Serena, Belle of Kilronan

2009-05-06T16:26:00.000-07:00

Anger comes and goes,
ebbs and flows,
like a tide of bile.
It washes over my stomach,
burns over my mind,
and consumes by acid erosion
that most precious of resources:
time with others.

2009-04-17T01:46:00.000-07:00

At times, it hurts to be reminded of your place in someone's life: surrogate. Never get too close (again).

2009-04-17T01:44:00.000-07:00

Do you ever miss me ever?
And if you did, would it matter?

2009-04-12T02:42:00.000-07:00

That moment of delirious exhaustion,
potentially complete failure,
and all I can do is smile stupidly.
And write about it.

2009-04-10T23:29:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I wish I could rewind to a less complicated minute
and decide to do the things that were momentarily easier.
Integrity is an overrated virtue,
an artifice of identity
that leaves
no room
for the push and pull of the relationships that compose me,
of which I am composed.
Integrity perhaps mattered more in another time,
when people were less mobile,
faster tied to the few they knew.
I am guilty of nostalgia.
I seek truth and consistency that I know are impossible,
and that matter less when I’ll soon just be picking up and going
anyway.

2009-03-11T18:33:00.001-07:00

2008-05-05T05:54:00.000-07:00

I am likely the worst travel blogger who ever existed. Alas. I’ve been so caught up in being a boring, ordinary person that I didn’t take the time to write about the boring, ordinary things I’ve been doing. In any case, rather than try to catch up on all I’ve fallen behind with, I should maybe just write about last night—one of the best nights I’ve had in Ireland since my arrival.

Rachel, her visiting friend Kirsten, and I decided to head out to our favorite little pub, The Crane, for a few drinks and the live trad played there most nights. We got there quite early and sat downstairs, nursing some Guinness and Bulmers. We’d probably been sitting together five minutes when a youngish man (mid-twenties?) approached us with the phrase, “Hi girls, you know, I’m tryin’ really hard….” He never finished the sentence and instead pulled up a stool and started talking with us. Brian had two friends with him, Taigh and Stephen, Taigh being too far gone to last long with us and Stephen being incredibly shy, but sweet and apologetic (on Taigh’s behalf).

More friends came and went, until the girls and I headed upstairs for the music. It was a fantastic set of players, and since it was a bank holiday weekend, the place was fairly crowded with all sorts of people—the old regulars, the young semi-regulars, some tourists, friends of the musicians, young people in various levels of dress…. Brian and Stephen joined us after a while, managing to entertain the couple sitting with us who happened to be from Chicago (both biology Ph.D. students at the University of Chicago). Another friend, Aidan, joined the group within the hour, an understatedly handsome guy who conversed a bit reluctantly with us (I think I could tell he had a girlfriend, but of course that didn’t stop me from briefly crushing).

Our conversation wandered everywhere from their elaborate tale of the drummer who “hated his Guinness” (in fact, the guy was particularly large and had downed more than we counted over the course of the night) to the depressing subjects of the American education and healthcare systems. We made book and music recommendations to one another—I of course had to tell Brian about “The Belle of Kilronan” by the Magnetic Fields, since that’s where he’s from—and downed round after round that they insisted on buying. When The Crane close, the six of us headed first to an overcrowded, overdressed bar, from which we quickly exited to the more laidback, but still crowded, Roisin Dubh (“roo-sheen dove,” meaning “black rose”). There was a deejay playing all sorts of music and we all just had so much fun dancing for a while. Rachel and I make great dance partners because we’re both just ridiculous and have too much fun.

Well, then the Roisin Dubh closed, so the six of us made our way outside. It was probably a little after two and I figured the girls and I would head home. But the guys asked if we wanted to just go hang with them for a while at Brian’s house in Salthill (a really close suburb). I didn’t think we would go—we were fairly tired and we didn’t want to give a weird impression—but we finally agreed to. After a quick stop-off at Aidan’s to pick up his guitar and some wine, we made our way to Brian’s and settled into the comfy couch and armchairs of his living room. Aidan brought out his guitar and sang—really well—for a few hours, with breaks here and there to ask requests or joke around or speak Irish (they could all speak it comfortably, Brian best of all, being from the Aran Islands).

There was never any weird pressure or discomfort as I might have looked out for with most guys. Somehow we’d stumbled upon a really cool group of guys, really interesting and engaging in a way I’m embarrassed to admit it took me this long to experience. I was just so cautious for so long, and unsure of what I should be doing or finding here (good god…) that I forgot to just let go for a while, let someone or ones, somethings play the active role. Anyway, we knew some of the same songs and there were all these generational pieces of knowledge that we shared despite our different origins. But then there were also all these missed connections or linguistic novelties, bands we didn’t know or allusions we didn’t pick up on, and it seemed more on their end than on ours. Their quipping back and forth with one another, their fluid, jocular artfulness in speech, sometimes made me feel like I spoke the Dick and Jane version of English, while they spoke poetry.

The sun was rising on a still blue sky as we caught a taxi out close to six a.m., having given to Brian our email addresses (he was traveling to the States in a week for a month, then to Australia for at least a year). Stephen had left earlier and Aidan got the taxi with us. I don’t know whether we’ll see them again, but I had just the most satisfying feeling leaving the house. I am so grateful that Brian moseyed up to us early in the night.

This was a terribly ungraceful entry to my sporadic log, and I will try to make the excuses that I am running on four hours of sleep and that I am especially self-conscious after having had my speech capacity palpably downgraded yesterday night. They’re just excuses, though. I am not ready to leave here and I dread the approaching 27th of May. I can’t possibly have expressed what yesterday felt like, how much I was coming to realize about the nature of travel and the abused concept of cross-cultural interaction. When two kids thousands of miles apart can both grow up knowing the lyrics to a song produced islands away; when they can talk knowledgably about one another’s political systems and prospects; when they can recognize the statements made by the clothing they wear on a night out; when they can do all these things and yet still find themselves separated by gulfs of experience and knowledge… I don’t know, it demonstrates that despite the idea that the widely condemned behemoth we term globalization has supposedly made us all the same, left nothing distinctive or novel between us, there are yet vast volumes between people that such whitewashing forces can never touch. And it’s not just between people of different countries, but between neighbors and family as well. The idea that travel is some totally new experience, something invariably more thrilling and enriching than what one could cultivate in a more sedentary life, strips from travel the possibility of intimacy. It did so for me, at least, for months too long, and it’s proven a slow and complicated matter resurrecting something so delicate.

2008-03-09T08:07:00.000-07:00

I am long behind on my updates. Sorry! There was the Northern Ireland weekend (now two weeks ago), the Maamtrasna hike last Sunday, and then various activities from this week while hosting fellow Scrippsie Amanda Klaus at my apartment. Maybe I should work backwards, since this week’s memories are most vivid… and then I can sort of lazily peter out from there.

