One of the cultural artifacts I've noticed here in Ireland is the innate desire for Irish to not be a bother to others. Certain requests aren't made simply because it will cause too much consternation for their fellow Irishmen. And while, the response may be "oh, 'tis no trouble at all." The truth is that it is very much so. It's just that the Irish are way too nice to tell you what a bothersome wart you're being. Which brings me to my least favorite thing about Ireland. I can't eat here.
That's not entirely true. It's just more "difficult" for me. I knew that finding vegan fare would be somewhat arduous, just not quite as frustrating as it ended up being. I've actually eaten a potato wedge sandwich here. I had no idea such a carb monstrosity existed outside of the weird delusions of Colonel Sanders. The sandwich was exactly that: potato wedges, ketchup, and red onion thrown on top to really make the sandwich. It was delicious, but I felt sort of dirty eating it, like some fatty on The Biggest Loser caught hording a stash of Little Debbie snack cakes. Better yet, like Private Pyle and his single jelly donut. On a number of occasions, my host mom Brid would verbally poke me with a stick, questioning not only my veganism as a belief system, not questioning the audacity with which I live my life. Audacity may be too strong a word, but the intent was clear. How dare I walk through this world expecting it to adapt to my dietary restrictions. Anytime I noted the difficulty in finding vegan cuisine, Brid would question me indignantly, "Well, what did you expect?" It was as if her icy queries were meant to protect the national trust, a not so subtle reminder that I was the foreigner, and a pigheaded one at that. Sometimes, the barb struck a little close as I knew I wasn't involved in a dialogue. The questions were meant to put me on the defensive. It was her way of needling me, but the manner of which left me oft questioning the "good-natured" aspect of her line of interrogation.
That said, I was able to find food out and about in Ireland. It came at a premium, as the Indian and Thai restaurants I frequented were a step up in price as compared to the Supermacs and the Eddie Rockets. I did find three establishments in Dublin that advertised vegan/vegetarian fare. And I did find vegan food on the road in Kilkenny at a nice Indian restaurant. The most difficult times were in Galway and Belfast, both points at which my finances were stretched to the maximum. The bus trip to the Giants Causeway was fruitless because tourist stops just don't cater to vegans.
In Ireland's favor, I will say that most people knew what a vegan was. There weren't many, "huh?" or "I don't know what that is," remarks to be found. The only problem came when I was offered a vegetarian option, and I had to remind them that I was not vegetarian. So people do know what vegans are, they just don't give a flying rip about them them, or hey, Ireland has potatoes.... lots of potatoes.... My host mom was really quite accomodating despite her retiscence about cooking vegan fare. And sure, I ate "Balkan stew" at least three times, but she did try. Mrs. Martin bought a vegan cookbook and even bought me vegan mozzarella and soy milk, which she really didn't have to do. So beyond her questions and quibbles, I have no quarrel with how I ate at her house. But that is not to say I hated the lack of protein at the grocer and in restaurants. Tofu was a rare and foreign commodity and priced as such. Seitan, Veat or Boca was nowhere to be seen. I found lots of Quorn at my local Tesco, but Quorn is for vegetarians because I don't do eggs. Health food stores were not really health food stores. There was no vegan jerky or Gardein in sight. They might have a can of vegan cutlets, but that's it, highly processed, highly salted slabs of cured tofu. As a competitive power lifter here in the States, I'm used to getting at least 200 grams of protein a day, well over 100 of that in food alone. But in Ireland I was lucky to get 15 or 20 from some of the veggies and the Luna bars I would each each day.
I guess that's what made me feel most like a foreigner in Ireland. And that's the tricky thing for Americans visiting an English speaking foreign country, isn't it? The signs are all in English, the people greet you in English, but in the end, they're just as different as someone from a land with a foreign tongue. I've heard folks speak of being lulled into thinking that a far off land is just like "back home," only to realize later in a moment of culture shock that "gosh darn it, they don't do things like we do back home." While I realize this was really the extent culture shock and I are well-acquainted, had I known what I was going to encounter I would have packed a few more Luna bars.
No comments:
Post a Comment