vacation in Belfast

[franksolich]

During the winter of 1977-1978, when I was a teenager and green in judgement, and had no idea what to do with my life, I embarked upon an exploration of England, Scotland, Northern Ireland, the Irish Free State, and Wales.

As I didn't have a whole lot of money, or parents to send me some, I had to do it on the cheap, traveling mostly at night when fares were less expensive, slumbering in flophouses, that sort of thing.

In late January 1978, I was in Edinburgh, where I encountered an elderly woman who had once been to Nebraska (although not the real Nebraska, the Sandhills), who got me set up in quarters a step or two above the usual flophouse, who gave me suggestions on what to see in the city, and connections to people I might find interesting.

After having exhausted Edinburgh, I announced I was headed on to Belfast, Northern Ireland.  I disremember exactly all that was going on at the time--there hadn't been any explosions or murders (there however were to be shortly after I left, dozens and scores murdered, but I was already in Wales by then), but the American embassy strongly advised Americans to not go there, and the British government was trying to discourage all non-residents of Northern Ireland from going there.

I have no idea how they knew, but they knew.

I was reminded of this, and it was suggested that there were still parts of Scotland I might find interesting.  Being the glum, insolent, sullen, saturnine lad I was, I scoffed at the notion. 

In fact, for a person such as myself, no place could possibly be safer than Northern Ireland, given that I had never recognized the existence of the Republic of Ireland.  True, I was a Roman Catholic, but my sentiments were solidly Orange.

just as I intuitively speculated, it's a busy afternoon, and not likely to get less busy, so I have to cut out for a bit; back later to finish this up.

[franksolich]

At some point during my stay in Edinburgh, I had met a captain in the Royal Marines, who wished to see me before I left the city (for any destination).  I have no idea why, but usually when people request repeat appearances from me, it's simply because they're fascinated with the phenomenon of a deaf person who seems to be able to hear, although I modestly doubt they really learn anything.

And so it was to his home that I went, a couple of days before I was scheduled to go by bus from Edinburgh to Stranraer, by boat from Stranraer to Larne, and by rail from Larne to Belfast.  (Actually, not any considerable distance by Nebraska standards; not even halfway across the state.)

There were other guests from dinner there, who unanimously agreed it was foolhardy, stupid, dangerous, and rash for an unescorted American teenager to go there, and especially a deaf one.  And especially someone who knew no one there.

I was adamant, as I can sometimes be.

The captain in the Royal Marines, resigned to that I was perhaps suicidal, advised that I stop by his office in the morning, as he might be able to do something of assistance.

When I went there the next morning, he was not there, but there was a receptionist who, upon I identifying myself, handed over a letter inside an envelope.  I opened the envelope; the letter was written on official Royal Marines stationery, and properly signed by the captain.

It was just one page, identifying myself and my business, that the captain personally knew me and vouched for my character, and requested that if I was found to be in any sort of trouble, the American consulate and the captain be immediately contacted.

It was such an impressive letter I debated about using it for job-recommendation purposes.

"It's not really a laissez-passer, a safe-conduct, but it should do for you," the receptionist told me.

oops; the ancient crippled cat Gustav just showed up, and the other cats aren't happy about it; have to go placate the cats, back later

[franksolich]

The next day, I then boarded the bus to Stranraer, where I arrived in mid-evening.

Remember, I usually traveled during "off-hours" because the fares were cheaper; the boat from Stranraer to Larne was a night ferry.

Not being intimately acquainted with shippage, I was impressed by the ferry, which (I later learned) had a capacity of 1,000, and a reputation for being widely-used.

The North Channel of the Irish Sea was violent that winter night, but I had already been asea before on rough waters, and as with many Nebraskans, for some peculiar reason (given that Nebraska is far from any major body of water), the tumbling and swerving and curling and twisting bothered me not at all.

It's possible I was the only one not bothered; the other 42 passengers aboard stayed inside, while I roamed the vast expanses of the boat outside.