Part I: Amanda’s visit: Both Emmy and I were having friends to stay this week, so we’ve had a full house from Tuesday through this Sunday. Emmy’s friend Isabelle is wonderful and fit right in with Emmy (obvi) and Rachel and me. Isabelle got here Tuesday early afternoon and Amanda arrived late Tuesday night on a bus from Dublin, carrying just a backpack and a purse (impressive). I met her at the bus/train station and walked her the ten or fifteen minutes back to my apartment while giving her the brief lowdown on my roommates and life here. She was pretty tired, so I filled her with pita and hummus, lentil curry, and banana cookies, over easy conversation and the background noise of my Irish housemates and friends watching “Ratatouille” (definitely a calm night in for them), then headed to bed around midnight.

I went to class the next morning, then got back to the house around two to take Amanda on a little Tour de Galway. I realized just how full of stories this city already is for me, as I basically talked non-stop for the duration of the couple of hours we were out walking. Every landmark had a memory attached to it, and when I thought about how hard it was when visiting Yael to think of all the things I’d wanted to tell her about my life here so far, I realized that it was because I didn’t have the physical touch points to trigger particular memories. In any case, I talked Amanda’s ear off and then we headed back to the house. Now, Emmy and I had been talking about throwing a party that night, but we’d kind of dropped the idea since our Irish housemates didn’t seem to be interested in helping to plan it. But we got back to discover that they completely expected to be hosting the party that night and were really disappointed, a little mad at us even, that we hadn’t followed through. Our bad, but Emmy was feeling a bit annoyed with them anyway and the party just wasn’t happening. The girls went elsewhere and Amanda, Emmy, Isabelle, Rachel, and I stayed in with an order of Chinese and sloth. It’s just how we do.

Thursday morning put me in class again (with Rachel) until two… wait, I need to pause to describe why this class is so wonderful. It’s my “Sociology of the Environment” class and not only do I get to share it with Rachel, but there are at least two other characters present who make the class especially entertaining. These two are known to us as “Bang-Some-Chicks” and “Beardy.” Bang-some-chicks (real name Sean) is an American on our program whose first statement to his roommate was, “You know, I just wanna get drunk and bang some chicks.” Yep. Since that moment, he has acquired almost mythical status in our (Rachel, Emmy, and me) book, and he’s managed to continually make us laugh with his almost adorable clumsiness. Bang-some-chicks has recently proven himself to have multiple dimensions beyond the chick-banging persona, however, and has won our hearts with his somewhat obliviousness to the weird, high-school-esque cliques that formed within our program from the first night. Aww, bang-some-chicks.

Then there’s Beardy (real name Dave), so dubbed for the beard that consumes perhaps two thirds of his face. He loves his beard and misses no opportunity to stretch his neck and show it off in its full chest-reaching glory. Beardy is an Irish student, quite intelligent and happy to show that off as well. He’s chatted me up outside class a number of times, letting slip details of his close ties with certain professors and his prestigious fellowship. Cool, Beardy. He gave a really suave presentation the other day (no sarcasm there—really) and is constantly contributing various expressions of bookish platitudes to class discussion. The other day, we had a fire drill, from which he returned five or so minutes later than the rest of the class because he’d been deep in conversation with a professor outside. But instead of entering quietly and taking his seat, he took the liberty of interrupting our female professor to announce that he had just saved us all from a ravaging fireball that had been working its way up the stairwell. Again, thanks, Beardy. He also enjoys (and enjoys telling about) his nude life in Germany, which he sorely misses. I’m sure Germany misses him too. In any case, I seriously appreciate those two guys…

Aaaanyway, Amanda met Rachel and me after class and we went for a long outing of coffee and scones at Rachel’s and my (and now Emmy’s too) favorite little café, where I’m pretty sure everyone working there is French and they are very serious about their tea. Emmy and Isabelle met up with us for a while, then headed to a movie, Rachel went home, and Amanda and I went shopping for dinner supplies. We made ourselves and Rachel some veggie-loaded pasta, garlic bread, and Caesar salad, then plonked down in front of the boob tube for a heart-wrenching episode of “Without a Trace” (a show that I almost can’t watch because I get too emotionally involved, but Emmy and Rachel are obsessed, so I go along). I was zonked and headed to bed shortly after.

Amanda and I woke up early Friday morning to catch a bus tour to the Cliffs of Moher and around the Burren. The tour guide we had had won best guide award in 2003, 2004, 2005, and 2006, after which the organization providing these awards stopped doing so as they figured he’d just keep winning. And for a reason: Desmond Murray is a great tour guide. He had a solid narrative for practically every rock we passed and made stops at various easily miss-able spots that proved to be beautiful/enchanting/interesting. Like this one mound built in a circle to protect a small community from outside discovery. Or this roadside patch of rock that lent the most stunning views of the ocean, rainbow included. The scenery, featuring dark, knotty trees, dense, soggy stands of grass, and curiously anthropomorphic rocks, made it evident why stories of fairies and other nature-based superstitions are prevalent in Irish folklore. Desmond also made several recommendations to the students on the bus of how they could save money at lunch and on future tours, citing “just how hard enough it is for a student to come by money, especially these days!” He was full of jokes and always stood outside the bus door to hold people’s hands as they stepped off. He was quick to point out a red tint in my hair (I’ve learned to love my chameleon hair) after telling us all of Muir Rua (sp?), “Madame Redhead,” a woman whose castle we stopped at as we learned the story of the mysterious deaths of her four wealthy husbands, from whom she inherited loads. It was a worthwhile tour and got us out for a nice long day, after which Desmond taught us how to say “I love you” in Irish (approximately, “Ta ma gra lin”) and then dropped us off right at our apartment complex. Moral of the tour bus story: I heart Desmond.

Friday night, Amanda, Rachel, and I went to a pub with live, though not “traditional” music. Monroe’s was a relaxed place and we struck up conversations with those sitting near us, an Irish-German woman and a woman from the Netherlands and their friends, one of whom was a cool guy from Georgia (Rachel’s from Georgia!), so he and Rachel chatted it up for a bit. (She keeps running into awesome people from Georgia. I keep meeting annoying people from Illinois.) I had a couple of beers and Rachel had a cider, and the music going that night was mostly covers of good 90s rock. Amanda suddenly asked if we could leave (I think she was disappointed with the scene), so we didn’t join our new friends at the next pub and instead headed back to the house.

I also thought Amanda was just tired and wanted to get more sleep before heading out on her own on either a bus tour or an Aran Islands trip the next day (I had to do homework for at least one of the days she was here), but I awoke the next morning to find her curled up on the couch with no plans to head out for the day. Instead, she, Emmy, Isabelle, Rachel, and I headed to the market, where we found all the glories I’d been looking forward to all week. I bought eggs, a dark-chocolate-covered flapjack, tomatoes, garlic, an onion, and a grapefruit, with some apples thrown in for free from one vendor. It wasn’t crowded, since the morning weather had been bad, but that also meant that my favorite little doughnut vendor wasn’t there to fill me with his cinnamon-doughy goodness… oh well.

