For Sandy

Okay, Sandy luv, I have promised you this story for more than a year and write it for you now as a combination belated-Xmas-and-bday present. Except now I sit down to write it and can't remember the details so well. Huh.

Well, like everything else I write, it'll probably come to me as I type. Um, I hope.

(And look how long-winded it turned out. Sheesh. Sorry.)

Irish cows

So okay, it was October, 2000. I was doing my last semester of college as an exchange student in France and this was our Fall Break. I was going to go to Istanbul, but that didn't work and so there I was in France, woken from a sound sleep at like 2:00am for no apparent reason and I started wondering where the hell I should go for a of cheap-ish vacation. And it hit me: Ireland. It was like a total no-brainer, as I'd wanted to see Ireland for as long as I can remember, but somehow it hadn't even entered my mind for an instant, until now. The next day, I opened an email from Rita (who's been, I swear, EVERYWHERE on the globe) who responded to my earlier-emailed question of where I should go with: "Ireland. It is like screaming your name, I think you will love it."

So basically: Ireland + Beth = Fate. Or kismet. Whatever. And I totally loved Ireland, especially when I got out of Dublin and went into the countryside, ESPECIALLY the west coast and yay. This is not the point. The point is, I was in a little town called Doolin which is known for its traditional music and - at least anytime I tell people about it - its lack of ATM machines. No banks, no ATMs, but plenty of tourists. I know what you're thinking, and you're right: wtf? Yes, wtf indeed.

So in order to afford the bus-ride out of there (going to Galway the next day, and that's one hell of a great drive, btw), I had to walk to the next town - which was 2 miles away. Unfortunately, I was under the impression that it was only 2 kilometers away. I have no excuse for my confusion except that I asked this local old guy and all I could confidently make out in his very, very, very heavy accent (hidden by a beard, too, but it was charming how he carried his toddling granddaughter on his shoulders as he walked along) was the word "two". And everyone else had always given me distances in kilometers and that's how the signs were posted, so there ya go.

But 2km is a bit less than 2 miles. And 2km is what I was expecting.

Okay, so - I start off on the road toward the next town. It's a back-road, so the only cars that go by are zoomzoom, not conducive to hitching a ride or flagging em down or whatever. And the day started out a bit misty - the heavy Irish mist that just looks all full of wee folk and mysteries and otherworldly stuff. It was all very atmospheric and Irish-y, so I pulled on some jeans and my Cloud Nine boots and a sweater and my black peacoat and my fuzzy black hat and I was off: A foolish yank rambling through the misty hills to find some cash. Go me.

I'd probably gone about a quarter of a mile when the rain and wind began. Doolin is right on the coast. I figured it'd stop, as it tends to come and go, but um - no. I kept going - there was nothing but the hill slope on my right and a field to my left. After like a mile, I was miserable. But I know the turn-off to the town was coming soon because 2km is less than a mile and a half, so it has to be soon. I must keep going.

(Side note: Stupid fucking metrics, rar.)

Did I mention I was miserable and cold and wet and tired? Okay, just checking.

So there's this herd-o-cows up ahead, in the field on my left. I see them in the distance and I'm thinking to myself that mad old man is probably wanted in three fookin counties for misdirecting foreign tourists and leading them to their deaths and isn't it just perfect for his psychotic scam that he had that sweet-faced little girl on his shoulders, the better to make me trust him, because I mean this has DEFINITELY been two kilometers already, fookin mist, fookin rain, fookin hills, fookin wind, stupid fookin Doolin with no fookin ATM and how much you wanna bet that they'd blame the fookin Brits for it all, they'd say like Oh it used to be only two fookin kilometers until the fookin English moved the whole fookin town, and would any of that help me? No - no help at all, but it'd be all full of LOCAL FOOKIN COLOR, so I should be fookin thankful, oh yay vacation walking in the fookin rain.

And like that. I was cold and wet and miserable and inserting the word "fookin" everywhere I could manage it in an effort to cheer myself up.

With this being the general trend of my thoughts, I make an executive decision (as CEO of Beth Vacations, Inc., and I'm thinking we need more/better staff here at BV Inc. because our productivity SUCKS) to go as far along the road as Just Past The Cows and then, if I don't see the turn-off to the town, I will turn back - mission aborted, retreat, return in disgrace, etc.

