Grains of sand
First to last
Head to heart
Hourglass

“Are you sure we’re going the right way?” I ask Rami, who is behind the wheel of our vehicle.

“Yes, yes…all good,” he replies.

It is June of 1993, and the 5-piece, post-punk rock ‘n’ roll band that Rami (Noujaim) and I formed in 1988 – The Dysfunctions – are en route to the small community of North Bay, Ontario from Toronto, where we had performed the previous evening. We are on tour in support of our major-label debut recording, Torn, released only a few months prior. As Rami navigates long stretches of highway, I furiously scribble notes in my journal – a tour diary of sorts. Suffice it to say, however, that cramming five twentysomething males into a minivan makes for some stories that are, well, better left unpublished for the time being.

North Bay is 360 kilometers (225 miles) from Toronto – due north. Halfway to our destination, we exit for a much-needed band bathroom break, refilling the gas tank, and re-upping on java (“you don’t buy coffee, you rent it…”). We return to the road, on time and target for that night’s gig.

Except, something seems off. My innate sense of direction feels…awry. I have been travelling long enough to know my way around a well-worn, gas station paper map.

“I dunno man,” I sigh. “I mean, I trust you and all, but I’m pretty sure we are going the wrong way.”

“No, no…all good,” Rami assures me.

Sure enough, a short while later, a road sign indicates that Toronto is only 85 kilometers ahead – due south.

———-

I met Rami after responding to an ad he had placed in Montreal’s only English newspaper The Gazette, looking to put a band together. We hit it off immediately, sharing a mutual love of our beloved and legendary “Habs” hockey team (24 Stanley Cups!), and post-punk, alternative rock music. He was also – and remains to this day – an exceptional drummer.

Egyptian by birth, his family arrived in Canada from Lebanon in the 1970s, having been subject to that country’s ongoing civil strife.

Over the next few years, we would share many musical adventures together; writing, recording, touring, and all the many vices that go with the vocation of being budding rock stars. We also became the best of friends, and I was both proud and honoured to attend his marriage to Sue (Goncz) in 1993, where I had been asked to serenade the newlyweds with one of The Dysfunctions’ original compositions, Harboursong.

Even after the band broke-up the following year, and the couple’s subsequent move to Toronto, Rami and I remained close, celebrating the arrivals of our children, mourning the loss of loved ones, and marking life milestones. While we drifted apart at times, as happens when people get busy with kids and careers, he was always just a phone call away, and I am forever grateful to him for staying by my side as I walked through recovery from addiction, a difficult divorce, and, more recently, a challenging battle with cancer. It was a no-brainer for him to stand with me as my best man at my wedding in 2022.

Sue’s heritage is Hungarian. After a stint in the financial world, she was called to serve God – as was Rami – and found herself immersed in the world of spirit. “To be born again,” she once explained to me, “is to accept Christ with an adult mind.”

While we might not share the same beliefs in that regard, we have always been respectful and interested in one another’s spiritual growth.

Despite having no Irish or Celtic connection (that we know of), the couple both became passionate about the Emerald Isle thanks in large measure to the music of U2, Sinead O’Connor, The Cranberries, Hothouse Flowers, The Waterboys, and all the great sonic artists that arose from Eire’s ‘Celtic Tiger’ years.

Rami and I had been talking about travelling to Ireland together since my two-month misadventure there in 1989 (another story for another time). Although he had visited Dublin before with work (Microsoft), his experiences on the Emerald Isle had been limited to the country’s capital city, mostly its famed Temple Bar district – enough time, however, to develop a life-long love for Guinness.

After he retired in late 2021, we began revisiting the idea of travelling together, and – in our first phone call of 2024 – he noted. “It is time my friend…let’s talk Ireland.”

By spring, rough dates had been picked out, ideas and options picked over, and by summer we had a basic plan in place. As I had been to Ireland many times through the years, Rami and Sue were happy to leave the itinerary in my hands. My past experiences suggested that we go off-season – post labour day – when tourist numbers begin to fall, and the weather is still reasonable. My only piece of advice to them was to bring light rain gear. As it turned out, we wouldn’t need it.

———-

Over an ocean
Under the vast
Tempus Fugit
Hourglass

After touching down within an hour of each other in Dublin, my wife Karen and I reconnected with Rami and Sue in the airport terminal before making our way to the car rental.

