If you’re an American in Ireland, don’t drive with people you love.
I love my brother-in-law. He has a good heart and I want him to keep it functioning for a long, long time. But after a mile or two of his taking the right-handed driver’s seat of our Irish rental car, I felt like killing someone.
I can’t remember the last time I got car sickness. Usually, though, I am the driver and not the passenger stuck in the back seat of an unfamiliar vehicle going too fast on roads that would better fit a bicycle or two. Add to that the tunnel effect of driving along roads that have stone fences edging in the cars and tall bushes that keep you from seeing anything but the immeasurably small distance between your knees and the buses heading toward you at break-neck speeds.
Not just little polite buses, but enormous bully buses that know where they are going when no one in your rental has a clue. We made a strategic decision to avoid traffic and take scenic side-roads with the help of GPS. With a thoroughly confident voice, this bossy GPS woman guided us down one tiny road after the other, making a 3-hour journey stretch into six.
By the time we got to Ballycastle, my brother-in-law was lucky to be alive, because who else could I blame for six hours with my eyes closed and my stomach dizzy through what I believed would be gorgeous Irish countryside that I never got to see. I closed my eyes just outside of Dublin. When I opened them in Ballycastle, however, all was forgiven.