Authentic

I know why I love Westport, Ireland.

The centre is full of shops almost all owned by real people not big corporations.

The plumber Mark Joseph Phillip has great stories to tell when he came to check the pump.

People have time to chat.

The tea rooms are full of goodies and all are different.

Music is in almost every pub at least once during the week.

There's five book stores.

It's real.

Harking back to my childhood, I didn't think about real vs. artificially decided in some boardroom. When I went to school with the fishmonger's daughter, my brother went to school with the owner of the shoe shop, and the woman who ran the curtain shop knew even five years later that the curtains in my mother's bedroom had dusty rose flowers on a beige background.

Mr. Hersey sold me all my jewelry, including my engagement and wedding rings, and Llara's first pearl and he fixed my watch. I never saw him without a smile.

It wasn't all wonderful.

Women couldn't play golf on Wednesday afternoons because that was when many of the men had the afternoon off. Since they were mostly housewives they could play the rest of the weekdays.

When I was divorcing the bank turned me down for a car loan. I needed the car to get to work. They said divorcing women were unstable. They gave my soon to-be ex a loan.

But it was authentic.

I like authentic.