A few jokes were made about having arrived in Ireland on Friday the 13th. However, I don’t believe in luck; time and experience make for proper planning and preparation.

The plan was simple; after two days in Dublin, we would head south along the coast before making our way westward and then north along the Wild Atlantic Way (Kerry to Derry), and then wind our way across Northern Ireland before returning to Dublin.

“We will be travelling clockwise around the island,” I reminded everyone as we drove to our hotel in Dublin’s Dockyards district.

And while we did have several “must-see-and-do” attractions and activities on our agenda, there was sufficient margin built into each day for spontaneous and/or serendipitous opportunities.

As all four of us are life-long U2 fans, our first stop was Windmill Lane, Dublin’s famed recording studio where the Irish supergroup produced most of their albums. Other world-renowned artists have “tracked” at the facility over the years also, including The Rolling Stones, David Bowie, Kate Bush, AC/DC, Hozier, Kylie Minogue, Niall Horan, Lewis Capaldi, Van Morrison, and many more.

Despite the jetlag and lack of sleep, the poignancy of seeing Rami sitting at the facility’s mixing board wasn’t lost on me; we hadn’t been in a studio together since our Dysfunctions days.

After, we walked across the Liffey River to Epic the Irish Emigration Museum, an immersive, multi-media facility that documents the stories of those who left the Emerald Isle for greener pastures. Sue, in particular, was touched by the tales of those who were forced to depart during the Famine years (1845-1852).

Over dinner that night, Rami and Sue related their own families’ experiences as emigrants to Canada. Raised until the age of 8 amidst the backdrop of inner-city battles and bombs in war-torn Beirut, Rami still lives with that childhood trauma.

History was again on our minds the following day; after exploring the area around St. Patrick’s Cathedral and Christchurch Cathedral, the Noujaims met us at Trinity College Dublin. Amazingly, even after more than a dozen trips to Ireland, I had never seen The Book of Kells.

Wikipedia details The Book of Kells as “an illustrated manuscript and Celtic Gospel book in Latin, containing the four Gospels of the New Testament together with various prefatory texts and tables. It was created in a Columban monastery in either Ireland or Scotland circa 800 AD.”

For our friends of faith who have made numerous religious pilgrimages over the years, the experience was both engaging and enlightening.

Equally stunning was the college’s “Long Room” – one of the most impressive libraries in the world. Although only 65 meters in length, the space – originally constructed in the early 1700s – is home to over 200,000 books.

The highlight of the day, however, was an extended visit to the Guinness Storehouse, where we toured the facility before sitting down to sample a “wee bit o’ the Black Stuff.”

Like the proverbial “kid in a candy shop,” Rami anxiously waited for his first pint to settle. The first sip is known to locals as “splitting the G” – a reference to the logo near the top of the glass that signals how much to taste off the top.

“Ahhhh…that’s the real deal,” he said, leaning back with a smile and a faint trace of the stout’s trademark moustache, noting that nothing back home in Canada could ever compare. Rami had agreed to “taste-test” Ireland’s best-known brew on our journey around the island, rating and reviewing each pour – something we dubbed “Ten Pints in Ten Days.”

“The thing is, you must be patient,” he mused philosophically. “You can’t guzzle Guinness – you have to savour each sip. After all, the best things in life take time.”

I remind him that there was a time where “slamming” back the beers was the best thing in our lives.

“True, true,” he acknowledges with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, perhaps recalling our band’s backstage antics. “But we are older now, and hopefully a little wiser. I can’t drink the way I used to back in the day – the hangovers kill me.”

I ask him if he agrees that the reason we go grey is because things are no longer as black and white as they once were.

“Absolutely,” he replied with a hearty belch. “The things that mattered to me as a teenager, or even in my 20s and 30s, aren’t nearly as important to me now. But, like a lot of things, that awareness only came about with time.”

The topic of time came up time-and-time-again over the coming days, including at dinner that night.

“In our western world, we see time as linear,” I expounded, taking the floor. “That is, we understand it to be a single straight line from one fixed point to another, usually from start to finish. The Celts, however, saw time as circular – a continual cycle of seasons in which there is no past or future, only the eternal present.”

