"Where's South Africa?" Being Tralee in August, this is not a request for geographical information but a rain-check on the whereabouts of Fiona Tobin, the South African Rose. We're on a bus outside the Brandon Hotel, waiting for South Africa to appear on the horizon before we can head off to Tralee General Hospital, on one of the Roses' many engagements.
The absent country in question arrives, and we're off. The Dubai Rose, Claire Marie Ward, is hoarse. "Where's the bottle of whiskey?" she asks. It is not entirely clear if this question is rhetorical. The chaperone provides chocolates instead, and the Roses start eating Roses.
Our bus, sailing through the narrow streets of Tralee, has the happy effect of Moses parting the Red Sea. The traffic gives way, pedestrians stop and wave up at the bus, tourists take pictures. It is such a successful negotiation of the busy streets that I'd suggest if you get really desperate in a traffic jam in future, you could try putting on a sash and see if that impresses your fellow motorists into showing you a bit of respect.
Babies and children are what the Roses want to see at the hospital. A nurse steers them first into the delivery room. "Now! Let ye see what's ahead of ye!" says she with a great big laugh. The Roses shuffle in their kitten heels and look around.
There are cows grazing on limegreen grass just outside the window. It's a bizarre moment; one that encapsulates just how surreal the Rose of Tralee festival can be. Dermot Morgan could have put it into his "Lovely Girls" sketch in Father Ted.
And the Rose of Tralee is surreal. Watching rehearsals of party pieces in the Dome puts me in mind of sitting through a feis, except these aren't children blowing into tin whistles and practising their steps, they're adult women.
Small girls scamper around, collecting autographs, and studying the photographs in their official Rose of Tralee brochures, ticking names off lists. They may not be betting on the winners, but they're studying the form just the same.
At night the small girls are all outside the Brandon, waiting for Westlife to emerge, who will be singing on stage later. Within the Dome it's all sparkle and glitter. Most seats are taken by family and supporters and the remainder are sold to locals and visitors for £20 a night. At six p.m. there were about 100 left yet to sell.
The Dome looks prettier in reality than it does on television: the fairy lights twinkle on the black backdrop like a night sky. People put their drinks under their seats once the show starts; there is a bar at the side. Drink is never far from any Rose function.
The second Rose out is Tara Glynn, the Melbourne Rose. She recites her own poem, which has the line in it "I want to look for leprechauns and kiss the Blarney Stone". Did nobody take her aside and quietly have a word in her ear that the watching public might find this desire to seek out leprechauns amusing? Did no escort or chaperone or producer whisper a few words in her ear?
The Rose of Tralee Festival is, as the organisers are at pains to point out, not just the two nights' television show. There are all the concerts and street parties and late openings. Every Rose brings several - sometimes scores - of people with her as supporters, and thus injects a healthy amount of money into the local economy.
The Roses themselves clearly have a ball, are treated like princesses for the week and make lots of friends. Links with the Irish Diaspora abroad are maintained. In terms of judging the winning Rose, she is observed over the period of her time as Rose, and all that is taken into account. We have always been assured she does not win simply on the merits of her television appearance.
But the fact is that most people's experience of the festival is of watching it at home. Images are potent. Is it any wonder the festival is so often ridiculed when we are presented with young women who spout lines that would rival the best of MacGonagall?
Does some sort of amnesty of critical judgment exist for two nights every August? There's no doubting the sincerity of the Melbourne Rose's feelings, and those of several of her fellow Roses who were equally loquacious, but RTE and the organisers do themselves no favours in the process.
By now, the new Rose has been crowned, and the TAM rating this year - 1.3 million on Monday, with 1.5 estimated for the second night - exceeds last year's figures. We're watching. We may be laughing as we're watching, but we're still watching.