Side story: homelessness is not common in Galway as I’ve observed. As I understand (though I have to do more research), the Irish welfare state is pretty good at keeping people off the street at least. So as I walked down the street where the market takes place, I was surprised to find a man, in his mid-forties or so, standing to the side of the walkway and rocking back and forth with his hands held out. He was dirty and focused his eyes straight ahead, perhaps for some neurological reason, but more likely just so he wouldn’t look anyone straight in the eye, and he kept mumbling, over and over, like a mantra, “I’m homeless and I’m hungry. Please, do you have change?” Of course, at those moments, you feel suddenly ridiculous for your bourgeois insistence on local if slightly more expensive produce, and for the indulgent treat of a flapjack or fresh feta cheese. Here was this man, surrounded by tens of food and artisan stands, hungry and without a shred of dignity left to him, just ten years younger than my dad and straight-up begging on the street. I just can’t imagine what that must feel like, how little self is left after just an hour of such activity, so many faces passing, masking or talking over their discomfort at the fellow human facing them. I shyly gave him money, at which he broke his mantra and his gaze to wish “God bless you.” I tried to quietly return the blessing over my shoulder without causing the friend walking with me to feel that I was pulling a “holier-than-thou” over her.

So… that was the market. I headed back to the house with Rachel shortly thereafter. Oh yeah! I had also retrieved my phone that afternoon from the repair shop after going without for a week (nice follow-up to the homeless story, eh?). I had accidentally drowned it while on the Maamtrasna hike last Sunday and so was out of touch from friends for the duration of the repair time—tragic. Anyway, I reprogrammed it, resaved numbers (having lost a few), and then got to work on the mass piles of reading and research I have to do for this week before spring break—a break I feel very grateful for and hope to use part of to catch up with life. We stayed in last night, especially since the pub had been such a bust for Amanda, and Amanda made a great dinner for us while I did lots of reading before hitting the hay.

I saw Amanda off this morning through sleepy eyes, then sent her through an hospitable Irish drizzle to catch her bus back to Dublin. I couldn’t fall back asleep for an hour afterwards so came back down to find the front door strangely wide open (brrr!), but fortunately no strangers in our common room. I ate breakfast, did more reading, and now here I am, at the bottom of a third page—now top of a fourth page—of blog update. Also, a circus has come to town and taken up residence just behind our apartment complex. Exciting! (And by exciting, I mean creepy.) Whew…

Part II: Maamtrasna hike. Last Sunday, I finally had everything together that I needed to be able to hiking with the Mountaineering Club here at NUIG. I had bought way expensive hiking boots that the club requires all hikers to wear (after waiting around for cheaper ones I’d bought online to arrive, which didn’t fit at all and would cost more than it was worth to ship them back); I was actually in town for the day of a hike (I’d been in Northern Ireland, Dublin, etc. other weekends); and was healthy enough to feel up for what I thought would be a good stroll through some Irish countryside.

We left at 9 a.m. on a large bus after I’d paid my €2 membership fee and my €8 bus fare. I recognized one other person from a class and otherwise knew no one. I must have been feeling shy because I didn’t talk to many people on the way up… and carsickness (some even with Dramamine) never makes me too sociable. Anyway, the first third of the hike was alright, first getting kicked off of some man’s land, then continuing on an alternative path up the mountainside, with light rain and quick wind here and there. That’s the interesting thing about hiking in Ireland: there are no national parks specifically set aside or trails maintained for the purposes of hiking. Hikers just move right through other people’s land, sometimes getting booted off, mostly just hopping fences and ripping one’s pants crotch on barbed wire (just one more reason to want to be taller). The leaders of our hike actually had to navigate, using various little tools over a detailed elevation map of the mountain and its surrounds.

We reached the top of the mountain and I had introduced myself to a few new individuals, who joined me in commenting on the pretty stark, expansive, and flat bog landscape we met on the top of the mountain. At least the views were nice. Well, for about ten or fifteen minutes. Then it started hailing… or were they tiny shards of glass eating into our faces and happy souls? I had my mitten up against my cheek to protect it from the painful little stabs as my feet sludged through the sucking bog. I was grateful for my too-expensive waterproof boots for those hours, and I was also grateful for my sense of humor and the company of all the other hikers in my group. I met several other students (one from France, one from Germany, one from Switzerland…) and talked with them at length as we dodged (and sometimes didn’t dodge) especially quick-boggy patches (yes, parts of the bog can suck you in like quicksand, up to your waist, if you don’t move from them for a while).

(Side note: there are strange noises currently coming from the circus. Sounds like crowds gasping, then oohing and ahhing, all over epic melodramatic music.)

Anyway, the weather, as Irish weather does, proceeds to change. By change, I mean alternate between rain, hail, and snow for the entire rest of our hike. Neither my pants nor my backpack was waterproof, so I trudged along pulling up my sticky pants every now and then and totally forgetting about all the items in my bag (which would screw me with regard to my phone—I paid dearly for that; my camera, fortunately, had a decent case—thanks, Mom!). I was Snotty McSnotterson except for periods of thirty seconds or so after I had managed to blow my nose on what turned out to be a very durable couple of tissues. And thank god I had a hat to contain my crazy hair. Water eventually seeped into my right boot and my mittens soaked right through to their furry little insides. My ears had popped with the elevation and I kept shouting things at unsuspecting companions before giving in to a silent, lonelier journey down the mountain.

Several fence-hops and a stream-crossing later, we reached the bottom of the mountain, just several hundred yards down the road from our bus (great navigating, Aisling!). I wasn’t much to look at, but I felt pretty good, pretty proud of myself, and impressed with the nature of Irish hiking. The bus stopped at a pub for an hour on the way back, where I changed into dry jeans and shoes, tamed my hair as far as was possible, then grabbed a cocoa and a Kit-Kat from the bar while talking to an older woman who’d been on a hike and then our leader, Aisling. It was a pretty quiet ride back, especially since I was sitting window-side and the older woman next to me fell asleep at some point. But that was fine. I was glad to be dry and somewhat fed, on my way home to loads of food and rest. I tossed all of my things into a dryer upon arriving back at Gort na Coiribe, ate a huge, quick dinner, then passed out with my hiking boots balanced upside-down over the heater in our room. A good day, for sure.

Part III: Northern Ireland: This will probably be the shortest section since it was so long ago and you’ve already endured so much (my bad…). My general impressions were ones of disbelief, wonder and just further curiosity about the nature of “The Troubles” that ended just such a short time ago. The Thursday to Sunday trip was sponsored by our program, so we had rooms (in Belfast) and most meals covered, with scheduled trips to Derry, Giant’s Causeway, some castle, etc. It was so fascinating to me to realize the nature of the Northern Irish Troubles and their direct connections to issues like the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, the Iraq War, American political divisiveness and class inequality, and so forth….

