ADVENTURES IN SALSALAND

The first thing I see when I open my eyes is Uncle Paddy’s red face staring at me from the other side of the cell. “Must have been a good night”, murmurs Paddy; “cause I can’t remember a thing”. How did I end up in this mess? By rights, I should be in Iceland by now, reporting on their thriving salsa scene but SOMEBODY SCREWED UP and instead I find myself in a small town called Galway on the rainswept west coast of Ireland. I won’t say who screwed up but let’s just say when I told my editor I was in Ireland instead of Iceland, she responded: “Aren’t they the same place?”. Okay, okay – I concede that though my editor might need a geography lesson, I can’t exactly blame everything on her. Like the fact I’m in jail.

First up, Paddy O’Shea isn’t actually my uncle. More like a third cousin once removed. Or is it first cousin twice removed? I had met him at cousin Stavros’s wedding where he tried to explain the complex familial connections to me over a pint of Guinness but on the eighth pint even he started to get confused so we settled on uncle and that was that. “Look me up if you’re ever in Ireland” he said, not realising I’d be calling on him so soon. And so I end up in Paddy’s house in Spiddal, just outside Galway city - “the fastest growing city in Europe”, according to Paddy. “70,000 and growing” he says proudly as I try to feign interest whilst unsuccessfully stifling a yawn.

His wife Mary serves us dinner – a curious concoction of boiled bacon, cabbage and potatoes. Paddy and Mary haven’t spoken in over 20 years so I do most of the talking. “What’s the salsa scene like here?”, I enquire of Paddy. “Ah we don’t go in for that sort of thing around here”, he says disapprovingly. “Irish dancing would be more my scene” he says, gesturing towards the multiple Irish-dancing trophies which line the room. “Like Riverdance?” I ask. “Who?”, says Paddy. “Riverdance. You know. Michael Flatley”. “Never heard of him. Is he local?”. I decide not to pursue the conversation any further and after finishing off my dinner it’s off to the pub with us to sample the local Guinness.

Only we can’t get in because Paddy’s barred from all the local bars. So we head off into Galway in Paddy’s tractor, stopping off in every pub we pass for “a quick drink”. “Aren’t there laws here against drunk driving?” I shout over the noisy tractor engine as Paddy steers us unsteadily along the coast road to Galway. “Doesn’t apply to tractors”, he slurs. “You can have as many drinks as you like and still drive a tractor”. Every so often I have to grab the steering wheel and steer him onto the proper side of the road. And thus we progressed – Paddy operating the pedals and me on the steering wheel. Everything was going swimmingly well until the cop car pulled us over.

It turned out Paddy’s interpretation of Irish traffic law bore very little relation to reality and we ended up in the slammer. “No tax, no insurance and drunk at the wheel – again”, growled Sergeant O’Reilly as he threw myself and Paddy in the cell. “They’ll lock you away this time O’Shea”. I had a hard time convincing the cops of my name. “Papa who?” says O’ Reilly. Well eventually I convinced them that I am indeed Enriqué Papadopoulos. But every time I told them I was from Regina they burst out laughing. Sergeant O’Reilly was so amused he rounded up all the other cops in the station and got them to ask me where I was from. “What’s so funny about Regina?” I asked to much amusement. Such rude men I have never met in my life!

However, there was one cop who seemed to take a shine to me. Sheila O’ Shaughnessy was her name, fresh out of cop-school, an Irish beauty with long black hair and, would you believe it? – a keen interest in salsa-dancing. Oh, and get this – she has a thing for short men. Now, I know what you’re thinking dear readers. What about my lovely Helen? I’ll admit, I felt a pang of guilt as I scribbled down Sheila’s number and promised to call her. But, let’s face it – I might never see Helen again and maybe it was time I started to get realistic about things. Sheila must have pulled a few strings because the next thing you know we’re out of jail. The tractor’s been impounded though, along with my passport and so we hitch back to Spiddal only to find Paddy’s wife has changed the lock.

# posted by Enrique Papadopoulos @ 6:38 AM