I caught a taxi late in the night to take me back to the hostel in Belfast. My driver was a husky man, his head shaved bald. His sleeves were rolled a quarter of a way up to revealed another sleeve of tattoos. He could have been in his mid forties, maybe older, but undoubtedly he looked like a pit bull, some one you didn’t want to cross in a dark alley. He’s a passionate man and still bitter about the troubles. He’ll tell anyone who will listen about the troubles from his perspective.

Driver: Hey kid, where yah from?

Me: The states, Baltimore.

Driver: I’ve always wanted to go to the states, but they won’t let me in.

Me: Why?

Driver: Cuz I got charged wid bombs durin the troubles.

Me: Excuse me?

Driver: [A little louder] Bombs, love. I should have gotten charged with firecrackers. They weren’t gonna do nothin’ but scare em. Fuckin’ brits. There should be one Ireland.

Me: Were you in the IRA?

Driver: Naw, I wasn’t with em, but we were fuckin given em hell anyways.