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We piled upon the coach bus outside of the Botanic Gardens, cameras in hand and preconceptions intact. Flags, painted curbstones, murals, and
unimpressed faces we soon discovered, and some even photographed. I felt that I was imposing upon something private. An internal conflict that I have
absolutely no part in, and no right to capture on film. Yet I snapped off a roll alongside everyone else, and endeavored to explore the experience on
paper almost in real time, as we wove through the streets of West Belfast in our oversized vehicle.

Apparently a little boy on a bike flipped us off as we passed. Someone else said that they heard at least one rock hit the side of the bus. There were
Union Jacks flying while the passengers were all offended, because noone seemed affected in the neighborhood with Tricolors.

About twenty murals later we arrived in the City Center, and I still felt guilty for encroaching on their territory. But now in the tourist zone we
could disembark, even shop, and walk along the pre assigned route back to Queens Elms, the dormitories at Queens University. Still there lingered stark images; all the barbed wire, iron fences, peace walls, decrepit houses, and the words of the professor who narrated the tour.

“There was a riot on this street corner a few days ago.” I had thought a few days ago the IRA had declared a cease-fire and the Loyalists were on the
verge of agreement. But politics is somehow separate from individual neighborhoods, a riot could mean a fist fight that escalated into thrown
bricks and no inter religious sentiment. “Like any inner city neighborhood, except it’s hard to distinguish the crime from the terrorism at times.” All the reassurance about the normality of each neighborhood as a regular community confounded me.

A couple days later, carrying a bag of chocolate covered digestive biscuits, lemon soda, two bottles of wine, one red, one white (for me) I climbed a steep hill in Belfast with a pair of friends, ready to tear into our purchases in the Queens dormitory. We had only a couple hours to stuff our faces before being taxied to the Feile Lughnasa, the August Festival, thrown annually by the Republican community in Shankill.

A droplet of sweat traveled down the side of my face, behind my ear, and tickled the tiny hairs along my neck, sending a tingle up my back. Just then
I could hear a faint music, Waltzing Mathilda I thought, but kept walking, the longer I took to bring the groceries back the heavier they became and
the bluer my fingers appeared. After another minute of Waltzing Mathilda I asked my friends if they recognized the song, and if they knew from where it was coming. Turning around we could see, crawling up the hill a few blocks behind us, a parade of some sort, with banners and large drums like the ones they have in marching bands.

The first thing I noticed was a Union Jack, then the orange straps on the flag holder’s chest- a parade. More flags, Ulster, Union Jack, perhaps even
a UVF and two bands, little kids flanking them. Immediately my knees locked, I wouldn’t allow myself to miss it, an Orange Parade. Not one of the three of us was afraid, mesmerized and intrigued, but yet not fearful of the demonstration developing before our eyes. I had forgotten that Marching
Season was at its end, normally neighborhoods finished by the end of July, but apparently in the city there are so many Protestant communities still it bleeds into the start of August. All these technical thoughts cluttered my brain, as I attempted to absorb this cultural phenomena for the sake of
anyone I might ever meet who might want to discuss my experiences and impressions of Ireland. The group of thirty boys and older men turned the
corner a few hundred feet away, now playing a tune I did not recognize. It was striking, but not as disturbing as I thought it might be, almost a
benign sight, at first. Then the police officers stopped the parade before it could get close to Sandy Row, turned it around, and the band died down.

I felt like I had seen a unicorn.

Another couple of friends, after having dinner at an Indian restaurant, passed the parade while a Japanese tourist was filming these men display
their ethnicity. They said it was disturbing, possibly because of the proximity, maybe because of the novelty of this very politically charged
tradition to the outsider.

I myself just turned around and finished the walk to make my pasta dinner with more friends, wondering how much longer these things would stop traffic and amaze onlookers. It seemed almost strange compared to the traditional festivity I was to attend that night, while Protestants walked up and down streets, Catholics sang, drank, danced, and prayed that Gerry Adams would indeed show up. He didn’t, but the contrast of reels, pints, smiles, and lilting to splashes of orange and heavy drum beats gave me a sense of why there still existed such a distinction between these two cultures.