The American girl was listing her reasons for moving to Ireland in protest at Donald Trump. ‘I cannot stay in a country where Roe vs Wade has been overturned. Did you know abortion is restricted in a lot of states? Oh no, I cannot wait to live in Ireland.’
We are becoming used to Americans staying at our B&B while they are house-hunting in Ireland during a fit of pique. We let it all go over our heads. But the question remains. Why are these migrating anti-Trumpers so daft? They are flouncing out of America to come to Ireland in a reverse ferret of how the journey across the Atlantic has been done for centuries.
When they explain their reasoning, they couldn’t bark up a wronger tree if they tried. Although I would say, in their defence, the way Ireland markets itself is very misleading, with all the rainbow Pride flags and Palestinian embassies.
But liberal Americans don’t seem to understand that this is the image, tailored for tourism and EU grants, I suspect. The practical reality is very different.
As wonderful as the Emerald Isle is, they’re going the wrong way across the Atlantic. ‘From Galway to Graceland’ is the song title. There is no song entitled ‘From California to Carlow’. Or Cork. Or Kerry. No young person living in New York or Los Angeles has ever dreamed of leaving the lights, the shops, the theatres and the endless opportunities to get on a boat to Rosslare to begin working on a cattle farm and going down the chipper for their dinner.
But a whole load of overprivileged Yanks are descending on Ireland in a huff, invoking their Irish ancestry and sitting in the rain declaring ‘This will show Trump!’ – while Trump is enjoying White House room service and sunning himself in Palm Beach.
I call it the Rosie O’Donnell syndrome. The actress and comedian makes no sense when explaining why she has moved from New York and Hollywood to Dublin, allegedly because she doesn’t ‘feel safe’ surrounded by people who voted for Trump.
I often amuse myself during the long, dark West Cork summer evenings by imagining Ms O’Donnell trying to call out a plumber. ‘I wonder if she’s had a blocked loo yet, or an overflowing gutter,’ I remark to the builder boyfriend. ‘No bother!’ says the
BB, impersonating a plumber who is not going to turn up. Ms O’Donnell keeps insisting it’s all fantastic. Maybe the locals are saying ‘Top of the morning to you, Rosie!’ to amuse themselves. But at some point she’s going to have someone say the following to her, very impatiently: ‘So do you want to go on the waiting list for a call-out for a quote for a new bathroom in six months’ time or not?’
The way Ireland markets itself is very misleading, with all the rainbow Pride flags and Palestinian embassies
When the two girls from California came to stay at our B&B, they burst through the kitchen doors as we were eating our dinner and launched into a gushing speech about how much they loved Ireland and felt at home in Ireland, having been here a day. Yeah, all right, I thought.
We don’t tend to get five-star reviews from people who’ve just landed that morning. We get five-star reviews from people who’ve been on the road a week or two, and who fall into our red-hot, full pressure showers with a gratitude that’s bordering hysteria.
These two were at the idealistic stage. It only took them two minutes to get on to Trump and a pro-choice rant which we could have done without, for we were eating a plate of linguine.
One girl stood outside smoking and asked if we had any weed, while the other girl made herself comfortable on the kitchen sofa and started explaining what happens to women in southern US states where abortion is restricted. She could not live in that kind of country. She wanted to live in a society where there was completely unfettered freedom for women in the pro-choice arena. That’s why they were in Ireland on a mission to investigate relocating here…
The BB looked at me, pausing the forking of linguine into his mouth.
‘Er,’ I said. And I put my fork down. ‘Are you sure we can’t offer you some pasta?’
No, they said, they had just had pizza. ‘Ice cream?’ I said. ‘Go on. Have some ice cream.’ They said that would be nice.
So I got five flavours of ice cream out of the freezer and set them on the table with bowls and spoons and the girls sat down at the table.
I said: ‘You do know Ireland is Catholic, don’t you?’ They looked blank, then started gushing again. ‘We just love it here! We feel right at home, don’t we?’ ‘We do! The people are wonderful! So welcoming! We’re going to be so happy here!’
While one puffed on a vape and the other ate ice cream, they told us how much they despaired for their country. They said there was some hope for women’s rights and liberal ideology, though, because of the nice Muslim Democratic candidate being lined up for mayor of New York. By now, the BB and I were sitting there with our mouths slightly ajar, saying nothing. What was spilling out of their brains made no more sense than if they’d told us they were going to put the raspberry ripple in the oven to keep it frozen.
They finished slagging off America, then went to bed saying they had to be up at 7.30 a.m. to go to Blarney Castle. The next day they came down at noon and said they might give the Blarney Stone a miss. They were going just to get in the car and drive and see where the road took them.
‘That sounds like an excellent plan,’ I said, wondering if the road would be so good as to take them back to the airport.
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