As the lights of Northern Ireland began penetrating the darkness, an official approached me.  I offered my passport, which startled him.  He reminded me of the various travel advisories, and that all the other passengers on board were British or Irish, that I was not only the only American on board, but the only foreigner, period, on board.

But, I was on board and nothing could be done about it.

He shifted through a large envelope, and gave me three forms to fill out, including a little green card, about the size of an index card, titled PREVENTION OF TERRORISM ACT.  I carefully itemized all of my personal data, my whole autobiography, and gave the reasons for visiting Northern Ireland.

The official scanned them quickly, and saying "Good luck," went on to other business.

that big animal from yesterday--whether deer or moose or elk, I have no idea--is standing down by the river again, and the cats don't like it; the rule here is that if the cats don't like something, it has to go, and so back later

[franksolich]

It was of course black as ink, in the middle of the night, and so I saw nothing of Northern Ireland between Larne and the central railway station of Belfast; there were three other passengers in the 60-seat coach, and so I spent my time anthropologically speculating who they were, and what they might be up to; obviously the Irish, and not the British, sort, and hence up to no good.

The train arrived at the railway station--the distance was not great--and while perhaps a couple score passengers disembarked, they scurried away as quickly as we had come.  The station was enormous, vast, cavernous, and I was all alone in it.

Noticing a ticket window still open, I approached it, asking the man behind it directions to a cheap flophouse or youth hostel in Belfast.  The man looked at me with either contempt or fear (I have no idea which), and quickly pulled down the shade without answering.

Excresence happens.  Sometimes one just has a bad day.

I walked outside the front entrance, and saw lights on the horizon; obviously, the downtown, or commercial, area.  And probably about a mile away. 

So I began walking.

Between the station and the center of Belfast was, obviously, an ancient industrial area, old brick buildings dating from the early Victorian era, seeming to be about three or four stories high.  It was difficult to determine, because while there were doorways, there were few, if any, windows.  It was as if one was walking at the bottom of a deep canyon.  The streetlights were out, with only the moon to guide one.

Indistinctly, about a block in front of me, walked an old man and a little boy, holding hands.  I had no idea why they might be out and about during an hour, and in such a neighborhood, such as this, but there they were.

I got the vague notion about catching up with them, to inquire about Belfast, but the faster I walked, the faster they hurried on.

Then suddenly they evaporated, disappearing into the alcove of a doorway.

Perhaps they lived there, I thought, although it surely didn't seem like an apartment building to me.

The sidewalk curved, and as I curved with it, I walked into the barrel of a rifle.

(Remember, even today, years later, I am not as acquainted with firearms as I should perhaps be; it could have been a machine-gun or a bazooka, for all I knew; I saw only that it had a long barrel.)

I didn't actually "walk into" it; it was about two-thirds my height, or four feet, away from me, pointed directly at my stomach.  At the trigger end of it was a teenager not even old enough to shave every day, dressed in camouflage and intently staring at my chest.

I froze, not only in the sense of standing still, but turning ice-cold.

I dunno how long it was, two seconds, ten seconds, whatever, but the youth relaxed his gaze, seeing something beyond me, and I turned.

Out of some sort of armored jeep bounced a figure of authority and three other camoflauge-attired youths.

The first thing I noticed--even before height, size, age--was the royal monogram, "EiiR" on his hat.

I heaved a sigh of relief; I had fallen among friends, not foes.

oops, and damn it, the cat William is trying to bring in a dead bird, and I have to go stop it, as one of the other rules here is no dead wildlife inside the house--sorry for the interruption

[franksolich]

The man with the royal monogram--now determined to be middle aged, average height, stocky build, wearing a great-coat--asked me who I was, and what I was doing.

I expected to be frisked, but nothing of the sort happened, perhaps because cold weather doesn't bother me, and so I was very lightly clothed.

Instead of answering him, I handed him my passport.

He examined the document, and stared at me as if I were Bozo from Outer Space.

Then he started shooting questions at me, too quickly for me to grasp.

I lifted my right hand, to brush aside the hair on the right side of my head, showing the absence of ears, so as to slow him down.

