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"Oh Jesus, another roundabout coming up. Which way do I go, Mom?"
"…"
"Mom?! Which way?"
"Uh…"
"GODDAMMIT!"
I don't usually swear in front of my family. It's just not something that's part of our daily interactions. But now, lost in County Dublin and forced to make panicked decisions at each intersection, I'm invoking the Lord's name so often it's like She's right there in the car with us.
Mom is holding all the maps. My sister avoids them like a demon to Holy Water, hissing and covering her eyes.
It's not Mom's fault we can't navigate ourselves out of this maze, but it certainly doesn't help that the map is written in 2 point font and her eyes are about as effective as a Dwight Howard at the foul line.
"Just go towards the highway," she suggests.
"And where the hell is that, Mom?" I snap, plastered against the window from the G-Forces of yet another roundabout.
"That one, toward the M1," she points.
"Fine."
We fly out of the merry-go-round from Hades onto a road that will hopefully take us to the highway. I'm abandoning all my convictions from a few miles ago, flip-flopping faster than a presidential candidate from one town to the next. Fuck these fucking roundabouts, I think.
For my part, I'm not handling the stress of driving very well. All my optimism has evaporated. No longer the family cheerleader, I've become Gordon Ramsey from Hell's Kitchen. I'm snapping at Mom without reason, despising my sister's worry in the backseat, and generally stewing in a huge vat of Hate.
It's the Irish roads that take the brunt of my scathing internal monologue. Another group of signs pass and I attempt to decipher them. The destinations are printed in English with their traditional Irish names underneath, making the text small and near impossible to read from a distance.
In theory, I can understand and appreciate the Irish people's desire to preserve their native language. In practice, however, the nod to tradition just makes me angry.
This, along with the feeling of playing Russian Roulette every time one enters a roundabout, gives the Irish road system such a sense of spontaneity and danger that I wonder if Neal Cassady wasn't a key architect for it.
Purely by chance - or a real-life instance of deus ex machina - we find ourselves driving up the on-ramp of the M1 - the I-95 of Irish highways. I spy the 120km/ph speed limit sign and give a now-rare whoop of joy. I can dig this.
The Yaris disagrees. Or rather, it disapproves of my ill-timed shifts from one gear to the next. It practically screams, "Try harder, Dummy", as I over-rev on my pre-premature shift into 5th gear. I peek up at my rearview mirror as I merge, only to realize for the four-hundredth time today that it is, in fact, on my left side.
Now up to speed and in a slightly more familiar environment, we begin to relax a bit. I, for one, am thoroughly enjoying myself. There's no need for hasty, stressful decisions on the highway. It's a place of stasis and safety for me.
We pass a sign informing us that Belfast is just 153km north. Very reasonable, I think, maybe we should just head there. At least we know where that is. But I know that isn't an option. Eventually we're going to have to locate this gawd-forsaken B&B. Eventually.
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