They said it never happened in Dublin. The Tic-Tac-sized hail on Thursday afternoon was supposedly the closest they city would get to it.
But later that night, as I walked out of a friend’s flat, I was surprised to see snowflakes streaking sideways in the wind, across the amber sphere of glow cast by the streetlight. I rummaged in my coat pocket for my phone, eager to call my friends and tell them to look out the window.
The flakes gently landed on my face, almost instantaneously dissolving and seeping into my skin. I had to turn my attention to dialling numbers, for it was proving difficult to accomplish through glove-encased fingers.
By the time I was ready to hit “Send”, the snow had stopped. I looked back up at the bare streetlight, hopes of sharing my initial excitement deflated.
As I walked home, I thought about the snow. How it had been instilled as an inconceivability and how many people had told me to not get my hopes up in waiting for it. How it had caught me off-guard that night and filled me with excitement. How I had tried to capture it and share it with friends, only to fall a few seconds short. How in focussing on dialling numbers, I had myself missed most of its brief existence.
When I consider my time in Dublin on this second to last night, I wonder how many times a similar impulse to capture a brief moment prevented me from actually embracing the moment as it happened. I thought about obsessive picture taking, and how I sometimes had to refrain myself from staring into the two square inch LCD than actually enjoying the breath-taking views in front of me. I thought about going through museums with an ambition to read every word of information and description, yet forgetting to spend time viewing the artifact or painting itself.
While it is certainly important that I take some photos and read some history, I realized how much we often live through a constructed version of reality. Life is full of so many amazing things and if we were to just appreciate such experiences in the moment – sans camera or videorecorder or diversions to capture the moment – we might find that such spontaneity will remain in our minds longer than a picture remains in a photo frame.
I’ve had a fantastic time in Dublin this semester. Thanks to my friends from home and family for support. Thanks to all the new friends I’ve made while I’ve been in Ireland. I’m leaving happy and fulfilled. And exhausted—thanks to my professors and end of term papers. I’ve learned a lot about different cultures, a lot about my self. I will be continuing my European adventures for three weeks: Rome, Berlin, Brussels, Amsterdam, Paris. I’ll let you know how waking up in a hostel on Christmas morning goes…
As I turned onto my street, the snow began again, slowly at first, but building up to a lively frenzy of white flakes across the Dublin sky. I reached for my phone, but thought better, and sat at the bottom of my front stairs to watch the flurries fall.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Thanksgiving Entry
When the Christmas lights started going up because after Halloween, I wasn't surprised. After all, even American stores begin Christmas sales on the first of November. However, there always seems to be a collective recognition of the Thanksgiving buffer that happens at the end of the month, and everyone seems to genuinely take a break (even if it only lasts until the end of the pecan pie and the pathetic mobilization for Black Friday sales at midnight) for the beloved Thanksgiving holiday. Not the case in Ireland. There was no looking back the day the lights went up, and it was a little tough as an American to consider that while I had internally registered the November holiday, no one that I passed on the street or that spoke in my lectures or that sold me a sandwich would even consider stopping on November 26 to give thanks.
Of course, I was wrong. I was surrounded by Americans in my program, and conscientious people that actually went out of their ways to make American students feel at home, and prepare some holiday activities. In fact, I ended up having three Thanksgiving meals, and none of them were left-overs. Even the grocery store had a little display of packet gravy, mix-with-water potatos, and canned cranberry sauce (none of which I ate, but appreciated nonetheless).
Thanksgiving was quite good this year. Final papers are looming, however, and the blog might be running dry for a little bit. Not to fear though, I will pick it up again when I start traveling!
For now, some Thanksgiving thoughts that came to me over the weekend:
Thanks to memories, for confusing the past
To small things, for meaning a lot
To the cold weather, for chilling our bodies and warming our hearts
To accidents, for leading me down unconsidered paths
To first impressions, for giving us something to change
To my family, for supporting me always
To the present, for never repeating itself
To my friends, for sharing experiences people dream of
To our differences, for creating borders to cross
To impulsiveness, for reminding me of the freedoms I have
To silence, for bringing peace to an anxious world
To noise, for breaking long-enough silence
To change, for urging us into the future.