He saw that, and then looked at me again as if I were some sort of Phenomenon Never Seen Before.

"They were shooting at you, you know," he said; "and you were walking right through it.  They were shooting at you."

To this day, I think the gentleman was just bluffing, trying to scare me. 

Being deaf, I cannot hear gunfire, but I rather suspect that if I were being shot at, I would know it.

The monogrammed gentleman then indicated that I had to be taken away, to see his boss, to get "cleared."

Well, there was nothing I could do about it, so I said, sure, no problem.

Unlike the gigantic primitive, who sours when given a lemon, my attitude was, when given a lemon, make lemonade.  I was going to get my first ride in an official military vehicle, and that was at least something.

now the cat William's trying to bring in the dead bird by the back way, and so I have to go stop him; no dead wildlife allowed inside the premises--back in a bit

[franksolich]

And so I got the ride, wedged in between two soldiers in the back, seeing some of the sights of industrial northern Belfast.  There seemed to be some fires going on, but I thought it best to not ask about them.

We arrived at a one-story nondescript building surrounded by barbed wire, and I was taken in to see the monogrammed gentleman's boss.

(Before I went to the socialist paradises of the workers and peasants with free medical care for all fifteen years later, I paid little, or no, attention to military ranks, and so I had no idea these ranks.  I assume, correctly or incorrectly, that the monogrammed gentleman was perhaps a major, and his boss a colonel.)

The colonel was an older gentleman who was speaking on the telephone when we arrived, and it was, uh, obvious the conversation was about me.

After slamming down the telephone, he stared at me, standing there.  He stared at me in sections; head first, then neck, then shoulders, then heart, then stomach, then abdomen, then thighs, then legs, and finally, toes.

Done taking me in, he reminded me I wasn't supposed to be there.

I replied that if someone had actually tried stopping me from being there, out of respect for my hosts, I would have not come there.  But no one had tried stopping me from being there, other than gentle suggestions and hints, no force.

And besides, I added, I had a safe-conduct, a laissez-passer.

He arched his eyebrows.  I said it was in my bag, and I hadn't opened my bag because one wasn't supposed to do that, for fear the person might be reaching for a firearm or bomb or explosive.

He gave me permission to open my bag.

I handed the letter from the captain in the Royal Marines to him.

He read it.

It was a sight to behold; the colonel went ballistic, in megatons.

a dead bird just dropped down the chimney, and William's the only cat who knows how to get up on the roof, so damn, I have to go check that--back in a bit

[franksolich]

I of course have seen people get angry before, but I had never before, nor since, seen anyone blow their top to this same degree.  It seemed as if the colonel's entire force of personality, every muscle and drop of blood and organ in his body, zoomed up to the very top of his head, trying to break through the top.

After he calmed down, he asked, "WHY DID THIS [uncivil expletive deleted] [expletive deleted] [expletive deleted] CAPTAIN IN THE [especially obscene expletive deleted] [expletive deleted] [expletive deleted] [expletive deleted] ROYAL [really foul expletive deleted] MARINES IN [expletive deleted] [expletive deleted] EDINBURGH GIVE YOU THIS [expletive deleted] LETTER?!!"

"Because I asked him for it," I replied.

The colonel went mega-ballistic again.

oops, have to go empty the bladder; back in a bit

[franksolich]

It wasn't exactly being a pleasant encounter, but all I could do was sit there saying nothing, until the colonel spent himself.

Finally, leaning back in his chair, the colonel instructed someone who was an officer, "GET.....HIM.....OUT.....OF.....HERE."

In case he was misunderstood, the colonel repeated, between clenched teeth, "GET.....HIM.....OUT.....OF.....HERE."

The officer indicated I was going to be taken to a hotel.

Another ride in an official military vehicle, but I had already had that; this time, the lemonade would be a personal tour of Belfast, I thought, even though it was still dark.

We headed south, going through checkpoints, to the center of the city.  We passed what was identified to me as the Belfast City Hall, an ornate wedding-cake sort of building, all lit up with spotlights, as if it were Christmas or something.