Sue summarized, “So, similar to some other spiritual or religious movements – say, Buddhism for example – the Celts were all about being in the here and now in the natural world.”

Studious and serious, Sue is the perfect partner for Rami, who lives light on his feet. As a couple, they complement and bring out the best in one another.

“Without her, I would be homeless,” Rami had joked with me that afternoon. “And I’d probably be a full-time drunk.”

After blessing the meal, Sue raised her Chardonnay, toasted the table, and the conversation turned to our children.

“Somehow,” she laughed, “in spite of us, they have not only survived – they’ve thrived.”

With that, we all reached for our phones to check in on our kids and share some new photos. Later, walking back to our hotel through Temple Bar, we finalized our plans for the following day.

———-

Sundays in Ireland are sacred, traditionally a day for church and family, and Rami and Sue attended Mass before we departed Dublin for parts south.

Before leaving, however, we made a couple of quick “bucket list” stops, including visiting both Bono’s childhood home and Temple Mount, the non-denominational secondary school where U2 met and made music.

Although it was Rami’s first time driving on both the “wrong” side of the road and the “wrong” side of the car (there were, admittedly, a few close calls), we somehow survived the drive through the city’s busy North Side streets before hitting the highway.

Equally impressive, and perhaps surprisingly (more close calls), we arrived alive an hour later at the Glendalough Hermitage Center, where I had spent a week in silent retreat just months prior. I would later document my experience for our 2024 Mid-Winter edition “Macalla” – the Gaelic word for echo.

Set amidst the heather-laden hills of Co. Wicklow, Glendalough is the ancestral spiritual domain of the Celtic Christian tradition, best exemplified by St. Kevin (498 AD – 618 AD) who lived there for most of his life in peaceful harmony with his surroundings.

A “chance” encounter with – and hands-on blessings from – a group of local hikers at the Hermitage Center was a lovely touch as we set out on our own jaunt through St. Kevin’s nearby Monastic City and then along the trail where I had my “moment” just months ago.

“I can feel it,” said Sue, as I pointed to the exact spot where, for just a split-second, I had felt heat and light pour through my heart and hands. “This spot one of those ‘thin places’ you were telling us about, right?”

“Yes,” I replied. “Ireland is known for its transparency between this world and the otherworld. Perhaps that is why the Celts felt so at home here, and maybe why I do.

“I haven’t tried to recapture that experience,” I continued. “I wouldn’t even know where or how to begin.”

“Don’t,” she stated flatly. “These things are only meant to be moments – we couldn’t handle it if we were in constant conscious contact with the Creator; it would blow our circuitry.”

“Moments…” I whispered to myself. “Like numerals on a clock; meant only to mark time through memories…”

Back in the car, Karen recited Seamus Heaney’s classic poem “Digging” out loud. As part of our daily ‘ritual’ one of us would read something from his enduring collection of verse, Death of a Naturalist.

Later, over bowls of hearty pub grub at The Granville Hotel in Waterford, my wife brought up “the clock.”

“What’s the clock?” asked Rami.

Pointing to a sizeable, sturdy marble timepiece on the bar’s mantle, I shared the story.

“My great-grandparents on my mother’s side were from Port-Aux-Basque, Newfoundland, and both were of Irish heritage. When they married, they received a handcrafted marble clock as a gift from family overseas, which was then passed down several generations and now sits proudly – albeit silently – in my living room. I have since learned that there were only two of these clocks ever made, and that they are almost identical. I ‘discovered’ the other one by ‘chance’ during one of my previous stays here.”

We deferred our debate on the merits of “chance” to the following day’s drive which would take us clear across the southern tip of Ireland.

———-

 No future now
Nor the past
Time stands still
Hourglass

One of the benefits of being in the front passenger seat for the duration of our journey was selecting our daily soundtrack, and there was no shortage of Spotify as we navigated the country’s southern coast – a steady stream of Irish melodies, old and new.

“Ok – favourite concert ever?” Rami asked me.

“U2,” I responded. “1985. Montreal Forum. The Unforgettable Fire Tour – that show was…unforgettable.”

To prove my point, I put on a live version of the band’s stirring 1984 homage to Eire, A Sort of Homecoming. Rami and I started singing along – terribly – at top volume.

