What’s wrong with Galway?

A scene on the road to Galway. Photo by David Lansing.

I don’t know why Mr. O’Connor thinks I don’t like Galway, I say to Mr. Lynch as we cross over the River Corrib. Because that’s what you told him, says Mr. Lynch. I didn’t say that. You told me when I was putting together the itinerary that you had no real desire to go to Galway. That’s because I spent a fair amount of time there a few years ago, I tell him. That doesn’t mean I don’t like it. Those are two separate things. The next time I come to Ireland, I might tell Mr. O’Connor I have no real desire to go to Kinsale either.

What’s wrong with Kinsale?

There’s not a thing wrong with Kinsale! That’s my bloody point! I quite like Kinsale. In fact, I think I’d like to go back.

Then why would you tell Bernard you have no desire to go there?

I didn’t say that! Watch the road now. You’re crossing over into the other lane.

I will yeah, says Mr. Lynch sarcastically. You know, he says, I’m often amazed that you’re not shot.

Why would anyone want to shoot me?

Because of the things you say.

That reminds me, I say. I was once in a bar fight in which everyone but me got socked in the kisser. I walked out of it without a scratch. But the gal I was with was quite upset with me anyway. I was flabbergasted. I said, What are you so riled up about? Look at me; I’m totally unscathed. And she says, Of course you are. Hitting you isn’t enough. Shooting you, stabbing you, that would be worth it, but not hitting you.

Smart girl, says Mr. Lynch. Whatever became of her?

Most unfortunate, I tell him. I married her.

And on to Galway we go.

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