In a Foreign City – Galway, Ireland

This is an entirely fictional piece of short writing.

We got ourselves into a spot of trouble in Galway when Anthony implied that the country was not truly foreign to him. ‘But to you, this is abroad,’ the man on the stool at the bar replied.

   Anthony had said that we usually went abroad for our holidays, often to the continent where we visited non-English speaking countries. The man went on: ‘And just down the road you’ll find plenty of people speaking a language that’ll sound more foreign to you than French or German or Italian or Spanish or most other European languages. There are plenty of Gaeilgeoir, Irish speakers right here in this city, including myself. It’s the language I speak at home, in my own house with my wife and with my children, and with my grandchildren.’

   ‘I’m sorry. Excuse me for my ignorance,’ Anthony replied, which didn’t help because the man took it for sarcasm. 

   ‘Ah, none of your snide, English remarks either. I don’t believe I’m hearing this.’ He was outraged.

   ‘Come on, we need to go,’ I said, and took hold of Anthony’s sleeve. ‘I’m really sorry that we’ve offended you. ‘Bhí shí mo mháthair Éirennach.’ (My mother was Irish) I said to the man. Unsure whether my Irish was exactly correct, I continued: ’An Diabhal Sasanach’ (The English devil). I pointed at Anthony, smiled and we walked from the pub.

   On the street, I said: ‘You know, I did say to keep off politics. You never know what anyone is going to think about anything in Ireland. There’s hundreds of different viewpoints and every single one between. As a foreigner, it’s best to just keep quiet. I do, even though I was brought up with talk of it all the time. I count as a foreigner. We are both foreigners in a foreign land.’

   ‘But I didn’t think of a comment about abroad as being politics. I always think of this country as being a sort of halfway house. It’s independent, but there’s a connection with us, and I guess I just hadn’t realised that people are very sensitive about it.’

   ‘Well, it is a very sensitive subject to a lot of people here. To everyone in fact, including me.’

   ‘Oh well, that’s good then. I don’t mind offending you.’ He laughed.

   Come along,’ I said, Imitating my mother’s Cork accent. ‘Let’s walk, and don’t you be after making any more blunders now.’

  ‘I think of politics,’ he said, ‘as being stuff such as – what the rate of income tax will be, and who’s won the general election and how much to spend on the NHS. Not where’s abroad and where’s not.’

   ‘There’s far more that’s political than meets the eye.’

   ‘You mean like that brick wall is politics.’

   ‘Here, it probably is,’ I said.

    ‘Now, there’s a prejudiced statement, if ever I heard one. Suggesting that the Irish are over sensitive about politics. How very, very dare you. And you, with your Nationalist upbringing. What would your mother have said?’

   ‘I think it’s time to put this subject to rest,’ I replied. 

   In my pocket, I had a leaflet advertising an art performance that was being held by a group of students in a park. ‘Shall we go and take a peek at this? It sounds a good crack.’

   He read the leaflet. ‘OK, as long as it’s not too political, and I’ll keep my mouth shut.’ I guessed that he still felt sensitive and vulnerable over his annoying the man. Before we got to the park, he said: ‘Look, I know this is a foreign country. It really is foreign, and you’re absolutely right, but I do honestly forget when we’re here. It’s the language, the fact that most people speak English most of the time, and things like the look and the feel of the place. It’s stuff like the sash windows in the older houses, and look at the bay windows of the nineteen-thirties houses, and then there’s the double-decker buses. There’s a lot that’s like England, and it feels closer than a country like France.’

***

   The performance consisted of a young man, dressed in a pair of Y-fronts, whose body was painted grey. He was a little overweight and blubbery. A sign invited members of the public to throw water soaked sponges at him. Three children had taken up the offer. A young woman observed from nearby, and I had an impression that it was her project and the grey man was working as her model. We watched for a minute or two, until a woman came along, walking briskly up to a close quarter. She spoke in a precise voice. ‘That is disgusting. That is not art. It is just an abuse of him, and moreover, especially of the children. You should not be exposing children to things such as that. I mean, look at him, he’s virtually naked. It’s barely decent.’ The children looked up at her, perplexed, and a little wary although they seemed unafraid. They were all under ten, and I imagined that they might not have understood some of the key vocabulary to her complaint. They looked towards a bearded man and a brightly dressed woman with dreadlocks, who sat on the grass nearby. I gathered they were the parents. They smiled and shrugged their shoulders. They were probably grateful to have found an activity that kept their children occupied for a while. With renewed permission, the children returned to the sponge throwing. It would have taken a long time for them to get bored. ‘You should stop that immediately,’ the woman went on in her refined accent. ‘I’m going to call the police. This is an outrage.’

   ‘We do have police clearance,’ the young woman whose project it was informed. ‘They have a written description of the performance on file, and we’ve taken it already to other places. We’ve received no complaints.’ It seemed to me that she had it all worked out.

  ‘Performance, performance, how can you call that a performance or art. That’s absolutely absurd.’ 

   ‘The thing is that it’s not like conventional art. It’s also about people’s response to what’s happening.’

   ‘People’s response, how ridiculous.’

   ‘Yes, people’s response. That’s what’s interesting about it. You see, you are an integral part of this art installation.’

   ‘No I am not. I refuse to be. You can’t say that I’m part of it. I’m just trying to stop this disgraceful, despicable act that’s going on here.’

   ‘You see, you used the word act, and you are exactly that. You are part of the act.’

   ‘Absurd. What utter, utter nonsense.’

   ‘You mentioned the police. If you want to complain to them, then you can, but that will be part of the performance as well.’

   The woman huffed, making a sound like a vast balloon deflating. Then she took off across the grass. She turned. ‘Sometimes I don’t know what’s happened to this country. I feel like I don’t recognise it any more – the permissiveness that’s crept it. Sometimes I feel as though I’m living in a foreign city.’