Oh, I can’t do this right now… tour of Derry, Giant’s Causeway wind, Black Cab tour, castle with fallen kitchen, long bus rides and Snake, Brian finishing HP7… those are highlights I’ll just have to come back to later…

2008-02-26T14:28:00.000-08:00

The past week has almost been surreal. So hilarious, interesting, and exhausting—approximately in that order. Last week was “RAG Week” here on the NUIG campus. Practically every week of the past month has had some title and theme. There was Muscailt, the campus’s week-long arts festival: in one night I was able to go to three separate art exhibits—first by Art Society, then by the Math Department (go fractals!), and then by Photography Society. There were plays and a student-produced musical (you know I stayed away from that), random acts of art (my favorite was someone spray-painting the phrase “You Are Amazing” through a stencil all over campus), and music, dance, and literary events. Pretty great. After that, I think, was SHAG week—Sexual Health Awareness [Something]—but I didn’t really go to many of those events. This week is GRA week, or Global Rights Awareness week, and so forth. Tons of different student groups get involved in all of these…but NOTHING compares to RAG Week.

“RAG” stands for “Raise a Grand,” which was the initial goal of the week-long series of parties and promotions at pubs and clubs, with all of the money raised going to various charities chosen prior to the start of the week. Nowadays students raise the money by walking around town and campus shaking buckets and badgering people for coins, which is pretty cool. In the past, though, kids would take their professors “hostage” until a ransom was paid for them, and usually (conveniently) they were taken hostage during the time when they were supposed to be lecturing—hence the beginning of the RAG Week tradition of not going to class, which leaves even more time for partying.

And good god, Irish kids don’t waste a minute of it. I’m pretty sure none of my Irish roommates was fully sober for any full hour of the entire week. I woke up Monday morning around ten to the sound of my neighbors out on their balcony, totally schwasted and harassing innocent passersby. There was broken glass in various spots on the sidewalk and a small tub of butter smeared across the pavement when I stepped out to do my laundry (I mean, why not?). The poor head of maintenance of our apartment complex was running around trying to sweep up what he could. His name is Frank and he’s so nice to all of us—you can imagine how hellish RAG Week was for him, so I bought a cupcake mix yesterday to make for him as a thank you. I had an exam Tuesday, a presentation Wednesday, and an essay due Thursday, not to mention all of my classes are seminars, so I couldn’t exactly ditch. To be honest, I really hadn’t planned to anyway (except for my Population Geography class, which I detest), but it’s hard to feel motivated when everyone around you is drunk out of their minds and blasting Britney Spears’ “Piece of Me” (best song ever) through the walls.

The week was full of sights that just made me laugh out loud to myself, probably more in disbelief and even embarrassment for others than anything else. For instance, on my way to campus I always have to cross over this insanely windy bridge that passes by some really old, crumbling, archaeologically valuable stone house before stretching over the River Corrib. So I’m headed to class last Monday and I see three girls stumbling down the hill off the bridge toward this house. One of them wanders aside and starts texting a friend, and the other two just yank down their pants and pop a squat to pee in full view of anyone walking by. Not only that, but they are extremely vocal about the great relief they feel. I’m laughing to myself and texting a couple friends about it when, not two moments later, I come up to a guy standing against the side of the bridge, with an impatient guy friend stumbling around a few feet away and couple of girl friends laughing hysterically at him and taking photos. He is definitely peeing through the mesh barrier of the bridge into the river below, that is, unless the wind was blowing it right back at him (I wasn’t interested in looking closer). So ridiculous.

Class attendance was low all week, but that’s not to say there weren’t plenty of people on campus still. They just weren’t necessarily going to classes. Tons of kids were just walking around with open cans of beer or bottles of hard alc, or a lot of the girls had not-so-sneaky plastic bottles filled with “juice.” Plenty of pubs have to close early because they meet the limit of how much alcohol they can sell in a night in a matter of hours after opening their doors. Clubs run special parties all week long—especially during the day, you know, when kids aren’t in classes—like foam parties, lingerie parties, all that classy stuff. “Off-license” liquor stores and even grocery stores run out of their cheap stuff in no time. Kids drop soooooo much money this week on alcohol, it’s like a field day for anyone selling it. (An Irish friend told me about a friend of his who’d been setting aside six bottles of beer since the beginning of the fall semester so that he wouldn’t feel bad about dropping all that cash in one week… I mean, it makes sense…)

I went out Tuesday night, first with my friends Rachel and Brian to a really chill pub, where there was live trad music and I met a kid from France, one from Germany, and one from Italy. All really nice people and I hope I see them again. But I’d promised my roommates I would party with them that night, so I texted them around 11:30 to see where they were. Well, they couldn’t get into a club because one of their friends was judged too drunk to enter by the doorman, so they’d opted for a house party in the next apartment complex over. Rachel walked me there, but wasn’t interested in that scene (can’t blame her), so I headed in on my own after dodging my way through some guys outside playing soccer. I spotted my roommates quickly and got all the drunk-love hugs I could take before downing another shot and then taking over what had been established as the “dance floor” for the night. That didn’t last, because then my roommates decided they needed to steal some of the posters hanging on the walls. They just sort of pulled them down, and then one of them would fold it up and run outside to hide it for retrieval when we left. Soooo great. I met a bunch of new people, but most of the guys I talked to were pretty skeezy and definitely treated me differently once they found out I was American. Oh well. Sometimes that’s fun to play up, but none of these cats was the least bit charming, or if they were, they were half passed-out to begin with.

I skipped class the next morning (glorious), all in the name of cross-cultural appreciation and whatever, and stayed in that night to pack for the weekend in Northern Ireland. Just one more thing on RAG Week: there’s nothing like it. It is something you have to see for yourself, and you have to have a pretty okay sense of humor walking into it. The endurance these kids have is unmatched, and really, all the kids I met and hung out with that week during RAG events were so chill and good-natured about it all. And just plain hilarious. Oh, and the final total hasn’t come out yet, but student council reported that they definitely surpassed their goal of €15,000. Job well done.

The Northern Ireland weekend… should probably wait until next post—I promise I’ll catch up!—but I will say that seeing Claire (another fantastic Scripps woman on a Butler program in Dublin who also went on the N. Ire. trip) was such a breath of fresh Claremont air. We just gushed for a little while together and generally emanated happiness for a few days. K, will write about that whole experience next…

2008-02-19T08:41:00.000-08:00

Whew, I need to update…. So I spent last weekend in Dublin with Yael (sweet, long-awaited reunion!) and her wonderful host family. I got there Friday afternoon (my bus was an hour late, hooray rush hour) and I was greeted by the best hug I’ve had in a while. Yael immediately started me on an abbreviated historical tour of the city, walking me down O’Connell Street with a special pause at the statue of workers’ rights hero Jim Larkin. We met some of her SIT friends at the “buttery” at Trinity College—which was, incidentally, celebrating its Green (eco-friendly/aware) Week—and got me some coffee… damn, I’m drinking it again. We continued the tour for about a half-hour more while walking to the bus station to catch the half-hour or so ride to her family’s suburb.

I was greeted by Yael’s host mom, Siobhan, and sister (seven), Ailbhe (pronounced “Alva”), who made me feel welcome right away. We chatted for a bit, and then Yael and I went to her room to change into nicer clothes before heading back into the city for dinner and pubs. We ate at a great Indian place, where we split a bottle of wine and were drunk well before our food arrived. It was so good to catch up and spill things to one another that we’d been storing up for months. We paid our bill and proceeded to a huge, multi-level pub where we met up with more of her SIT friends and then basically dominated the dance floor. Seriously—Americans have better moves than all of Europe combined.

