born in Ireland? Doesn't that make us NOT Irish?". I was told I better not ever suggest such a sacrilege to my grandfather. So I didn't, and I blocked it out. But maybe that explains it? Maybe the Irish crowds in Dun Laoghaire can tell I'm an impostor but since I've only been out in the daytime, no one has been drunk or disorderly enough to call me out on it?

(There was also another explanation provided to me, something about everyone being born in Scotland but raised in Ireland. I'm gonna go with that).

Therein lies my tale of my first visit to Ireland. I hope to be back. (and will give them enough notice this time to organize the parade)

Next stop: Nairobi