Sidney Reilly, the Russian Jew who took on a new identity to start his espionage career, when asked why he chose that name said, "Simple: The Irish are welcomed in every country of the world, but their own."
In the movie, "The Commitments" the band's manager explains how this white Irish band does the Black soul songs so well: "We are the Negroes of Europe."
From the time I was little, I wanted to be Irish. Not sure why.
Many of my mother's best friends were Irish Americans and we had a neighbor who actually was Irish, Mrs. Welch (married name) and she had that wonderful lilting accent that made her sound exotic and worldly wise and when I think of Irish people I always smile, again for unclear reasons.
Flying home from Heathrow years ago, the plane started descending only minutes into our flight. Looking out my window, all I could see were clouds, white mists and then, suddenly the fields below, a patchwork of more shades of green than I have ever seen. "There's only one place we could be," I told my wife.
Sure enough, we landed at Shannon Airport and I ran from window to window in the airport, trying to get a look at Ireland.
"We've got to come back here," I told her.
Eventually, we did.
When we visited Ireland, it was the midst of the "Celtic Tiger" and the place was not at all what I expected: I expected tough, ironic people living in tough places, but the place was booming, everyone was adding on to their homes and employment was so complete they had to import Polish people to work in the convenience stores.
The people were friendly and you could almost understand them, and everyone had relatives in America who they expected you would know, because, after all you live in New Hampshire and Sean lives in Boston, just down the road.
I don't recall when I discovered not all Irish were Catholic. In fact there were some troubles about that, I later learned.
One of my favorite Irish American girlfriends had an authentic Irish mother who was born in Londonderry.
"Derry is the name," she told me emphatically. "Londonderry is what Protestants call it. But you can be forgiven for not knowing that, at least the first time."
She was sitting on her concrete stairs leading uphill to her house and she told me about life in Ireland before she met the American sailor who became my girlfriend's father.
"I don't miss Ireland one bit, " she said. "Well, except when I do."
I'm not much of a drinker. It's something of an ordeal, but Guiness beer in Ireland is completely different than it is in the US. As one of my friends said, "It's like heroin in a mug."
My friend, Kelleher, was much amused by my aspirations to be honorary Irish.
"The only people who want to be Irish, aren't," he said.
"I'm reading Real Lace," I told him.
He snorted, "Real Lace! Let me tell you something, all Irish are shanty Irish and that's the truth of it. Real Lace. Gawd."
How can you not like people like that?
In the movie, "The Commitments" the band's manager explains how this white Irish band does the Black soul songs so well: "We are the Negroes of Europe."
From the time I was little, I wanted to be Irish. Not sure why.
Many of my mother's best friends were Irish Americans and we had a neighbor who actually was Irish, Mrs. Welch (married name) and she had that wonderful lilting accent that made her sound exotic and worldly wise and when I think of Irish people I always smile, again for unclear reasons.
Flying home from Heathrow years ago, the plane started descending only minutes into our flight. Looking out my window, all I could see were clouds, white mists and then, suddenly the fields below, a patchwork of more shades of green than I have ever seen. "There's only one place we could be," I told my wife.
Sure enough, we landed at Shannon Airport and I ran from window to window in the airport, trying to get a look at Ireland.
"We've got to come back here," I told her.
Eventually, we did.
When we visited Ireland, it was the midst of the "Celtic Tiger" and the place was not at all what I expected: I expected tough, ironic people living in tough places, but the place was booming, everyone was adding on to their homes and employment was so complete they had to import Polish people to work in the convenience stores.
The people were friendly and you could almost understand them, and everyone had relatives in America who they expected you would know, because, after all you live in New Hampshire and Sean lives in Boston, just down the road.
I don't recall when I discovered not all Irish were Catholic. In fact there were some troubles about that, I later learned.
One of my favorite Irish American girlfriends had an authentic Irish mother who was born in Londonderry.
"Derry is the name," she told me emphatically. "Londonderry is what Protestants call it. But you can be forgiven for not knowing that, at least the first time."
She was sitting on her concrete stairs leading uphill to her house and she told me about life in Ireland before she met the American sailor who became my girlfriend's father.
"I don't miss Ireland one bit, " she said. "Well, except when I do."
I'm not much of a drinker. It's something of an ordeal, but Guiness beer in Ireland is completely different than it is in the US. As one of my friends said, "It's like heroin in a mug."
My friend, Kelleher, was much amused by my aspirations to be honorary Irish.
"The only people who want to be Irish, aren't," he said.
"I'm reading Real Lace," I told him.
He snorted, "Real Lace! Let me tell you something, all Irish are shanty Irish and that's the truth of it. Real Lace. Gawd."
How can you not like people like that?
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