“Good thing you chose the drums,” I laughed, adding in query, “Ok – what’s the best show you’ve ever seen?”

“Easy,” he replied quickly. “U2. Last year. The Sphere in Las Vegas. It wasn’t really a concert though – more like a religious revivalist event.”

I tee-up “Every Breaking Wave” from the band’s 2014 album Songs of Innocence.

“Every breaking wave on the shore, tells the next one there’ll be one more…”

The lyrics hit home as we hugged the coastline, the soft scent of the sea wafting through the car windows.

“The eternal ebb and flow of tides,” mused my friend, breathing in the fresh ocean air. “God did some great work here – this part of Ireland feels timeless.”

We turned north towards Blarney Castle – one of the items on the Noujaims’ list of desired destinations. To be honest, I shuddered when it was first brought up for our trip agenda as I have a severe aversion to anything “touristy” and had successfully managed to steer clear of the call to kiss the Blarney Stone for years.

And while the site attracts hundred of thousands of visitors annually who pay to pucker up, the castle’s beautiful gardens are often overlooked. As are the ancient Celtic Druid grounds behind the building, where the four of us walked small trails that took us past spaces once designated for both celebration and sacrifice.

Back on the road, I reached for my phone’s playlist. Inspired by the fauna and foliage, I play The Garden, the last track on the last album (Clockwork Angels) from Canadian power-trio Rush – another band that Rami and I bonded over more than three decades prior. It would be the only non-Irish song played on our ten-day trek.

“The measure of a life is a measure of love and respect
So hard to earn, so easily burned
In the fullness of time
A garden to nurture and protect…”

 That night, after dinner and drinks at our hotel in Tralee, Rami and I slipped out to the facility’s patio and talked through the triumphs and trials of growing older.

“To further quote Neil Peart,” I exclaimed, referencing Rush’s brilliant lyricist/percussionist, ‘We are only immortal for a limited time.’”

We raised our glasses in honour of family and friends that had gone before us, before their time.

———-

Averaging 320 kilometers of driving each day (3-4 hours) meant that there were some items on our itinerary that had to be dropped in favour of others. Perhaps my one regret on our Day 5 agenda was not getting to the Dingle Peninsula. Next time.

Nonetheless, everyone was on board with the day’s schedule and, as we drove through my family’s ancestral lands (Co. Clare) – and with Rami now fully comfortable at the wheel – we soon found ourselves at another major tourist attraction.

While I had been to the Cliffs of Moher on numerous occasions – and despite the onslaught of tour buses – Ireland’s most popular site remains a beacon of natural beauty that never fails to take my breath away. The Noujaims were soon breathless also, though more likely a result of the steep climb from the parking lot to the top of the breezy bluff. Nearby, a young fiddler busked traditional Irish melodies, looking to cash-in on ex-pats longing to hold on to their heritage.

“Tourism is Ireland’s primary economic driver,” I shared later in the car. “The country welcomes more than ten millions visitors each year, and roughly ten per cent of those people will make it to the Cliffs of Moher.”

Heading north to Galway, we dipsy-doodled from coastline to countryside, taking in the region’s lush landscape.

“I had no idea how beautiful everything here is,” Sue shared.

Rami echoed her sentiments. “There is something so gentle about these rolling hills and fields – there’s almost a dream-like quality to them.”

I explained that, as most of Ireland had never been industrialized, much of the soil and waterways had remained untouched over the generations.

“That is true,” agreed Sheena Dignam of Galway Food Tours as we sampled some of the city’s unique and superb culinary creations. “And it has had a huge impact on the quality of our food, most of which is produced fresh locally. Galway’s markets are diverse, with everything from cheese to sushi, oysters to curry stews, doughnuts to falafels. The best part of Galway, though, is the atmosphere – we’re always up for a bit of the craic!”

“What’s the craic?” asked Sue.

That evening, sitting in a snug corner of a cozy local pub, pints in hand, amidst a bevy of locals and visitor smiling and singing and clapping along to live Irish “trad” music, I leaned over to Sue, “This,” I noted with a sweep of my hand across the room, “is the craic!”

“Aye laddie,” Rami piped-in with a newly uncovered Irish accent and a grin as wide as Galway Bay.

I told them that while Dublin might be the country’s capital, the core of authentic Ireland is on the west coast where the language, customs, and culture have been best preserved.

