In contrast to the Berkeley uniforms of grimy tie-dyed tshirt and dungarees for the hippies, safety-pin adorned army surplus for the hobos, and shiny Cal branded gear for the undergrads, the Irish stubbornly cling to their county colours. I mean really. Must we? It's such a stereotype it's positively painful. I did see one girl today in a basketball shirt (very American) in our national green. Where on earth did she pick that up? Skymall? Go home and change love. You're embarrassing yourself.
Red and blotchy. Your skin will not adapt to the sun. Your burn will not turn to tan. You are quite simply not built that way. Can't figure out why you're sweating so much? It's because you're on fire, dumbass. Put on some damn sunscreen. You're killing yourself, and you look ill.
Honestly, it's not that hot. It was 19 degrees today: jeans and a jacket weather. Put your fucking shirt back on. Or, if you must walk around like that, do the rest of us a favour and spend a month in the gym first. A solid month. A simple rule of thumb is: if you wouldn't walk around Ballyhaunis like that, do not subject the good people of Berkeley to it.
Me: My heel really hurts. I walked around 10 miles yesterday in flip flops. Should I just keep taking ibuprofen or is there something else you'd recommend? I'm quite sure its bruised. I've had that happen before from running.
Pharmacist: Oh my God! Are you Irish?
Me: Um, yes. So, ibuprofen? Or Arnica? Or...
Pharmacist: We've had a lot of Irish people in here lately. They all have... Well, never mind. Confidentiality and all that.
Me: Hangovers. They have hangovers. So, about my heel?
Pharmacist: Ten miles in flipflops eh? *jolly laugh* Sounds like what you need is a time machine!
Me: I'm just going to keep taking the ibuprofen then. Thanks though. You've been real helpful.
There is something inate about the way we as a nation carry ourselves. Maybe it's from all the rain, or maybe we're still upset about the famine, but the Irish generally hunch their shoulders just a hint more than the Americans. Our strides are just a tiny bit more shuffly: perhaps a vestige of learning to walk in wellies. And we tend to peek furtively from under our brows as though the elastic has gone in the back of an invisible cap that keeps slipping down. Its all barely perciptible but combined you can pick out the Irish kid from behind at 50 yards. Americans greet the world head on with a big toothy smile. Except the meth addicts. They have the shoulder hunch and the shuffle and the brow glare. And the famine. Maybe this one should be filed under chemical makeup too. Do meth addicts get hangovers?
I was setting up a bank account yesterday and my Personal Banking Representative used numerous variations of the term "pack" in the course of our short conversation to refer to the estimated 15,000 other Irish people in Berkeley. Examples include:
- You're at the tail end of the pack.
- Most of them arrived last week.
- The rest of them were on J1s.
- It's so convenient that you have a US passport. I had to fill in like 3 pages of extra paperwork for the others.
- All the beer will be gone.
We do tend to stick together. I've never understood this custom of flying to the other side of the planet to submerge oneself in the specific aspects of another culture that most closely resemble or outright mimic ones own. I knew a girl in college who had spent the previous summer in whatever medium-sized American city was cool then (the Berkeley of yesteryear) and had "scored an Irish person every night". A different one. Every night. She essentially spent €1,500 on a one-way ticket to Coppers. Can someone please explain this to me?
The mbanker also reminded me that Americans tend to swear less casually than the Irish. I dropped an F-bomb when my desired username had already being taken.
|Here's an unrelated photo of some graffiti I saw yesterday.|