We slept in way late the next morning, had a quick breakfast, then headed into Dublin again, where we wandered around all day. We went to the national museum, where the highlights were definitely the “bog bodies,” the shiny things, and the ancient religious statues of women masturbating (what a progressive society! ha ha…). The “bog bodies” are centuries-old bodies recovered in remarkably well preserved conditions from bogs around Ireland whose every detail has been explored and explained by archaeologists and anthropologists. It was incredible to read the descriptions provided of their respective statuses in life and the specifics of how they died. God, life was brutal… I would have been the first to go, I’m sure, and perhaps voluntarily.

We also went to the Dublin Writers’ Museum, you know, because I guess there were some great Irish writers or whatever…. Juuuuust kidding, it was great, but Yael and I both thought it could have gone into modern Irish writing a lot more. Then we wandered through some parks… and then another one… or something… and we talked here and there, and I was bad about taking pictures. Oh, and at some point, we bought post cards and sat writing them out together in a busy park on a statue that reminded us of Guadalajara.

I’m devolving into stream of consciousness writing. In any case, we had a quiet night in, cooked for ourselves… wait a minute, that was Saturday night… Um, I’m thoroughly confused. Well, anyway, it was such a good weekend and I’d do it again in a minute. So. fantastic.

Next up: the craziness that is RAG Week…

2008-02-07T09:25:00.000-08:00

It's about 3:45 in the morning and our housemates have just returned from some club with a ton of friends. They are singing along to "I'm Too Sexy," which is blasting through the speakers downstairs. I obviously can't sleep, so all I can do is laugh. It's kind of surreal. The girls invited me out with everyone tonight, but I didn't know the pre- and post-parties were going to be here, so I declined, feeling kind of sick anyway (I've felt all day like I have a hangover, though I had no reason to). I almost wish I'd just gone out anyway. I kind of love our housemates. They're insane.

So a little catching up to do... Sunday night, I pretended to care and went out to a pub to watch the Superbowl. I also just wanted to see what locals thought of our darling sport. Well, there weren't many bars playing it, but I think that mostly had to do with the fact that it was on so late and not many bars are "late bars" here. Anyway, we found a place... and it was pAcked. There was one side of the bar with a huge screen where everyone was congregated, so Emmy, Rachel, and I squeezed in somewhere and started watching. As usual, it was a big boring blur to me, without even the entertainment of the multi-million-dollar commercials to break it up. Fortunately, entertainment abounded in those around us. There was the obnoxious red-headed kid who insisted Kobe Bryant wasn't doing so hot this year in football... we told him it might have something to do with the fact that football is not KB's sport, to which he replied that we wouldn't know because we were girls. Then there were all of Carrot-Top's friends (red-head looked just like that actor "Carrot-Top," so naturally, he earned a new name), who spilled loads of beer... but everyone was doing that, really. Everyone also seemed to be changing loyalties left and right--festive! And there was a girl who fell off a stool and didn't get up... probably had a concussion (she actually went away in an ambulance, before the first quarter was even over). And there was some really enthusiastic fan standing next to Emmy... though we're still not sure for whom he was rooting or why--he just spontaneously and volubly sputtered out a yelp of approval now and then. We left at half-time, as it was about 1:30 and we had morning classes (losers!).

Monday was the start of "Muscailt" week here, an arts festival sponsored by tons of campus groups and the university. There's a student musical (which I won't be seeing, in keeping with my tradition of hating musicals), tons of art shows (went to three on Monday), musical performances, films, and lots of wine. Monday night, I went to a sort of Irish music and folk dancing event at the College Bar. Some guy talked my ear off for a long time, and was actually somewhat interesting, but he was so so drunk and didn't realize that he was spitting up the entire side of my face in an effort to make me here him over the noise. I excused myself to join in the dancing, at which point he started profusely apologizing for being such a jerk. I told him I'd really enjoyed talking with him, that he was interesting and well informed--true--and then was on my way. Oh well. Tuesday I was exhausted and fell asleep around 7 p.m. (woohoo!), and tonight I was sick, so I've missed a bunch of events I was psyched for, but I hope to make up for that tomorrow.

And then this weeeeeekend, I'm going to see Yael in Dublin!! Ahhhh, I can't wait!! Our housemates and co. are still going, though it's quieted down a bit since a bunch of kids left... and security's paying us a visit probably had something to do with it too. Well, reading to do...

2008-02-03T09:11:00.001-08:00

Irish weather exists only to mock me. Yesterday morning, I woke up to snow outside my window. Kind of winter wonderland, only none of it sticks to the ground. Rather, the sky clears to blue skies just as I’m walking out the door, wearing my wellies (it never rains when I wear those things). Then, blue skies and all, it starts to rain and the wind is absolutely whipping over my face (the wind here beats anything else I’ve ever felt in my life). At least I had pulled back my bangs for the day… also, it is so so cold, enough to ensure that any nice little café I enter will have to greet a snotty-nosed customer scrounging in her pockets for a tissue. I stopped at a newsstand to buy a paper (The Times) and too many postcards, and then, because it was no longer raining, I decided to just wander the main streets of Galway, looking for a chill coffeehouse and just generally exploring. Galway roads are not, I repeat not on a grid system, which always makes for more eventful excursions… also throws my usually reliable sense of direction for a loop. Well, then it starts hailing, so I opted for a café I already knew and headed in to read my paper. I’m there for probably twenty minutes when the most glorious rays of sunshine burst through the upstairs window, beckoning me back outside. Again, perfectly blue skies and a brilliant sun, so I started walking back towards my apartment, stopping at a grocery store and a fruit/veg stand to prep for dinner. Sure enough, it’s raining again by the time I’m stepping through my doorway. Well, definitely different from Claremont.

2008-01-30T12:58:00.001-08:00

Last night, the university Literary and Debate Society hosted Noam Chomsky via teleconference. The lecture hall was packed (capacity about 350) and people were really psyched for it. He was being questioned by the president of the society, a law prof, a philosophy prof, and an Irish columnist, Nell McCafferty (the only woman on the panel). It was interesting to listen to him, but he may as well have been giving a talk, for all the softballs the male panelists were throwing to him.

Then Nell spoke up. Noam had made some comment early on, when asked his opinion of the American presidential candidates, about Obama being the candidate seeking some ever amorphous notion of change and about Clinton being 'the one who cried.' The audience had laughed when he said it, and Nell took her time in getting around to asking him about it, perhaps generously allowing him a chance to retract the seeming wholesale dismissal of her. When she piped up about it, she absolutely grilled him, asking whether he could more substantively describe his aversion to her or whether he was fine with the 'casual, comfortable misogyny' he had just perpetrated to the chilling satisfaction of the large audience listening to him. The audience was stunned that she would put such a question to him. He rebutted that he was only characterizing the candidates as they are characterized by American media and their own P.R. managers, that he hadn't himself made that dismissal of Clinton. But Nell didn't let it go (pretty awesome). She pressed him harder until he finally made a weak apology for 'how the audience might have interpreted it on that end.'

