Homecoming Queen

Poring over the Ireland guidebook, humming gaily as I run my index finger along the illustrated valleys, lakes, and peninsulas that form the geographical makeup of counties Cork and Kerry, I come to an abrupt stop when I reach Dingle Bay and laugh aloud.

"My Dad is brilliant!" I cry to J.B., who, while totally agreeing, wonders at this adulatory outburst.

In the lyrical names of the Southwestern town of Tralee and the Macgillycuddy Reeks, I recognized myself and my younger brother. Nicknames of endearment are one among many of my Dad's lingual gifts and from as early as I can remember, I've learned to respond less to Aralena than to Arito, Nillo, Ducky or Tralee. Likewise, my brother, of the one syllable first name Hugh, has resigned himself with a grin to the much more complicated moniker Macgillycuddy. (But Macgill when expediency is of the essence.)

We fly to Dublin tonight and, after a couple of days plotting the demise of the stiffy by the Liffey and lolling around Swift's old stomping grounds, will travel west and southwest for the next 8 days. J.B. is armed with his highly detailed Excel spreadsheet of priority excursions, and I'm bringing a list of authors whose works I can't find here in Paris. My "F*%$ Cromwell!" t-shirt is clean and packed, and I've even caught a few interesting articles on improving Danish-Irish relations. It's about time.

I've completely romanticized this voyage across the Channel, into the land of my Celtic ancestors, but when you've got a Dad whose surreal accounts of his own treks across the Emerald Isle constituted your adolescent fairy tales, you can't help but dive headlong into an Eire of Finn MacCools and Cúchulainns and Queen Maeves of Connaught!