The entire region, we all agreed, seemed to be steeped in another, softer and simpler time.

———-

More evidence of those ancient ways was present the next day as we wove our way up the west coast; road markers, town names, shop signs – all in Gaelic.

Driving past the tiny town of Spiddle, I again reached for my phone, this time blasting one of my all-time favourite albums – The Waterboys’ Fisherman’s Blues – which had been written and recorded in the area in the late 1980s and had been a pivotal influence for The Dysfunctions at that time. Rami and I sang along.

Sue had requested that we stop in Co. Mayo to visit the Knock Shrine.

Again, as per Wikipedia, “The Sanctuary of Our Lady of Knock, commonly referred to as Knock Shrine, is a Roman Catholic pilgrimage site and national shrine in the village of Knock, County Mayo, Ireland, where locals claimed to have seen an apparition in 1879 of the Blessed Virgin Mary, Saint Joseph, Saint John the Evangelist, angels, and Jesus Christ (the Lamb of God).”

For practising Catholics, shrines are faith-affirming stations on their spiritual journey.

“Catholicism is a living, breathing religion,” shared Sue as we strolled though the site’s massive courtyards, shadowed only by the Holy edifice itself.

As a “recovering Cathoholic”, I confided with her that I struggled to reconcile the seemingly vast expanse between Christ’s core message and the behemoth building that I now stood before.

“I get that,” she nodded, adding “the Church has a long history of hypocrisy and it’s no wonder that attendance for Mass is down across the world – young people just aren’t that interested or involved anymore.”

True enough, most on site that day were elderly, with many using canes, walkers, and wheelchairs, perhaps praying for relief from ailments – physical and otherwise.

“Time will tell if Pope Francis is able to bring about reforms and bring the Church into the 21st century,” she admits. “But he’s a Jesuit, so we are hopeful.”

Like me, Sue has a strong connection to the Jesuits – a progressive piece of a digressive institutional puzzle.

“For Rami and me, it is all about our personal relationship with Jesus,” she explained. “The fact that we are immersed in this community of faith with like-minded people gives us a great support and a better opportunity to give back and help others.”

“It sounds a lot like my 12-step fellowship,” I noted.

“Yes,” she concurred. “The parallels are there; like you, my life path is one of soul care, aiding people with spiritual, mental, and emotional health issues.”

While terms like “trauma” and “trigger” have become buzzwords in recent years – and the virtual world an online, abstract storefront for self-help gurus and prophets-for-profit – it is easy to understand the appeal of religion.

“There is a reason why the Church has lasted for as long as it has,” she explained. “And there is a reason why we call the Bible the ‘Good Word’ – like the ‘Big Book’ of your 12-step program, it is still one of the best guides to the good life, filled with timeless wisdom.”

Wisely, Karen reminded me that food for the soul would not be enough to sustain us for the remainder of our journey that day, and we devoured a bowl of chowder and a side of soda bread at a nearby cafe before getting back on the road.

There was much food for thought as we drove out of Mayo, through Sligo, and into Co. Donegal – my favourite part of the Emerald Isle, and Karen’s as well.

After settling in at our B&B, we ventured into town, stretching our legs at the Abbey Cemetery – a special and sacred space for my wife, who is sensitive to matters of spirit – before walking by the town’s namesake castle and stopping at a nearby church where we spoke with several staff members.

A fine meal followed (oysters), accompanied by fine wine (Chardonnay), and the discussion turned to our day.

“I’m still in shock,” said Rami. “First of all, the weather has been perfect, with sun everyday – the opposite of what we were expecting.”

I knocked twice on our wooden table.

“And I can’t get over how beautiful today’s drive was,” he continued. “You really feel connected to the land here, and people have been so warm and welcoming that you’d swear they are Canadian.”

I remind him that 15 per cent of our home country’s population are descended from Eire.

“And” I continued, “this is another of Ireland’s ‘thin places’ – perhaps that is why there are so many artists in the area; painters, photographers, writers of all sorts, and musicians. This tiny part of the world birthed the likes of Enya, Clannad, and Rory Gallagher from one pub alone – Leo’s Tavern.”

My own experiences back in 1989 stood as testimony to the creative forces at play here in the gorgeous northwest corner of Eire.

