Kindness: An Irish Blessing

There are some people in this world who are nice because they are taught to be nice to others, and others who are nice because it’s simply their nature. In America, we’re nice – on occasion – because we’re told to be. The Irish are nice because it’s their nature.

Let me start by saying that I love my country. There is no where else I’d rather live than in the U.S.A. (ok, actually, that’s debatable, but it’s not because I don’t love my country). I’m proud and honored to be an American. Never was that clearer than at the Shannon, Ireland, airport on Tuesday, June 24, when hundreds of U.S. soldiers marched passed travelers to board their flight to somewhere. As they walked through the airport, people waved, children saluted and I was overcome with emotion. Maybe they were off to serve their next tour of duty, or maybe they were heading home – either way, they were proud, and I was proud of them.

But while in Ireland, I discovered something about my country: we’re downright rude. Sure, there are sweet people in middle America who bake cookies and serve as Little League coaches or Den Mothers for the Girl Scout troops, but that doesn’t make them ‘nice.’

Before I arrived in Ireland I heard from just about everyone, “The Irish are the nicest people in the world.” Ok, I thought, fine -they are nice. But so am I. So is my neighbor. My landlord is nice. What makes the Irish so different? Maybe it’s the lush green landscapes, the comfort food or the endless supply of Irish whiskey. Whatever it is, these statements are true: Ireland is full of friendly faces.

Driving in Ireland

Driving through County Kerry on our way to the Shannon ferry, we encountered a flat tire. The scene: two women, strange country, flat tire, rental car. Four-letter words were flying from our mouths as we slowly pulled over to the nearest shoulder on the side of the road. We called Hertz and asked for help, and were promptly told, “It’s not Hertz’s problem.” There was no owner manual for the car, there was no 911 to call. We had a spare tire and a jack and no idea how to use it. Just as we rolled the spare tire to the front of the car in what I can only explain as wishful thinking (I wished that the tire would magically pop on the car and we could continue on our journey), a car pulled up and a woman got out. She was a homely woman in her middle-late 60s. Her left hand shook continuously, but that didn’t seem to stop her. She told us she was on her way to tend to her garden when she noticed us on the side of road.

“How are you getting along?” she asked.

“Well, not too well,” I replied. “Honestly, I’m not sure how to change a tire.”

“Ah well, let me help you,” she said, and bent down on one knee to position the jack and began to tell us a story. “When I was a young lass, my father said, ‘If you want to drive, you’ll learn to change a tire,’ and he set me off on the road.”

Within minutes, the tire was changed and we were on our way. I turned to my friend and stated, very frankly, “That would not happen in America.”

In America, if someone pulled over on the side of the road I would be weary of them, scared of what their ulterior motive may be. We are told nightly on the news of a new abduction, death or homicide. If I had a flat in America, I would call 911 and sit in my car with my doors locked until the police arrived to help me. I realize this statement is quite a generalization, but I wonder how many people feel the same, or worse, have never experienced the type of kindness we experienced in Ireland? I’m quite certain there are kind people in America who are willing to stop and help a stranger on the side of the road, but the reality is that those people are a minority where I live, and it took a trip to Ireland for me to notice.

The rest of our trip was met with the same kindness – smiles, hugs and waves from everyone we met. The Irish welcome you with “Cheers!” and leave you with “God Bless” and they ask you’re “getting on” and if you “require more…” of anything.

It’s hard not to be happy in Ireland. Sadly, that euphoric happiness ended when I arrived at U.S. Customs and the agent, who couldn’t be bothered to even make eye contact, demanded my “PASSPORT!” and sent me back to America.