Longfellow Serenade

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A drunkard peeing against a tree in the park was the last image London had left to me. I was on a bus. By night. Twelve hours later, I arrived in Dublin welcomed by a not too dissimilar scene. Outside the bus station a homeless man tightly buttoned in his wasted beige trench, with a massive cervical hump forcing him into a totally unnatural position, he was waiting for the opening of the station bathrooms to shave himself. It was only 6 in the morning and already the metropolitan desperation of those who have nothing merged with the indifference of those leaving or arriving.

I hadn’t come to Ireland to visit Dublin. Everyone talks wonders about it and perhaps they’re right, but all cities seem to me all too similar and only in remote and quiet places I can look for my truths. The city as a source of vice and degradation, the thesis of an Asian proto-communist dictator thirty years ago. "8.50€." It was the bartender’s voice waking me up from this sleep deprived induced trance. "What? I only had a beer and a sandwich.” "Correct, that’s 8.50." Even prices were as absurd as in London. After all, maybe Pol Pot was not completely wrong.

After half a day of tired city loitering, I jumped on a bus destination Galway, right on the opposite side of the green island. A mere three hours to cross an entire country, how distant seemed those recent, endless trips through African lands! Once again, I was travelling at night (although it was only 5pm) and was therefore missing that basic part of the travelling experience that is observing. I catnapped, thought and dreamt lulled by the movement of the vehicle and by those unbearable artificial heating produced waves of heat. The ideal conditions to freely think without the heavy anchor of one's reason. "Where am I going? Why? Is there perhaps a there better than any here?”

At Galway station there were just two shelters, four benches and little more. Not enough to be turned into another reserve for desperados. I was bone broken. Outside the rain was raging. I went out seeking for a refuge for the night. I unsuccessfully kept going round and round along the deserted streets of Galway until an Indian guy at the take-away showed me the hostel next to station. Right where I had arrived. Had I kept my eyes open, I would have saved myself this first taste of north-oceanic climate. Maybe, after all, I’m not that great in observing.

The first image that comes to mind looking at the vast green and rolling expanses of western Ireland is a garden constantly (and violently) combed by the mistral. Galway is one of those cities of reasonable size that still doesn’t force its inhabitants into the ugliness of suburbs and daily commuting. And its many pubs and night clubs offering live music are always full of highly energized university optimism. At the "King's Head" a Scottish band was playing. The leader singer, between each song, kept making fun of the Irish for their lack of football skills. These, however, accepted the benevolent derision coming from their Celtic cousins with a smile on their lips.

The Aran islands. At last. A haven for sailors and a shelter for lost souls, according to the voices of poets and singers. Half an hour of sea so rough to force all the passengers of the "Queen of Aran" to abandon books, games and conversation to focus in the more urgent task of praying any form of divinity for a safe and fast end of the trip. On the small jetty at Inishmore, the largest of the Aran, a column of white minivan was awaiting the arrival of tourists to offer them the canonical tour of the island. It was low season and -luckily- visitors were scarce, but in summer this must turn into one of those too many Disneylands for pseudo-travellers that litter mother earth.

I start walking in search of accommodation. The island seemed to be really depopulated in winter, my ideal anti-rush, anti-noise space. I crossed the whole village but it seemed that for every "guesthouse" sign there was another one saying "closed". I was finally showed to the "An Aharla", the only hostel open all year round. A private house with a few rooms to let, practically. Family business! The owner was a seventy year old Irishman with such a strong accent that all form of communication between us was nearly impossible. The first day, I even apologised and told him that I could not speak Irish. Eventually, a very amused Philip, the manager of the inn, explained me that that was English, not Irish. Then he told me that "An Aharla" means "resting place". And so it was with its tea prepared on the wood stove and the (few) neighbours coming to pay daily, silent visits. I asked Philip if he had ever swum in the bay. He replied that he could not swim. And he lives on a small island: I just love it! Then he added that ocean water is too cold anyway and that only the town doctor swam in it. Every day. Winter included. "He must be nuts” was my comment. "Worse, he’s German."