———-

Harboursong
Finished fast
Sifting sounds
Hourglass

I first came to Donegal in 1989 on a two-month, solo hitchhiking trek around the island. Travelling only with my backpack and old acoustic guitar, I felt at home amidst the country’s lyrical landscapes, and my journal entries from that time contain random thoughts, strange scribblings, a few (mostly) awful attempts at poetry, and pages upon pages of verses for songs-in-progress.

One of those tunes – Harboursong – would end up on The Dysfunctions album and, in time, hold a special place in Rami and Sue’s love story.

I vaguely recall writing the song one Sunday morning on a pier in Killybegs harbour, likely hungover. Oddly, it took me only five minutes to complete the entire piece – music, lyrics, melody. Even stranger is that I have no sketches or notes for the song in my travel journal. As Bono has said about the magic of making music, “sometimes a song simply shows up and steps right into the room.”

Thus, after coffee, we drove 30 minutes west to Killybegs from Donegal Town, stopped for breakfast, and walked down to that same pier only to find the gate locked with a huge “No Trespassing” sign across the front. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, a gentleman appeared, flashed a pass, and – in what can only be described as a moment of pure Grace – held the door open for us. We approached pier’s end and stood for a moment in reflection before the song’s opening chords arose from Sue’s phone. I began to sing. Even with severely damaged vocal cords (caused by the cancer treatments), I managed to hit and hold the notes (another moment of Grace), with Rami, Sue, and Karen soon joining in.

Surely, hearing 4 adults wailing away at some old, unknown power ballad by the sea must be quite the sight for locals. Then again, this was Ireland, and sights of this kind are the norm rather than the exception.

By song’s end, we were holding hands and hugging, our eyes moist with emotion. I felt like a time-traveller, with memories flooding back to me as if 35 years had passed in the blink of an eye. Time stood still, if only for that moment, and that was all I could ever ask for – a moment…in this case, a full-circle moment.

Before departing, I quietly slipped a well-worn, much-loved guitar pick between two stones.

We walked back to the car and drove a few kilometers to Slieve League, Europe’s highest sea cliffs, where we gazed in amazement at the churning waters of the Atlantic. I noted that we were positioned directly across from Newfoundland, where my mother’s family had settled after coming to Canada more than a century ago.

“It’s definitely darker here,” noted Rami, as we walked back to the car. “It’s a different shade of green, for sure. Is that because of its more northerly location?”

“Yes, likely,” I replied. “However, there is something about this part of Ireland that is darker than down south – perhaps it is our proximity to Northern Ireland. Things are definitely darker there, but I believe there is more beauty in these 6 counties and its people than in all of the Republic.”

We drove on to Derry.

———-

I have recounted my adventures in Northern Ireland a number of times in the pages of Celtic Life International over the past 13 years, privileged to witness – and perhaps, in my own small way, contribute – to the region’s healing.

As we crossed the border, I recounted some of those escapades to Rami and Sue, having already sent them some background information on The Troubles and the ensuing 1998 Peace Accord prior to the trip. Nothing could have possibly prepared them for what they were soon to see first-hand, however.

Nestled just inside the infamous Walls of Derry, our hotel was only a few short strides to our first destination, the Museum of Free Derry in the Catholic stronghold of Bogside. Along the way, we stopped to snap shots of the Free Derry wall, the large and colourful murals of fallen heroes, and the Bloody Sunday Monument, erected in honour of the 13 Catholics that were brutally murdered there by British paratroopers during a peaceful protest on January 30, 1972.

“I remember when Sunday Bloody Sunday came out,” Rami said. “It was one of the first U2 songs I heard. You know, it’s one thing to read about what happened here, or watch a documentary, or hear someone sing about it – but it’s another thing altogether to see it for yourself. It suddenly becomes very…real.”

We entered the museum, and for the next hour I watched both Rami and Sue absorb the harsh realities of the region’s 30-year civil conflict. We left the museum somewhat stunned, walking soberly through other neighbourhoods before pulling into a local pub for a mid-afternoon pint.

The bar was busy with people of all ages, accents, and backgrounds, chatting and laughing.

“Humour is one of the ways that human beings deal with tragedy and suffering,” said Sue. “It is a coping mechanism of sorts, a means of survival.”

