Nite Lites, Mind Your Step: Hazards of European Life

When we moved to Ireland we lived in one of the tall, skinny, attached houses that so typify the British Isles.  On the ground floor we had a living room, a small dining room and a Hobbit-size kitchen that was tucked under the stairs.  On the two floors above were the bedrooms and bathroom.  All of the stairs were polished wood.  Because I am known for making nocturnal ramblings I decided we needed a night light for the stairs.  Obviously the little plug-in seashells so loved in the US would not work in our 240 Watt outlets so off we went to the big department store in Cork City.  After searching the lighting section and the light-bulb section in vain I finally asked for help.  The nice young lady gestured me across the aisle towards the candles.  I looked.  Strangely enough, all there were in the candle section were candles.  I went back and asked again.  I got the 'stupid, daft cow!' look before she marched over and, from the shelf right in front of my face, handed me a box of tea-light candles, (you know, the little ones in the metal containers) except it didn't say Tea Lights on it....it said Nite Lights.  I patiently explained that what I was looking for was a small light that could be left on all night, like in a child's bedroom; not a candle, which everyone knows Must Never Be Left Unattended. She shoved the box at me again and spoke a little louder (stupid, daft, American cow!) I was embarrassed into buying them.  I started looking around a bit and realized that these little candles, which proudly claim to burn for eight hours, were, indeed, what the Irish used for night lights in their children's bedrooms.  There were cute little holders for them everywhere!  The Andorrans, Spanish and French use them, too, as does, probably, the rest of Europe. 

In the 'lawsuit-happy, it's not my fault, blame someone else' culture of the US I had become accustomed to having anything even the tiniest bit risky have an in-depth, 5-page, warning on it.  All of a sudden I was being treated like a competent adult, capable of determining my own level of risk.  I immediately went berserk and started doing all sorts of foolish things.  I finally came to my senses after a walk along some cliffs overlooking a splendid rocky beach.  It was a public path (so, of course, it was safe).  I walked out to a point and stood in the wind looking over this incredible vista.  A few yards further on I walked out on another point.  As my gaze took in the panorama I paused, looking at the point I had just been standing on.  It had been severely undercut.  The only thing that had been between me and the rocks below was about 2 feet of turf.  I still have nightmares. 

There were/are still instances where my curiosity gets the better of my good sense (and there are no signs warning me off).  At Salisbury Cathedral (England) there was a staircase that went up into the heights of the church.  On the first stair was a little painted sign: "Mind your Step".  We went up...and up....and up.  It was a stone spiral staircase just big enough for one smallish person so there really was no turning back - there was one on the other side for coming back down...I assumed.  Next thing I knew I was a gazillion miles above the floor, walking across a narrow stone ledge that crossed the back of the cathedral with a knee-high railing to keep me from plummeting to the pews far below.  I'd seen it from below but thought it was just decorative.  With my back against the wall I inched across; the only thing keeping my feet moving was the knowledge that I wouldn't have to come back that way.  (Stupid, Daft, Cow! - didn't see the ledge on the opposite wall of the cathedral) Once on the other side of the church we could go up into the steeple (lucky us!).  We had to crawl across the roofing struts first....I crawled, mon mari stepped from strut to strut.  Well, you get the picture and you know I lived to tell the tale.  In the US I could have sued for emotional trauma!  Now when I see a sign that says 'Mind your _____' I know I'm really going to have to mind my _____.

BTW: in British English calling someone (always a female someone) a female bovine (cow) is the same as an American calling that someone a female canine (bitch).  Didn't know that till I left Ireland.  Just as well....

Comments

[meredith]

This reminds me of when I went out on the Pont D'Avignon, merrily singing that song to my girls, until my then two year old ran right up to the edge. We were very high up, with only a knee high wire protecting us from a fall and certain death in the Rhone river. My oblivious then two year old was happily swinging from that wire, before I caught hold of her. No where did I see signs indicating the danger.

[Katie]

You must have been terrified! I can add that to my nightmare....

[Jul]

Isn't it amazing how generation after generation of Europeans survive without "don't put this on your head" warnings on their plastic bags?

[Jann]

You are very brave, that's all I can say! Aren't you glad you survived to tell this amazing story?

[mimi]

Amazing! I am getting vertigo just reading this. Good entry, Katie!

[angela]

Hi,
I didn't realise that cow translates to bitch. Bitch always sounds meaner somehow.
Angela

[Lisa]

I love your night-light story. "Stupid, daft, American cow!" cracked me up. The whole post had so much evocative description in it; made me feel as though I were there, on the cliff, in the house. Thanks for that. I can't go on vacation this year but now I feel as if I've had a little taste of Ireland and England!

[Mike Cook]

Katie
As one who has gone for an innocent hike only to find myself unexpectedly on a narrow ledge 300 hundred feet above a rocky shoreline looking eye level at an eagles nest, I can sympathize with you.
Mike

[Katie]

Jul
It's amazing that anyone survives over here!

Angela
Bitch does sound meaner - more forceful, but, then, that's what we are used to...esp me ;)

Mike
Pissed off Eagle?