Then, one day I met Helen. Rare were the days I was not the only guest at the "An Aharla", so the arrival of someone new was always a kind of event, something like the arrival of the post chaise in a border outpost in the far west. She was Australian, blonde and pretty. I invited her on one of my island exploring days, a routine of long walks made even more enjoyable by those stormy days when the "Queen of Aran" could not dock with his load of day-tripper and I had the whole island selfishly for myself.

There is a minimum level of complicity that, regardless of the will of the subjects, always arises between two solo travellers belonging to opposite sexes. In the evening, in front of the wood stove, recovering from hours of rain and frost, we had already reached that point where, in interpersonal relationships, one can use subtle ironies without the other party feeling offended. In the hour of spontaneous confessions, Helen -taking cue from god knows what- told me that her goal was to have no less than four children. I replied that if that was her usual first line with men, it was no wonder she didn’t have a boyfriend. She laughed. And it's always nice to see a woman smiling.

Then she gazed at me with that air of deep scrutiny that only women own and shot: "You’re not really handsome.”
"Thanks, just what I needed to hear to increase my self-esteem."
"No, you silly", she softly hit me on the back of my hand, "I mean that you are not one of those magazine-cover beauties, but still you are fascinating in a mysterious way. You are like that actor, what’s his name?"
"Woody Allen?"
"No."
"Joe Pesci?"
"No."
"Danny De Vito?"
"No, stop it. The one who was in Gateway."
"Who? Steve McQueen?????"
"Yes, that’s the one."
"You should give up synthetic drugs."
"Yes, definitely. It’s not that you look like him, but you too have that kind of sad and mysterious air."
I looked at her trying to figure out if she was making fun of me. She seemed genuine.
"I’ll take it as a compliment, thanks. However, it would be as if I told you that you are like Pamela Anderson. Not because you look like her but because both of you have big boobs."
She laughed again, then added: "Mine are real. But, mind you, if you always make these kind of compliments it’s me the one who understand why You don't have a girlfriend."
I smiled: "Sometimes I try harder."
But Helen seemed to have found a matter of her interest: "So, why doesn’t Steve McQueen have a girlfriend?"
"Because he has been dead for thirty years, I guess."
"C'mon, be serious."
"Because once I fell in love and I don’t know how to fall out of love again.”
"And where is she?"
"With her man."
"And you do nothing?"
"And what should I do? Challenge him in an eighteen century style duel?"
"There are other ways."
"I never fight lost battles. In fact, I never fight at all."
"So what? Will you become a monk?"
"I considered the idea but in the end I had to discard it: monks wake up too early to pray." Then I went serious again: “love is an aporia.”
“A what?”
“An aporia. A problem which chances of solution are void from the beginning because of the contradiction. May I read a poem to you? I think it's very eloquent”
“Go on.”
I pulled a note out from my wallet and read aloud:

"Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing.
Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness.
So on the ocean of life we pass and speak one another.
Only a look and a voice. Then darkness again and silence.”

Helen seemed to have lost words and good humour: "Is it yours?"
"No. Henry Longfellow’s. An American poet."
A few seconds elapsed, then she added: "Marco, asking questions which no one can answer to is always meaningless."



ITALIANO
La versione italiana di questo blog la trovi sul sito Vagabondo.net
Link: La Serenata di Longfellow

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Photos

Temple Bar, Dublin
Photo: Marcela Hernandez

Steve McQueen #1
Photo: Allociné France

Comments

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so what happened next?

[Luca in Viaggio]

Steve McQueen?
Ciao Marco-Steve McQueen, Come prosegue il viaggio? leggo sempre con piacere le tue storie anche se noto che ultimamemente scrivi con parsimonia. Resti comunque il mio poeta nomade favorito :-)