There was a clue on Jeopardy! the other day about the Blarney Stone, and it got me thinking about my visit to Ireland in 2014, and my Covid-like reaction to puckering up to the landmark. The Stone was placed in the roof of Blarney Castle in Cork, Ireland, somewhere about 1446. Legend has it that if you kiss it, you will inherit the gift of gab, and words will flow smoothly from your tongue henceforth, getting you out of any potential predicament you might find yourself in. Let me just say this off the top, I’m not a kiss on the mouth kind of person. Nope, nein, nix! You know that no-personal space respecting uncle who never manages to miss a family gathering and always comes in fast and furious like a stealth smooch missile—Nope! That overly-familiar co-worker who’d (pre Covid) go straight for the lips in greeting—back up off of me!!! However, I am a “When in Rome…” person. I don’t like heights, but if there’s a perfectly good zipline going across a river and through some mountains, I’m gonna Hoover in a breath, beg the Gods to cradle me in their arms, and go for it! So I was at a bit of a crossroads with Blarney. Do I do what one must if they finally make it there? Do I somehow quiet the germaphobic thoughts going through my mind and place my lips against a slab of limestone that thousands, maybe millions of others have mashed their lips up against? Or do I live vicariously through my friend Sheri, who seems to have no mouth-to-stone issues whatsoever.
At Blarney, you end up waiting on a long line with people from all corners of the globe. Once inside the castle, you find yourself climbing narrow, winding, claustrophobic stairs with a three hundred pound dude two steps ahead of you, and a six member Swedish family two steps behind. Thoughts like, wonder if there’s ever been a fire in here…flash through your mind, but you quickly dispel them.
You finally get to the roof and your eyes settle on the many bodies still in front of you, advancing slowly toward a point you can’t yet see. Then finally you get a gander. And it hits you that it’s not just you, but everyone on that line who is puckering up to that stone. And everyone who was on that line the day before, and the day before that. It’s basically a succession of mouth-kissing uncles.
And suddenly, you start zooming in on all the lips present: Big lips, small lips, thin lips, fat. Mustachioed lip, bare lip, what kind of cold sore or zit is that? Finally, your turn nears, but first up is that three hundred pound stair-mate of yours. Following instructions from the kiss-enabling castle aide, your stair-mate struggles a little to get down to the ground, before lying flat on his back and scooting forward so that his head is between the perfectly good ground and a large hole in it. He slings his neck back, allowing his head to drop down into the hole, then plants a kiss that lasts a little too long for your comfort. And then he lifts his head, wiggles back out, stands, raises his arms in victory, and is gone. Next! Instead of advancing, you turn to your friend and ask, “Shouldn’t they use some kind of cleaner after each person, perhaps a sanitizing wipe?” And your friend laughs because she thinks you’re just being a comedian. But you’re not. Once again, you’re having Covid-thoughts, before Covid is even a thought. But you’re in Ireland, in Cork, at Blarney Castle—a place you may never find yourself again. And you are that “When in Rome” kind of girl. So you become one with the cold, stone floor, tilt that head back, ask the Gods to protect you from whatever that dude with the lip zit thing might have had, and pucker away.