So I approach the cows, and I guess I was maybe 50 feet away from them when they saw me coming up the road. At the same time, the rain abated. How did I know the cows saw me? Well, they began mooing. That's how cows talk. Or so I've heard. (Side note: in French, "moo" is "meu" - something that never fails to set me off into endless giggles.) "Oh," I think to myself. "Friendly Irish cows saying hi to me. How quaint." Twas downright pastoral.

Then they started moving toward the road. I'm walking up the inclined road toward them, they're walking over toward the road as if to meet me. Between the cows and me there is, in order of appearance from the bovine POV:
1. low wire fence, about 2-3 feet high
2. shallow ditch
3. nuttin but asphalt and Beth and freedom.

I don't think much about it, really, until I realize over the course of several more steps that-- well, the mooing is getting progressively louder. Until I'm maybe 15 feet away, and the cows are practically shouting, "MOOOOOOOO! MOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!"

Allow me to interject at this point that I have a rather limited experience with cows. I grew up in suburban-ish Indiana, not on a farm. I did spend a lot of summers in Kentucky - waaaay out in the country, and yes there were cows. But I never had any real interactions with said cows, and they certainly never acted like this. They were just part of the landscape. Or a part of dinner. I'd heard plenty of cow stories, sure. But that's about it for the cattle portion of my resumé.

But even to my rookie eye, these cows were quite clearly in a state of high agitation. And I don't know why, but I considered it ESSENTIAL that I just keep moving as though nothing untoward was going on - which is what I did until my ears were like ringing with moo's and I could no longer deny that Strange Things Were Afoot. Or Ahoof.

So I began, in that way that I have, to question why I thought I had to keep going without pause? Why I couldn't just stop? Just as an experiment? I mean, sure - the cows are now rushing - okay, galloping - are cows supposed to gallop? I don't think it's normal for cows to gallop - to the fence, and there's the one that's in the lead and obviously that's the leader because all the others are following her lead and holy Mary that is one big muthah of a cow and she's looking at me and standing all silent and majestic on her little hillock, like Queen of All Cows, and SHE'S the only one not mooing at me.

Frantic mooing of non-royal cows continues. Volume increases. Cows are gathered, milling about, eyeing me as I pass, mooing for all they're worth. Queen Muthah Cow has a gimlet eye trained on me, and a newborn ferret could break through that pitiful excuse for a fence for the love o'Christ and should I maybe shout like Look over there! English fookin cows! and that'll distract them long enough for me to slip away unseen?

So, being how I am (positively blazing with, ahem, intelligent curiosity), about 6-7 feet away from The Gathering Of The Cows I decide to just stop.

I don't take the next step.

This action (or, rather, inaction) seems too upset the cows. The cows are now crowding the fence and mooing and mooing and MOOing and I'm thinking mad cows! MAD COWS!! Bad beef! Call the -- something, I guess the Ministry of Agriculture or something, call the Ministry, the cows have gone MAD!

So I dunno, I was just all scared and stuff but like I was all "oooh, I can't let them intimidate me!" at the same time.

Shuddup.

And so I just very casually keep moving (moo-ving) and walking TOWARD the killer cows - because they've now become an infamous Irish breed of homicidal livestock in my mind, plotting my death by trampling - so that I can get past them and further down the road, because the CEO of Beth Vacations made it our corporate mission to get PAST the cows, remember, to see if there's a turn-off and I KNOW this is more than two fookin kilometers but I CAN'T LET THE COWS SCARE ME even if I'm already scared and okay, so now I'm right even with the Queen Cow, and suddenly it's like a movie:

There is a sudden silence - and into the hush, a soft intake of cow-breath . . . followed by a great solid wall of MOO, reaching a volume that, where I'm from, is cause to call the cops. Or OSHA. Or the National Guard. I mean jeez-us.

To re-cap, it was like: silence-two-three-four, BUST-A-FUCKING-EARDRUM-two-three-four.

('nother side note: Y'all know me. You can imagine how incredibly difficult it was for me at this point, not to start mooing right back at them, loud and angry, FUCKING MOOOOOO YOU BULL-FUCKING WANKERS!! You wanna piece of me? Huh? Bring it, Bessie! I fucking DARE you, bitch! Et cetera. But I managed to restrain myself and continued politely along my way.)