It was great to watch, and the audience had clearly been uncomfortable, some impatient with her pressing the issue. When I left the theatre at the end of the event, I was alone and so listened to some of the conversations around me. All of the groups of women I heard were talking about his encouraging views on U.S. freedom of speech or about something he'd said about Iran. The groups of men I heard, on the other hand--and I heard a few--were talking about how obnoxious Ms. McCafferty had been in pressing Chomsky on Clinton. Hmm.

Anyway, just an interesting snapshot, I thought.

2008-01-30T12:55:00.000-08:00

(Again, written a couple of days ago...)

So this past weekend, a bunch of kids went traveling, some around Ireland, others in continental Europe… but I stayed here in Galway. I wanted to get to know the city I’d be living in and occasionally hosting friends in over the next five months. I was planning to go on a hiking trip with the Mountaineering Club Sunday, but you have to have proper hiking boots and pants to do it, so I ordered some online and will just keep an eye out for the next trip.

I spent all of Sunday doing homework, but Saturday I went out a bit with my friend Rachel. (My roommate, Emmy, had her mom in town this weekend, so was busy with her—though they took us out to dinner Friday evening, which was great.) First, I’d heard from members of the Ecology Society (whose first meeting I attended last week!) that one of the Tipton Three was talking in Eyre Square in town, so we went to see whether we could find that. I’m still not sure whether we did, but we did find a “Free Gaza” rally, with several speakers, one in particular who compared the brutality of the Israeli occupation of the Palestinian territories to the brutality of the British occupation of Ireland. It was interesting to listen to, and even more interesting to read some of the signs people had brought with them, like “Does My Occupation Look Big in This?” and “American Money, Israeli Arms, Irish Concrete.” Good turnout, by all sorts of citizens… and the Gardai as well (the police force here).

Then Rachel and I headed to the Saturday market, which is a relatively small, but varied market containing everything from fresh produce to jewelry to hats to take-away Indian food, fresh bread, olive oil and hummus… mmm, it was so great to walk around there. I definitely want to do all my grocery shopping there from now on. Actually, the Ecology Society is working to bring the market vendors onto campus once a week to provide fresh, local options to students. Apparently, they’ve done it once or twice in the past and had lots of success, but the main cafeteria of the university (the only non-student-run campus vendor, and the only vendor to have lost money in the past when fresh market vendors came to campus) is a strong voice against it. So we’ll see how that goes… Anyway, I bought this delicious oats and chocolate bar and a chapatti, and then Rachel and I headed off up Shop Street.

Rachel had wanted to try this café nearby called Java’s, so we went there. It was a pretty small, two-story, cozy café with decent prices and just a generally really comfortable atmosphere. And they don’t make you pay until you leave. And it would be so easy to skip out on the bill, but they just trust you to come back to the counter at some point before you leave. Pretty cool—and such good hot chocolate. (I’m really trying not to drink coffee still….) I meant to hit some museums and stuff this weekend too, but it was pretty late in the day by the time we left the café, so I’ll get to those another weekend.

In the meantime, I think I have classes pretty much figured out. I have “Agrarian Politics” on Monday (maybe already my favorite class); “Conflict and Cooperation in Natural Resource Management,” “Understanding Strangers,” and “Population Geography” on Tuesday; “Environmentalism in Ireland” and “Population Geography” (again) on Wednesday; and finally, “Sociology of the Environment” on Thursday, early afternoon. I was going to take “Women in Irish Society,” which would have meant that I’d have had classes only Monday through Wednesday, but I heard the prof is this kind of anti-feminist barrel of fuuuuun, so… thought I’d skip that one. Plus, it’s only for visiting students, so it’s mostly Americans, and lots of kids from my program specifically.

Speaking of which, the kids from my program are… perhaps part of the reason Americans don’t have such a great reputation abroad. I mean, there are a few of them who are really cool—my roommate and friend Rachel are two of them, fortunately—but some of the crap others have been pulling is kind of ridiculous. Like two girls who went to a pub and were told they had to kiss their first Irish boys… so they did. They just grabbed some two guys and made out with them right there. Or like this one guy whose first words to his roommate were, “You know, I just wanna get drunk and bang some chicks!” Emmy has fondly dubbed him simply “bang-some-chicks-boy” (also we don’t know his real name). And then a bunch of people act like they don’t know who you are when you see them around campus or in town. Well, I didn’t come here to go back to high school, nor did I come to get to know mean people, so it’s not too sad for me. In fact, it’s just pretty laughable most of the time.

I’m hoping to get really involved with Ecology Society, or EcoSoc, here. I went to the first meeting last week, with about six other people, and it’s a pretty cool group of kids. All women but two, and with events planned not just around green issues, but regarding politics and social justice as well… which, I guess, is a more accurate interpretation of “ecology” anyway. And it’s great, because it’s like a bunch of my interests all in one! They’ve got a lot of cool ideas, and I learned a lot through them about the nature of the university and its students. I was also able to make a few suggestions from my own knowledge of American universities’ and colleges’ green efforts, and they were receptive and seemed interested. I’m just excited to have a group I feel I identify with in a lot of ways. I’m also still hoping to join in with Mountaineering, and I’ve started going to Dance Society classes as well, though I think I’ll only be going to the Intermediate Hip-Hop class, since all the rest are beginners’ classes. I tried Beginning Irish last week, and while it was fun, it was way over-crowded and really slow-paced. Still, it’d be fun to be in some spring show that they have. We’ll see.

Okay, well, I’m off to try the Irish dance class again soon, so I’ll leave it here…

2008-01-22T01:23:00.000-08:00

Warning: horrendously long entry…

So I’m pretty sure I’m learning more about American pop culture here in Ireland than I regularly would do back home. I’ve watched more TV in the past couple of weeks than I’ve watched in the past couple of years, and not because I go out of my way to watch TV here, but because it seems to be something around which my Irish roommates—and my Irish homestay family from this past weekend—congregate and socialize. They never mind talking over it, but it always seems to be on, and is often the focal point of a family or sitting room.

And America seems only too happy to export all of its worst crap for Europeans to eat up—MTV’s “Sweet Sixteen,” “Desperate Housewives,” and too many crap movies to count. I tried to watch the news today, but there’s way too much coverage of this quintuple-murder case going on, so I opted for some soccer with my breakfast. I try to buy a newspaper most days (I think it’s The Irish Times I get), but you almost feel antisocial if you actually try to read it. Well, I’ll figure that problem out in time. Probably just start reading in cafes.