Of course, I was wrong. I was surrounded by Americans in my program, and conscientious people that actually went out of their ways to make American students feel at home, and prepare some holiday activities. In fact, I ended up having three Thanksgiving meals, and none of them were left-overs. Even the grocery store had a little display of packet gravy, mix-with-water potatos, and canned cranberry sauce (none of which I ate, but appreciated nonetheless).
Thanksgiving was quite good this year. Final papers are looming, however, and the blog might be running dry for a little bit. Not to fear though, I will pick it up again when I start traveling!
For now, some Thanksgiving thoughts that came to me over the weekend:
Thanks to memories, for confusing the past
To small things, for meaning a lot
To the cold weather, for chilling our bodies and warming our hearts
To accidents, for leading me down unconsidered paths
To first impressions, for giving us something to change
To my family, for supporting me always
To the present, for never repeating itself
To my friends, for sharing experiences people dream of
To our differences, for creating borders to cross
To impulsiveness, for reminding me of the freedoms I have
To silence, for bringing peace to an anxious world
To noise, for breaking long-enough silence
To change, for urging us into the future.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Switzerland Through a Conch Shell
I stand half-under the awning at the Dublin Bus stop, the weak rain failing to penetrate my backpack. I am anxious because I am about to embark on my first trip onto the mainland of Europe! Adding to my anxiety is the lateness of the 16A bus, which hasn’t passed for the nearly 45 minutes that I’ve been waiting at the stop.
Finally, it arrives, and I eagerly board, relieved that I will catch my flight on time. An hour later, I am going through airport security for the first time since my flight to Dublin at the end of August.
I had heard horror stories of flying RyanAir—and I had four RyanAir flights in my near future (a connection at Stansted Airport outside of London). However, the boarding went quite smoothly, despite what I thought might be complete chaos because of the absence of assigned seating. Once on board, I quickly scoped out a seat, and only struggled a little to shove my backpack into the carry-on compartment. Almost as soon as I sat down, the plane’s speakers starting playing Mozart’s “Eine Kleine Nachtmusik,” the intensity of the opening unison arpeggios gradually dissipating into the pleasantly familiar melody, a soundtrack to the comical scene of the other passengers getting situated—small children scuffling around amidst a throng of knees, couples shouting at each other over which seats to take, stewardesses in their constrictive uniforms attempting to wade through passengers.
Per usual, I am knocked out within five minutes, and sleep until we arrived in London at 11:30pm.
Here begins an adventure I maybe shouldn’t blog ablout—my 12-hour lay-over in Stansted Airport. My flight to Basel, Switzerland (my final destination) does not leave until 11am on Saturday, so I have a bit of time to kill. As I walk out into the front area of the airport, I am relieved to see I am not the only one with this idea. In fact, most have come more prepared than I, spread out in sleeping bags and curled up with blankets across three or four airport chairs. Most of these chairs have been claimed, and I observe that the next best thing is curling up under the two foot canopy of a giant advertisement marquee. I set my backpack down and prepare for the night. I sleep for about two hours with my track jacket as a pillow—the stone floor is cold and hard (but definitely clean since the zamboni-like machine that sprays and squeegees the floor has passed by about three times now). I brought a long book, and that occupies me for another couple hours, by which time passengers with early flights are starting to arrive, and the vendors are starting to lift the metal gates on their stands and begin the day’s sales.
I pack up my bag, and walk outside into the brisk and immensely foggy England air. After a few fresh breaths, I decide to head through security early, and spend the rest of my time bumming around the travel books section in the duty free bookshop.
Finally, I am boarding my next flight, and before I know it, Mozart is playing again. This kind of diminishes the sudden novelty it produced before, but I still chuckle to myself as I think how perfectly the music fits the situation.
The flight comes and goes, and before I know it, I have landed in Basel, Switzerland!
When I de-board, the first of my five senses that gets to experience “der Schweiz” is touch, as my feet step foot onto the European Mainland for the first time in my life. Even the bland, asphalt ground of the plane parking lot sends waves of excitement through my exhausted body.
