My wife isn’t Irish.
Not only that, but she has a very difficult time understanding the Irish accent.
A few years ago, we were visiting my family in the southwest of County Cork. My wife decided that she wanted to drive our rental for a while. She quickly got the hang of the right-hand steering and we had no problems... Until the “roundabout.”
At this confusing wheel of frantic, foreign traffic, Cheryl decided that she would let me take the controls again, but before we could switch places, the Gardai, (the Irish police,) arrived and pulled us over.
He asked what the problem was, and my wife, unable to decipher his thick, Bantry brogue, turned to me.
“He wants to know why we're stopped,” I translated.
She explained her nervousness and the young officer smiled. He asked to see her license, and again she turned to me.
“He needs to see your driver’s license,” I told her.
After she handed it to him, the Garda looked at it and said, “Oh, I see your from Boston. I used to date a girl from Boston. Meanest woman I’ve ever known.”
My wife turned to me for translation. I told her, “He said he thinks he knows you.”
Well, the cop laughed, anyways.