I had a great weekend with my Irish homestay family. They were Sean and Siobhan (pronounced like Sh’vonne) Lane of Bishop Street, Tuam (about 30-45 minutes from here), with two adorable daughters, Rebecca, seven years old, and Johanna, four-and-a-half. I was with two other American students from the program, and we stayed just Friday through Sunday. It was great to be with a family for a bit, though. Sean wasn’t around much, because he happened to be working the entire weekend we were there (he’s a technician). When he was there, though, he was very kind and remembered our names right away, then treated his girls to tickling and acrobatic games. Sioban is a stay-at-home mother who taught me how to use (and not be afraid of) Ebay. She watches lots of cooking and home remodeling shows, when not running her girls around or checking something on the computer. Rebecca and Johanna love “High School Musical 2” way too much (I was sad to see stereotypes and uber-conservative norms reinforced throughout the movie), and have more high-tech toys than I would know what to do with at their age… but they were also just small, sweet kids who were psyched to have “big-girl” company for the weekend, so we gave them all the attention we could. We exchanged contact info and lots of hugs, then headed back Sunday evening.

I have so far attended three classes, only two of which I’ll be taking. Most of my classes will start this week. “Population Geography” started last Tuesday, and I’ll definitely be keeping it. Same for “Agrarian Politics,” which I had today, though it made me realize the inevitable cultural knowledge gap that exists between myself and my Irish counterparts. The professor made plenty of references to American political trends, which I picked up no problem, but little questions he asked about Irish agriculture or history I had to leave mostly to the Irish students. It’s a class of only seven students, though (great!), four of whom are from rural Ireland. Also, we all had trouble finding the classroom first because the numbering system in the building makes no sense whatsoever, while buildings themselves are given obscure abbreviations you’re supposed to understand; and second, because our classroom had been double-booked, so I actually sat down in “Ethnic Conflict and Territory” before some kind, knowing, pitying fellow American turned to me and advised me of the mix-up. Ha, oh well. I don’t even think the Irish kids get it most of the time.

I am currently typing this in a Word document, by the way, because our internet doesn’t seem to be working. Just another fun detail of life here: undependable internet. What is dependable, though, is that if you have a maintenance problem in your apartment, you will get the help you need to fix it… just not at the hour that you might expect it. One afternoon, just after arriving here, I was napping. I woke up to the doorbell ringing, but before I could even recognize the sound, the door opened and heavy footsteps were bounding up the stairs. Without even a knock, the maintenance manager of the complex, Frank, bursts into my room. “Oh, sorry, love,” he says, but makes no motion to leave. He instead heads over to my roommate’s side of the room, where he is checking the outlets. “Are ye alright, then?” he asks me. I replied that I was fine, just a little dazed. “What? Ah, have ye got the farty winds?” he asks. Um, what?? No, no, I haven’t got the farty winds, I reply, just tired, just got in the day before, etc. “Mm-hmm,” he replies, probably unconvinced, then says that my roommate’s outlets are fine and should there be any more problems, we should just give Frank a ring. Sure…

This, of course, was before we had the shower caulkers at 8:30 a.m. two mornings in a row (and couldn’t use our showers for 24 hours following), three separate workers ringing the doorbell three separate times to come upstairs and make tons of noise. This was also before we had a front door whose key card lock reader’s battery died, leaving us to ring our own doorbell any time we wanted to get into the apartment—the technician arrived an easy two days after the problem was reported. Ha, I really just find it all funny more than anything. Our Irish roommates find little of it surprising.

Speaking of them… we’ve got three: Sarah, Ruth, and Ceola. They’re great, and took a little warming up to before I felt comfortable with them, but I really like them and they seem to like Emmy and me. They’re definitely a party crew, but not out-of-control every-night-party-at-the-house sorts. Mostly, they pre-game, then go clubbing around 10:30. I’m pretty sure they didn’t go to class at all last week, but last week was basically just introductions anyway, so it didn’t matter as much. But good god, do Irish kids party. I’m impressed with my roommates and they’re not nearly the craziest of them.

Basically, if kids host a house party (which we did last week, for Ruth’s twentieth birthday), it’s a license to trash the place. They said it wouldn’t be so bad, since theirs was a girls’ apartment, then proceeded to explain stuff that had taken place at other house parties recently… like one kid’s clothes iron getting catapulted two yards down his block, for no particular reason. For our house party, our roommates moved all furniture out of the main room, hid all food, pushed the kitchen table up to block access to cupboards… it felt like the most intense child-proofing ever done on a place.

The party was tons of fun, and I met a bunch of fun Irish kids. Again, with the learning more about American pop here—goes for music too… there are all the songs I’d expect and dread, but then there are also total surprises that are major hits really late for no apparent reason… like “There Can Be Miracles” from the “Prince of Egypt” animated movie? Yep. Or really bad country songs that have nothing to do with life here because all they sing about are pick-ups and cowboy hats… Pretty funny. And as for fashion (I’ve been meaning to write about it)—way more Euro-trendy than I would have expected and than I’m comfortable with, but hell, I guess that’s appealing for lots of young people. There seem to be two major fashion camps—the Euro-trendy/trashy-dispose-of-your-clothes-after-a-month camp and the considerably smaller and not yet accessible to me, chiller, more Euro-neo-bohemian crew that always manages to look very cool nonetheless.

Anyway, this party was made up I think almost solely of the former, and yes, the place was generally trashed. Kids just drop their drinks all over, break bottles, throw shit around, and take whatever alcohol is left over, though they’re all generally BYOB affairs. They’re insaaane! It was amazing. They all headed to a club around 11 p.m., then came back around 2:30 to sing karaoke and make more noise. Ridiculous…ly fun, though I took no part in the activities after they left the house—went off with some other friends. The next morning, our roommates insisted on doing the cleaning themselves, pouring boiling water mixed with bleach over the floor twice the following morning, and still ending up with a sticky floor (we just wear shoes all the time). Ha ha, oh well. Our roommates really are great, especially considering they cleaned the very next morning (so great in comparison with other students’ roommates), and they were such great hostesses, introducing us to all of their friends and constantly checking in to make sure we were comfortable and having fun. And these kids do this almost every weeknight! I really don’t know how they keep it up…

Well, this has been waaaay too long of an entry. I’ll try to be more regular from now on, with shorter, not so terribly overwhelming novellas for posts. Hope everyone is well! I miss you and can’t wait to see some of you in the not-too-distant future.

2008-01-12T02:18:00.001-08:00

My first almost week now in Ireland has been a blur of green, gray, and blue--that would be the incredibly lush landscape and the sky. Having been abroad before, and also I suppose being at least a little more mature than I was when I traveled in '04-'05, I have been able to bypass the homesickness most other students are experiencing, but have also been able to offer others my sincerest sympathies and comfort when I see them dealing with it. God knows I've been there, right, fam?

So I've found myself predictably confused by the cell phones, the electricity outlets, and the course registration systems here, but I've decided not to get too worked up about it. I will figure things out. What I can't figure out, though, is the fact that Galway does not recycle anything but glass; and while they're very good about the glass (they've got separate bins everywhere for clear, green, and brown glass), I've already thrown away enough cardboard, paper, and plastic to make my heart shrivel.

Still, Irish people are way more conscious of the electricity and products they consume, it seems to me so far anyway. Like, there's a €0.22 bag tax at all grocery stores to encourage people (and it works!) to bring their own reusable shopping bags. And in Limerick, where we had our Butler orientation, the landfill was right next to this kind of nice hotel... though I doubt that was planned. And all of the outlets have their own on/off switches so that the circuits can simply bypass them around the room. Water heats up only for part of the day, according to a timer, and heating is kind of done on a room-by-room basis, with residents keeping doors shut, wearing more clothes, and turning off heaters at night to save on heating costs.