In fact, as I enjoy this weekend, all of my senses are percolated save one—my hearing. Having flown with a light head cold, my ears are clogged the entire weekend. (They are actually even clogged now, as I write this 2 days later). Everything is muffled, especially my own voice, and it is difficult to discern how loudly I am speaking. It is like hearing out of a conch shell, the ones you are supposed to put up against your ear to hear the ocean. But of course, I did not let it affect my weekend, whatsoever.
Dear Frühs,
I cannot thank you enough for the fantastic weekend I had with you all, starting from the very beginning with the Tour de Basel. Herbstmesse (the fall festival in Basel) was such an exciting atmosphere, and the Bratwurst and steamed chestnuts were delicious. My taste buds were most captured by the sweet Magenbrot, its combinations of cinnamon, chocolate, and ginger flavours making it hard to stop eating!
I really enjoyed seeing the town—the paper mill, the Rathaus (town hall), the Cathedral with its fantastic view of the Rhine—and how could I forget the tranquil ferry ride on the motor-less boat, powered only by the gentle, natural flow of the river. Thanks also for humouring my attempts to read the German signage (this one basically means "Christmas Tree Decorations Specialty Shop"), and explaining the fascinating Swiss German language that has no written grammatical rules!
Anina, many thanks to you for recommending Bar Rouge! Bar Rouge is the highest bar/club in Basel, sitting on the 31st floor of a big glass building. It was a spectacular view with the dark slowly encroaching and the lights brightening up the city.
The Raclette might have been my favourite part of the trip. My grandmother knew I would love it! It was so fun to “cook at the table”—sticking the cheese into the heat and impatiently waiting for it to melt, before scraping it in one gooey slide onto the potatoes, and then garnishing it with the different toppings—the hot red sauce was my favourite. Once again, my taste buds were getting treated!
We made such a good day trip out of our one full day together, and saw the heart of Switzerland from the top of Mount Pilatus, the highest mountain on the border between the flatter lake-filled lands and the impressive Swiss Alps! Most fun was the ride up on the world’s steepest cog-wheel train—at points a 48% incline which is equivalent to almost a 30 degree angle!
The view from the top was stunning, and the smell of the crisp, fresh air, cooled by the recent snow was invigorating. I also decided that if skydiving doesn’t work out, perhaps hang-gliding will suffice!
Our short evening in Luzern was also brilliant. The city was so nicely lit up on the lake—humble lighting, not too glamorous. The Chapel Bridge was quite interesting to see as well, spanning nearly 100 metres across the lake. It is hard to think that only 15 years ago a fire destroyed this medieval bridge, singeing the wood as well as a vast collection of paintings on the trusses. I’m glad the city decided to rebuild this historic bridge, since it is now quite charming with the rows of pink flowers and the blackened wood as a reminder of the devastating effects fire can rapidly inflict on historic landmarks.
Our dinner at the Rathaus Brauerei (“Townhall Brewery”) was so delicious. Älpermargonen—a combination of everything I love! Pasta, potatoes, cheese, and apples (well, applesauce, but it was good applesauce…not Mott’s). It’s hard to describe the day as anything less than perfect.
Seraina—thank you for the great tour of Magden! The village is exactly what I think of when I envision a picturesque, European community, the backdrop of the vineyards and the rolling hills summoning a warmth about the place despite the rain. It was so nice to see where you went to school, where you go to church, and where you pick up the bus—really, these little details make you feel at home!
It was wonderful to step over the Rheinfelden border between Switzerland and Germany as well! OK, maybe not exactly the border, since the precise line seems to have vanished…however, crossing the river into Deutschland was good enough!
Finally, thank you for the warm hospitality and conversations. It was so great to see you all and to catch up with you, and give you the scoop on what the Thomas clan has been up to. Your friendship with our family is very precious and valued by all of us, and I hope that you keep in touch and that we can meet again soon!
Love,
Victor
Finally, it arrives, and I eagerly board, relieved that I will catch my flight on time. An hour later, I am going through airport security for the first time since my flight to Dublin at the end of August.