I concur, adding that some of the world’s best art has arisen from the ashes of some of the world’s worst atrocities. One need only to look at the flood of films about the Vietnam War that were released a generation after that conflict for clues and confirmation of collective healing.

In particular, comedy – and the ability to laugh at oneself or one’s circumstances – was born of tragedy, as per the ancient Greek theatrical tradition.

“Have you guys heard of Kneecap?” I asked. “They’re this hilarious young rap trio from West Belfast – kind of a Beastie Boys meets Derry Girls kind of thing – who brilliantly take the piss out of themselves and all that sectarian nonsense.”

Sue seemed sombre…lost in thought, clearly touched by our museum visit. In a post-trip email exchange she shared, “I was deeply moved. The plight of justice – the eternal desire to be seen, heard, and honored – is distinct, but equal; a circle – not a hierarchical world view. It is in our blood and bones, as we are made in the image and likeness of God, with God imaged as community – a family circle.”

Rami’s reply was equally reflective, “I remember feeling sorrow. I was also intrigued with the connection between the Irish and Palestinians peoples – the shared history of struggle, and the sense of empathy for each other’s experiences, including their conflict and displacement.”

Similar emotions arose touring Belfast the next day, a striking contrast from our morning stops at the Giant’s Causeway and Dunluce Castle.

A late afternoon walk through both the (Catholic) Falls Road – where we all signed the “Peace Wall” – and the neighbouring (Protestant) Shankill Road was a reminder that, despite ongoing efforts to heal the pains of the past, ignorance and idiocy are still alive and well.

“Those folks are in the minority now,” I shared as we grabbed a Black Taxi back downtown. “Peace has brought profitability for most residents, and they won’t be giving that up anytime soon. Like back home in Montreal, the young people here aren’t buying into the “divide and conquer” politics anymore.”

Rami and Sue know exactly what I am talking about; we all came of age during Quebec’s referendum years, when our rights as English speaking people were stripped from us. The Noujaims were just two of over a million Quebecers to leave the province over a 15-year period.

“We don’t talk politics or religion here,” I advised. “If a local brings it up, feel free to engage. If not, talk about the weather – something everyone can have an opinion on.”

As the Noujaims visited the Titanic Museum, Karen and I cruised Belfast’s quirky Cathedral Quarter, where the streets were packed with performers as part of the city’s annual Culture Night. Revellers of all denominations were out to celebrate, including a roving “trad” band that wove its musical way through the merriment.

Rami and Sue soon showed up, and the four of us jumped into a pub for a pre-dinner pint, only to find it swarming with patrons young and old. We found seats at a small corner table and, after I jockeyed for position at the bar and wrangled pints back to our seats, we met and chatted with a retired city councillor named John and his wife Eibhlin. Interestingly, he was a Protestant, and she was a Catholic.

“There was a time when our marriage would have been unthinkable,” John told me. “Now, nobody gives a shite, which is wonderful. This peace thing has worked out pretty good for us. And I’m loving retirement; the kids are out of the house, and the wife and me now travel 2-3 times a year – great to get away from the bloody damp and cold!”

With that, a group of “calendar” firemen (Karen’s words) take the small stage and launched into song. Uniform clad, the “Fire-Choir” fired-up the room.

In good spirits, we walked over to Edo for one of the finest meals any of us have ever had, eating and drinking into the late evening. After 48 hours of heaviness, it felt good to lighten up and simply enjoy each other’s company.

———-

The drive back to Dublin was filled with more lively discussion, more U2, and more Seamus Heaney.

We were all exhausted, however, and I took the opportunity to remind everyone that the word travel comes from the French root word travail, meaning work. This wasn’t a week on the beach in Barbados – although that would come soon, with Rami’s 60th birthday just around the corner of the new year.

With early flights the next morning, we were prepared to call it a night after a small bite at the Airport hotel. Rami and I still had one last adventure, however; returning the rental car. And though our GPS informed us that we were less than a kilometer from our destination, it took us the better part of 45 minutes to find it.

“Are you sure we’re going the right way?” I ask Rami, as we circled around and around and back again.

“Yes, yes…all good.”

Let it go
Let it pass
Turn it over
Hourglass

For my brother Rami.
~Stephen Patrick Clare