There was so much barbed wire; enough barbed wire to fence in the entire state of Nebraska, it seemed.

As fate would have it, the Belfast City Hall would be all the sights of Belfast I was ever to see, because the armored vehicle continued south, outside of the city.  It wasn't a very long drive, as Northern Ireland is a tiny place, before I was deposited at some sort of semi-luxury hotel out in the boondocks.

I hadn't yet studied the map of Northern Ireland very closely yet, and so didn't know I was being left at the very edge, almost in the Irish Free State itself.

It was just really odd, just really bizarre.

There was a convention of Northern Ireland toy manufacturers going on just then, and I had emerged from the barbed wire and fires outside, to a lobby crammed with teddy bears, dolls, jack-in-boxes, electric trains and race cars, miniature kitchens; just all sorts of toys, and all over the place.

It was like a gigantic Santa's workshop, the lobby.

It was of course late, but not so late some of the enterprisers were still up and having a good time, and even though I was dragged out, I joined them for a while.  They were a hearty, enthusiastic, convivial group, these toy-manufacturers from Northern Ireland, the usual Chamber-of-Commerce sort of boosters, but pleasant company that constantly assured me that Northern Ireland was a great place to visit, a wonderful place to see, and no troubles at all.

Wonderful gentlemen; I have oftentimes prayed that they have since flourished and prospered.

It was near dawn when I finally went to my room.  When I shut the door, I carefully read the notice hanging on it, on the inside; the usual sort of hotel rules and regulations.  The last third of it advised that if one saw or heard gun-shots or explosions, he was to throw himself onto the floor, away from windows, laying as low as possible.

oops, I'm just about done, and I suddenly noticed a dead bird in the bowl of the commode; I have to go check to see how the cat William managed to sneak it inside through the plumbing--back soon, to wrap this up

[franksolich]

As I had not yet seen enough of Belfast to suit me, the next afternoon, I went to the bus station, to purchase a ticket there.

The agent said it was not possible, unless one were actually a resident of the city, as travel there was highly restricted and there were already credible speculations of martial law being imposed.

I remembered I had the letter from the captain of the Royal Marines; surely that would get me there.

I looked in my bag; oops, the letter wasn't there.

Perhaps in all his agitation, the colonel had absent-mindedly forgotten to give it back to me, I figured. 

Excresence happens, and so reluctantly I headed south.

the end; I just buried the dead bird under two feet of Nebraska soil, where even the cat William can't dig it up

[FGL]

You have hundreds of these stories stored up there in the gray attic don't you?

Very good reading, very entertaining too

[franksolich]

You have hundreds of these stories stored up there in the gray attic don't you?

Probably I do, but I'm a long ways from having grey hair yet.

I would have to admit, and enthusiastically so, that life is much more interesting when one goes through it with no particular destination in mind, taking who and what comes one's way, and being grateful for who and what does.

Again, this is not to denigrate those who plan and work towards goals; this is the sort of life only for lone wolves, not for people with spouses and children, who have to of course take the needs and feelings of other people into consideration.

[FGL]

I got a message from Web Ring that Geocities was going to be closed this year by Yahoo and I went to my old site to peruse the old files, some of which were pretty good. I used to post them at FR under the source "Globalism Watch". I think I will try to save some of those... but while doing this I found an old unifinished story that I had been lamenting the loss of since the last computer fried. I must have saved it before going on the road with my brother for a few months.

Its science fiction and oh so politically incorrect.

[chris_]

That was fascinating.  I enjoyed reading that.

[Eupher]

Almost as entertaining were the short accounts of William the cat and how seemingly easily Frank took his antics in stride. 

[franksolich]

Almost as entertaining were the short accounts of William the cat and how seemingly easily Frank took his antics in stride. 

Those short accounts actually happen at different times when I'm writing something, as they happened yesterday afternoon when I was writing this, but to tell the truth, they don't exactly happen at the time I mention them.

They happen, I save them, and then use them as handy "story breaks."