I had heard horror stories of flying RyanAir—and I had four RyanAir flights in my near future (a connection at Stansted Airport outside of London). However, the boarding went quite smoothly, despite what I thought might be complete chaos because of the absence of assigned seating. Once on board, I quickly scoped out a seat, and only struggled a little to shove my backpack into the carry-on compartment. Almost as soon as I sat down, the plane’s speakers starting playing Mozart’s “Eine Kleine Nachtmusik,” the intensity of the opening unison arpeggios gradually dissipating into the pleasantly familiar melody, a soundtrack to the comical scene of the other passengers getting situated—small children scuffling around amidst a throng of knees, couples shouting at each other over which seats to take, stewardesses in their constrictive uniforms attempting to wade through passengers.
Per usual, I am knocked out within five minutes, and sleep until we arrived in London at 11:30pm.
Here begins an adventure I maybe shouldn’t blog ablout—my 12-hour lay-over in Stansted Airport. My flight to Basel, Switzerland (my final destination) does not leave until 11am on Saturday, so I have a bit of time to kill. As I walk out into the front area of the airport, I am relieved to see I am not the only one with this idea. In fact, most have come more prepared than I, spread out in sleeping bags and curled up with blankets across three or four airport chairs. Most of these chairs have been claimed, and I observe that the next best thing is curling up under the two foot canopy of a giant advertisement marquee. I set my backpack down and prepare for the night. I sleep for about two hours with my track jacket as a pillow—the stone floor is cold and hard (but definitely clean since the zamboni-like machine that sprays and squeegees the floor has passed by about three times now). I brought a long book, and that occupies me for another couple hours, by which time passengers with early flights are starting to arrive, and the vendors are starting to lift the metal gates on their stands and begin the day’s sales.I pack up my bag, and walk outside into the brisk and immensely foggy England air. After a few fresh breaths, I decide to head through security early, and spend the rest of my time bumming around the travel books section in the duty free bookshop.
Finally, I am boarding my next flight, and before I know it, Mozart is playing again. This kind of diminishes the sudden novelty it produced before, but I still chuckle to myself as I think how perfectly the music fits the situation.
The flight comes and goes, and before I know it, I have landed in Basel, Switzerland!
When I de-board, the first of my five senses that gets to experience “der Schweiz” is touch, as my feet step foot onto the European Mainland for the first time in my life. Even the bland, asphalt ground of the plane parking lot sends waves of excitement through my exhausted body.
In fact, as I enjoy this weekend, all of my senses are percolated save one—my hearing. Having flown with a light head cold, my ears are clogged the entire weekend. (They are actually even clogged now, as I write this 2 days later). Everything is muffled, especially my own voice, and it is difficult to discern how loudly I am speaking. It is like hearing out of a conch shell, the ones you are supposed to put up against your ear to hear the ocean. But of course, I did not let it affect my weekend, whatsoever.
Dear Frühs,
I cannot thank you enough for the fantastic weekend I had with you all, starting from the very beginning with the Tour de Basel. Herbstmesse (the fall festival in Basel) was such an exciting atmosphere, and the Bratwurst and steamed chestnuts were delicious. My taste buds were most captured by the sweet Magenbrot, its combinations of cinnamon, chocolate, and ginger flavours making it hard to stop eating!
I really enjoyed seeing the town—the paper mill, the Rathaus (town hall), the Cathedral with its fantastic view of the Rhine—and how could I forget the tranquil ferry ride on the motor-less boat, powered only by the gentle, natural flow of the river. Thanks also for humouring my attempts to read the German signage (this one basically means "Christmas Tree Decorations Specialty Shop"), and explaining the fascinating Swiss German language that has no written grammatical rules!
Anina, many thanks to you for recommending Bar Rouge! Bar Rouge is the highest bar/club in Basel, sitting on the 31st floor of a big glass building. It was a spectacular view with the dark slowly encroaching and the lights brightening up the city.
The Raclette might have been my favourite part of the trip. My grandmother knew I would love it! It was so fun to “cook at the table”—sticking the cheese into the heat and impatiently waiting for it to melt, before scraping it in one gooey slide onto the potatoes, and then garnishing it with the different toppings—the hot red sauce was my favourite. Once again, my taste buds were getting treated!