People can come by clothing, shoes, and accessories very cheaply by means of these superstores like Dunnes or Tesco, where it's kind of like a mall--a bunch of little stores all within this one department store... I still don't totally get the arrangement between these seemingly autonomous merchants and the Tesco or Dunnes brands. What I found interesting was that upon entering the produce section of the bizarrely organized grocery stores of these departments stores, I couldn't find absolutely everything I wanted--or there would be very little of it left and people took what they could. That's not to say there wasn't selection, because I got a delicious and probably better-traveled-than-I passion fruit from Dunnes, but they were just low on some kind of basic items, in comparison with the ever overflowing shelves of the supermarkets in the States, where Americans insist on this progressively falser, yet reassuring sense of abundance. (I am finding myself more and more drawn to food systems studies....)

While in Limerick, I saw the Limerick Art Museum, featuring one artist's take on Dante's Inferno. This exhibit took up two large rooms, while a third room housed what seemed like everything else the museum owned, a casually jumbled mix of landscape, abstract, etc. paintings, with pencil drawings, sculpture, and photography filling the walls floor-to-ceiling. I also saw the city's castle and cathedral, as well as its history museum, a very cool, eclectic collection of everything from ancient weapons and coins to modern labor strikers' posters and pamphlets and even an old diving suit. This all took place one rainy afternoon with a friend, who along with me had decided to stay back from the Bunratty Castle trip, to which Butler had organized a trip for us. Bunratty sounded a little like the Medieval Times get-up to me, with people in costume and recreated scenes,etc. You can imagine my reluctance to partake. People who ended up going said it was cool, but I was quite happy with my own scenic afternoon.

We got to Galway on Wednesday midday and have been running from one orientation event to the next and to the grocery and department stores for food and bedding and toiletries. I went out last night, though (Thursday night), with two friends, to a pub known for drawing lots of young people, called King's Head. It was a bit less casual than I expected, with plenty of kids dressed to impress, but the music was great--a live five-member band playing quality covers all night--and I couldn't help but dance just a little (even though I know that's not what pubs are for!), especially when they broke out a little Killers and Radiohead. Oh well.

Oh, and I have to mention... basically ALL of the speakers during our orientation could have been professional performers! It was like each was trying to be funnier or more interesting than the last--this, between the university's vice president, the International Student Director, two priests, two members of the Gardi (police force), and various other academic figureheads from the university. It seems a lot of Irish people have a way with words... let's see if that's at all contagious.

One more thing: on the way from Shannon Airport to our Limerick hotel, our taxi driver told us about "the fairy tree" along the highway from Limerick to Galway, and told us to ask our driver about it when we make that trip. Apparently, this tree was placed under government protection several years ago because it was in the way of a highway that was to built (and ended up swerving around it). Some vandals mangled the tree one night and left it quite scarred... but within three months, the tree had healed such that it looked as though it hadn't been touched! Well, our driver pointed it out to us: it was really more like a large dark-wood bush, leafless in the winter rains and cold, surrounded by a short, wooden fence, within a median between the highway and an exit.... I'll admit it was somewhat anti-climactic, especially since we passed it at around fifty miles an hour, but it was still lovely. So lovely, and reflecting on the image of it, there was a certain undeniable power to that little plant.

In any case, I've written probably more than you cared to read, and romanticized even worse than that. This land already has me by the heart, weather and all, and I just can't wait to see and learn more of it.

P.S. I obviously haven't met my Irish roommates yet, since I didn't write a word about them. They, and we think they're women, left a bit of a mess for us to arrive to, but whatever. And my roommate herself is really great--a junior at Mount Holyoke, sooooo prepster East Coast, and awesome. We're getting along really well so far. Rahhhh!!! Stop! Writing!

2008-01-04T21:30:00.000-08:00

It's still a long explanation that most people wouldn't want to hear as to why, at the very last minute I could (classic me), I chose to study in Ireland rather than Kenya. Yes, two wholly different places, it's true, but hell, ask my advisor (Tony!)--there is very little consistency to much that I do. The unrest and violence that recently erupted in Nairobi has my parents especially grateful that something in me made that switch just a couple of months ago. I guess I am too, but I also wonder what that might have been like to go there still. (Ah, naivety and presumptuousness.)

Well, I'm off tomorrow evening, six p.m. flight out of Chicago if no delays. I still have to pack, I guess, but otherwise, I'm ready. Next time I write, I'll be on Irish soil...

2008-01-04T21:23:00.001-08:00

(This was actually written two weeks ago! I procrastinated on posting it, on starting this blog in the first place, because I couldn't think of a good name for it. I owe the name to Adrian S., and to The Magnetic Fields a little too, by the way. Thank you.)

So it begins… kind of. I am sitting in the Dallas/Ft. Worth airport, awaiting my two-hours-delayed flight home to Chicago. Should get me into O’Hare around 10:30 p.m., where I’ll meet my parents and sisters (hooray!) and then drive the forty-five minutes home.

So the narrative starts here. In part, because I feel like some part of a trip is the anticipation of it. Also, because I know my break will be unbelievably short and packed, so if I don’t start here, I’ll manage to keep putting it off ‘til I figure there’s no point to it anymore. And finally, because I still have at least another hour until we even board. I’m tempted to keep a handwritten journal (I’m a sucker for the romance), but I’m having an unusually honest moment with myself that leads me to confess my persistent laziness—so typing is the more likely medium for me.

Sitting here amidst all these Chicago-bound passengers makes me more conscious of the pretty preppy and neutral-tones fashion sense many of its residents adhere to. I am sitting here in a pair of birks, worn-out navy dockers, a bright orange-red sweater (Yael, that color recognition is for you), and a green scarf. And I feel like I smell—you know, nothing rank, just that I’ve-been-traveling-for-a-while smell. My cuticles are all cut up from packing accidents yesterday, my MacBook is perched contentedly on my lap, and my lower calves, just visible below my rolled-up pant legs, are hairy like any over-busy (and over-lazy) woman’s would be: I am definitely a college student.

Too much information? Probably, but recall my circumstances. Anyway, it’s been a crazy, sleep-deprived week. But I did it. And I’m here. And just hours away from home and relaxing and eating great food and being unproductive for a little while (yes!). One thing I learned this week: do not try to say your good-byes on two restless hours of sleep (sorry Adrian and Alana!)—the tears just keep a-flowin’…

Wow, what a semester. I will miss the women who nursed me through it, both at Scripps and not. You. are. wonderful. And I hope we meet up somehow this semester, at least those of us who have the geographical possibility of doing so. I will close this entry by sharing with you two humorous instances observed in the past ten seconds: 1) I looked up briefly and caught the look of shock on a fellow passenger’s face whose gaze was directed at my exposed right leg; and 2) this young couple traveling with a Chihuahua puppy is feeding her bottled water from the bottle cap.