(side note again: okay, that imagery just cracks me up, me mooing back all angry. Hee hee heeee)

So I continue on my not-so-merry way, thinking:
- Eyes on the prize, EYES ON THE FOOKIN PRIZE!
- What could they want, what could the cows POSSIBLY want from me?
- Are cows like scared to step over 2 feet of wire fence? Is this the logic behind the fence?
- Are there zoning laws that could protect me?
- Do cows attack?
- Was there ever a When Cows Attack special on Fox?
- Should I be watching more Fox television? Would I be more informed?
- Do cows attack? I. Don't. Know. (That's actually a direct quote of one of the thoughts that went through my head, the Do Cows Attack line of thought, and I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing - but at the same time, it was a kind of absurdly serious question)
- How long would it take for them to find my cattle-trampled, bloody carcass out here at the arse-end of Irish countryside, and would it make the news in America?
- Would they blame my death on the fookin English?

So these like 4-5 steps to get past the Queen Cow were like an eternity. None of that life-flashing-before-my-eyes. It was just that series of Incredibly Important Questions, and you'll notice that "Am I wearing clean underwear?" was nowhere in there.

Anyway, I look up in that last step to get me right past Queen Cow, and the roar of mooing is positively deafening, and I see a figure in the distance, across the fields. I dunno, he (assuming it was a he) was a few acres away, but he TOTALLY belonged to these cows, I could tell. Couldn't make out his face, but I just knew he was watching me and laughing at me. And so now, even though I was mid-stride into the last step to take me past the point of danger and I just wanted to make a break for it (Run! Run for your liiiiives!!), now I totally couldn't.

Why couldn't I? Because I was representing America. I cannot run from cows. Only pinko commie bastards run from cows. You run from cows and the terrorists will have won. Or, ya know - whatever.

So I keep walking and the instant that I am past Queen Cow, there is a preternatural silence. One might almost call it unholy.

I do not question it. I do not look back. I do not look toward Irish Farm Guy In The Distance. I keep going, down the road, down the slope, another hundred yards or so and there is abso-fucking-lutely no turn-off.

I am now convinced that the town with the ATM is mythical and I have only been sent this way to be fed to the cows and/or to amuse Irish Farm Guy In The Distance. I decide I can't keep going in search of this town because there is nothing but bloodthirsty cows and empty fookin hills all around and NO WAY am I going to try to hail Irish Farm Guy In The Distance to ask HIM because he SUCKS and so do his frikken COWS. So I sit down on a big boulder on the side of the road, under a tree and have a cigarette. This is back when I smoked. (Yes, that was a very obvious statement.)

I consider the meaning of life, the shape of the universe, why nature made grass green instead of, like, yellow, and what it would feel like to have udders there on my abdomen and people yanking on them every day, etc. Just your common, garden-variety Beth-thoughts while smoking a cigarette on a boulder in Ireland while some Irish Farm Guy In The Distance and about 40 cows watch her.

Also, I decided to go back, because I was wet and the freezing wind and drizzle was starting up again and to be perfectly blunt, I was so cold that my nipples could cut glass, okay?

So I stood up and began to walk back toward the cows. They'd been watching me the whole time and at my first step back in their direction, the absolute stillness was shattered with their screaming moo's. (Screaming Moo's! New from Kellogg's!) The walk back past them was a re-enactment of the walk toward them, except they seemed a bit more plaintive, and I muttered at them as I passed, "Yeah yeah, I got it. Moo. I heard you, Jaysus Fookin Christ - mooooo, I know, okay?"

And that was it. I came back to the hostel (the River Aille hostel, btw, if you ever go - lovely, and a great guy who runs it) and dried out by the peat fire and told the story to other travelers that evening, who howled with laughter, told me it was two miles and if I'd gone another maybe half-mile or so, I'd have come to the turn-off, and then they took me out for a pint. Or two or three. And a sweet guy lent me some cash to pay for my bus-ride the next day.

And my granpa says that the cows just probably wanted me to milk them, and were upset that I kept "lollygagging".

Fookin cows.