Displaced in Mullingar: As his friend seeks love, Michael Hardingsearches for Tesco, and while his pal talks all night, he finds himself lost for words

There's a real cool laid-back venue in Mullingar called Danny Byrne's, where you'd need a torch light to find the drink on the table, and a map of the building to find the toilet. It's always dark, with low light from lots of candles.

I was there on a Sunday night.

The place was quiet, and dreamy. A young musician sang and played guitar. Two men drank alone at the bar. Young women sat in groups, in twos and threes, dressed as if they expected to meet the prince of all princes.

I sat in an alcove with a friend who had come down from Dublin. We had a view of the bar.

He said he couldn't figure out how to date on the net. He thought he might have a chance in Mullingar.

I told him I couldn't find Tesco on the net, never mind date women. He kept staring at the girls. After a few drinks our conversation petered out.

It was late. There was a candle on every table, a bouncer who got very attentive when it came to closing time, and one tall girl with short blonde hair and an east European accent, at the bar, talking to herself. So I abandoned my friend to his pursuit of love, and headed for home.

The taxi cost me a fiver. There was something on the car radio about

another killing in Dublin. The taxi man said nobody passes any remarks

any more.

"Death is normal now," he said.

The following day my friend arrived for breakfast. He had a big grin on his face.

"She was Hungarian," he declared.

I wasn't impressed.

"Be careful," I said. "She might have a husband and three children back in Budapest!"

He said, "Do you not realise how lucky you are?" I didn't see his point.

"With all these foreigners!"

I asked him did he have a good night.

"We only talked," he said. "We talked until five this morning. She was beautiful. But it was difficult to keep it going."

I said, "I know the feeling." I have friends with whom I've tried all year to have one single intelligent conversation.

One day I went to a house with a French man, and ate lamb cooked in yoghurt. It gave me a bellyache. But I didn't tell him in case he would be insulted.

That's how tenuous a relationship is when you don't know the language.

Not many in Mullingar are multilingual. Social interaction tends to be shallow and repetitive.

"What is it like in Poland? Do you have much weather? What is the snow like where you live?" It's like a language lesson for beginners; or an interrogation session.

"What do you think of the war in Iraq?" "Not good. No." "No? And what about modern art?" "Ohhh Good. Yes. I like." "And communists? Do you think they tried to create a more compassionate society?" "A little bit, thank you."

And there's another difficulty connecting with other Europeans. They keep to themselves, as the Cavanman used to say about the badgers. They don't socialise with the natives too much.

Before my friend got on the train he said, "There's more to life than intellectual blather!" Maybe he's right.

On my way home I noticed that the woman who sold me the Christmas tree was still standing behind the counter in the petrol station, her brown eyes

lasering me as I walked in the door.

And I still wanted to talk to her, wish her Happy New Year, or ask her how she enjoyed Christmas.

But it wasn't easy because there was a queue behind, waiting, with bunches of bananas and vacuum-packed rashers and minced meat in plastic cartons. The man ahead of me bought the Sun, the Star, and a Lotto ticket, and then paid for it all with a laser card.

I was holding two bottles of wine, and a blue cheese, and a long loaf of bread. Surely she could see the possibilities. Perhaps I could mention that the Christmas tree that she sold me still looked lovely.

Or at least wish her a Happy New Year! Needless to say I did exactly the same as I did when she sold me the Christmas tree; the same as I do every day when I get diesel, or bread rolls or milk; I handed her my card, and said I wanted 20 cash back, and I signed her receipt, and then I turned away, as if she didn't exist.