It's about a half hour walk from our cottages at the hotel to the church in town. Oh, I forgot to mention that last week was the first time in 3 weeks that I went to a mass in my vernacular. I had previously been in Rome for a mass spoken in Italian, and then the week after that I went into Spiddal for the mass said in Irish. The great thing about the Catholic tradition is that it is catholic (universal). Although I might not know what is being said, the order of the mass does not change and allows me to participate, even if it's just in my head. But back to the story... (I told Laura this story through an email, so I'm hoping I can capture the same level of suspense...)
So, seven of us 20/21 year old American students set out to fulfill our obligation to this Holy Day. (I realized later that since it fell on a Saturday, it wasn't obligatory.) Most of us speak one word of Irish: "slainte" ("To your health!"). And that's because we've spent enough time in a pub or two. Anyway, I felt really good about the prospects of the day, seeing as it was sunny and skies were clear, which is a rarity around these parts. The church, as you can see, is relatively small and I would guess it maxes out at about 3 to 4 hundred people.
We filed into the sanctuary and slipped into the last pew of the 1st section. I'd say there were about 50 people in the section behind us. This is important, for a reason you will soon understand.
The pew was calling our names, as it fit the seven of us perfectly. This was also the pew that everyone walks behind in order to exit the church; this is also important. Have I built up the story enough? I hope you haven't stopped reading yet. As we all get into the pew, the opening song begins...and as I'm taking off my sweatshirt, noticing a good number of older people in attendance, Alex leans over to me and says, "I think this is a funeral." What? No. It can't be. I mean why would a Catholic church have a funeral at 11am on a Saturday? I'm an idiot. So, as some of us are hinting at getting the hell out of there to avoid any more awkwardness, my lovable roommate Kevin says, "I don't think it is." Of course, he was on the end, unwilling to let any of us sneak out. We also didn't want to make the situation worse by leaving with so many witnesses behind us. Sure enough, there sat the casket at the foot of the alter with the pallbearers nearby.
There is a song that was popular when I was younger that contained the lyric, "I'm the kind of guy who laughs at a funeral." Well I guess now, so am I. It was really a surreal feeling accidentally attending a funeral, not understanding a word of the Irish, and not even knowing if the deceased was young or old, or even a man or a woman. I hope I got a chuckle or two out of some of you as well. And of course, the whole congregation exited right behind us, I'm sure wondering how we knew the wonderful man/woman. If none of this made you smile, maybe this will. As we walked out, Kevin turns to me and says, "Dude, I think we just crashed a funeral." Couldn't have said it better myself.
Wow...I need a Guinness.
1 comment:
good story, joe.
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