Clubbin'

In the first flush of excitement, in the planning stages of my move to Dublin, I tried to prepare a life. Months, even, before I was deciding which linens to store, which kitchen appliances I could possibly part with and which shoes would be most suitable for a wet Irish night on the town, I had used (wasted?) hours of valuable company time to hit search engine after search engine with keyword searches like, "making American friends in Dublin," or, "Dublin clubs for women."

Some happy combination of like phrases delivered a link to the American Women's Club of Ireland and after perusing the site, I decided that when I arrived in Dublin, I'd call on and be befriended by these ladies, fellow countrywomen living abroad, just like me. They'd take me to their ample, red-blooded American bosoms and shower me with the motherly affection and friendly companionship I'd be craving in a few month's time.

I did just that last Thursday. Ticket clutched in my mittened hand, I took the Dart from the Pearse Street station to Landsdowne Road and crossed the little stone bridge spanning the canal, finding the Herbert Hotel on the right, as described on the AWCI website. One flight of stairs brought me to Generic Meeting Room A, already filled with weak tea, packaged biscuits and a wrinkled, perfumed gaggle of American women.

Ages ranged from me, to almost dead. A smiling woman from Houston greeted me at the Guest Table, and I was outfitted with a huge, white name badge, clearly indicating my status as NEW. It was the first indication that I was, in fact, in the midst of some very American women. I'm not sure name badges even exist in Ireland, and if they do, I can guarantee that no one expects a guest to slap one across their chest, thus exposing their vulnerable NEW position to the congregation at large. Standing out from the crowd in Irish social settings is not encouraged.

As I took off my coat, I realized that I was severely under dressed. It seems that beauticians across the world have perfected the perm-and-fluff combo, and these American women were not about to attend their social meeting without a fresh 'do. Their mom-slacks were newly pressed, elastic waistbands tastefully hidden under tummy-minimizing blouses (that word has never applied so thoroughly), and their sensible-yet-sassy shoes put my muddy runners to shame.

All the same, I marched in those muddy runners right up to the first person I saw also bearing the affliction of a NEW badge, a pretty girl in her early 30's from Dallas. She wore a look of constant unease, and I thought some friendly conversation might be appreciated. We exchanged pleasantries and the basic where-are-you-from questions, but the conversation fizzled shortly after I mentioned my occupation as a freelance writer, and Liam's as a graduate student. Apparently in Dallas, these things are not impressive.

I floated next to Rose, also NEW, freshly arrived in Dublin from Arizona, and VERY excited to be there that morning. She had already hunted and found the leader of the Book Club (a darling, grandmotherly woman named Patty) and was zealously searching for the Bridge Club leader next. She suggested we sign up for both clubs TOGETHER(!!!), and I enthusiastically agreed to the Book Club, somehow easing my way out of a Bridge Club obligation, thank goodness.

By now the president, carrying herself with a heavy air of pomp and a solemn awareness of her own importance, was calling the meeting to order, and we filed into the rows of chairs. The first order of business, apparently, was for President Northeastern Accent to regale us with a 10 minute summary of her recent trip to Las Vegas with her five "fabulous" sisters and 80-year-old mother. After ending with a moral ("Valentine's Day is coming up, and...you wanna talk about love? I love those fabulous ladies, my sisters and motha!), she perceived that we were thoroughly bored, and introduced the first speaker.

The woman was the most sane, pleasant person I'd encountered all morning. She was the soft-spoken owner of a small franchise of book stores in the area, about which she rambled for 30 or so minutes. I found her speech completely devoid of any useful information, yet enjoyable all the same.

The highlight of the morning, however, was The Ancient Filmstar. Just down the lane from God Knows Where, someone on the Program Planning Committee found Ancient Filmstar still inexplicably alive and kicking in Ireland and invited her to entertain us all with her stories of pre-war era Hollywood and her days as a child star on Our Gang (yes, the original Little Rascals). Now, do the math people. This woman had begun her acting career in SILENT FILMS. I saw them bringing her up the stairs, a cushion of five women around her, doing the toddler arms thing (you know, when you're helping a toddler walk, and you want your arms there, just in case). It took about 30 minutes.

She was handed the mic (while seated, mind you. there's no way she could have stood), and immediately started on the longest sentence ever uttered, while successfully managing to entirely avoid making a point or finishing a thought. I would have loved to see it written and its punctuation attempted. It went something like (punctuation added for your own sanity's sake), "I started acting when I was 6 months old and, did you ever see the boulevard in Hollywood? We used to be there and I was there one time and donkeys (!) up the hill. We rode them to the, oh (!) one time, my mother took me to the coast. My father left my mother. Did you know Charlie Chaplan? He was such a....I met him once. We ate eggs on the set every day. Do you know the best way to cook an egg? Everyone loved my dimples and there's no business like show business! I'm an egomaniac."

How this woman, with 4 years of fame she earned solely by being very young and relatively cute, could still manage to receive solicitations for speaking engagements, is beyond me. It's inspiring, it's enterprising, and bless her ancient, feeble heart, it's downright American.

And though she, and the rest of the characters I met at AWDI were absolutely bizarre, it was nice to hear familiar phrases and accents, speak to those who know about the sites, food, entertainment we all love and miss and to realize that I'm not all alone in my awe, love and slight resistance to this country where I've chosen to spend limbo. They've learned to drive on the left side of the road, and they'll ask for "mince" instead of "ground beef" at the grocer's, but their hair remains as teased, their accents as nasal and their broaches as patriotic as the day they left the US. You can soak the American girl in a cold, slow Irish rain, but you can't damper her spirit!