The view from the top was stunning, and the smell of the crisp, fresh air, cooled by the recent snow was invigorating. I also decided that if skydiving doesn’t work out, perhaps hang-gliding will suffice!
Our short evening in Luzern was also brilliant. The city was so nicely lit up on the lake—humble lighting, not too glamorous. The Chapel Bridge was quite interesting to see as well, spanning nearly 100 metres across the lake. It is hard to think that only 15 years ago a fire destroyed this medieval bridge, singeing the wood as well as a vast collection of paintings on the trusses. I’m glad the city decided to rebuild this historic bridge, since it is now quite charming with the rows of pink flowers and the blackened wood as a reminder of the devastating effects fire can rapidly inflict on historic landmarks.Our dinner at the Rathaus Brauerei (“Townhall Brewery”) was so delicious. Älpermargonen—a combination of everything I love! Pasta, potatoes, cheese, and apples (well, applesauce, but it was good applesauce…not Mott’s). It’s hard to describe the day as anything less than perfect.
Seraina—thank you for the great tour of Magden! The village is exactly what I think of when I envision a picturesque, European community, the backdrop of the vineyards and the rolling hills summoning a warmth about the place despite the rain. It was so nice to see where you went to school, where you go to church, and where you pick up the bus—really, these little details make you feel at home!
It was wonderful to step over the Rheinfelden border between Switzerland and Germany as well! OK, maybe not exactly the border, since the precise line seems to have vanished…however, crossing the river into Deutschland was good enough!
Finally, thank you for the warm hospitality and conversations. It was so great to see you all and to catch up with you, and give you the scoop on what the Thomas clan has been up to. Your friendship with our family is very precious and valued by all of us, and I hope that you keep in touch and that we can meet again soon!
Love,
Victor
Monday, October 26, 2009
Northern Ireland, Crossing Borders and Crossing off To-Dos
Sometimes when you are halfway through something you just need that one break that rejuvenates you to take on the second half. This past weekend in Northern Ireland was exactly that break.
The weekend trip required absolutely no planning on my part, since it was organised by IES staff members. Even our meals were planned and paid for (and boy, were they delicious). All I really had to do was pack my bag and meet at the bus station (granted we did have to meet there quite early—I woke up at 6:45 for the first time since I got over jet-lag). From there, we took a bus to Belfast, the capital of Northern Ireland, which is actually politically part of the United Kingdom. I was making my first trip outside the Republic of Ireland!
Of course, this came with some stipulations: our cell phones operated on different rates, we had to use the British Pound currency instead of the Euro, and we had to carry our passports.
We arrived in Belfast, and began an eating spree at the Crown Bar, an old Victorian-styled restaurant. The décor of the restaurant was mind-blowingly ornate, but what was really impressive was the food they served us. I ordered a DELICIOUS Beef and Guinness Pie, which was essentially stewed steak under a flaky pastry, and probably contained enough salt to last me until November.
After lunch, we toured Belfast in the famous Black Cabs, a popular service for tourists that really acquaints you with the history and the current political status of the city and the conflict within Northern Ireland. No blog paragraph can do the grey areas of this political struggle justice, but to reduce it down to a sentence: there exist two factions in the area, the Unionists (those who support remaining a part of the United Kingdom, usually the Protestants) and the Republicans (those who resist being part of the UK and desire to be united with the Republic of Ireland, usually the Catholics). This struggle is still existent, is incredibly complicated, and is also sadly still quite violent. In fact, there had been a bombing in Belfast a few days before we got there—a police officer’s car was targeted and his wife was injured, though not killed. The picture above is of one graphically disturbing mural portraying a hooded terrorist pointing a gun at the viewer. This mural is quite old, and most people these days are campaigning to replace them with more peaceful messages.
The guides on the Black Cab tour were incredibly knowledgeable, and were dedicated to presenting the situation from multiple perspectives—each of the four drivers spoke at a different section of the tour, and brought something different to the table. Incredibly, there still exists a barrier known as the “Peace Line,” which is essentially the Berlin Wall of Northern Ireland. It separates communities that are whole-heartedly Unionist from those that are staunchly Republican. When the Peace Line was first erected, it was six feet high, but because of violence throughout the 1980s and on, the wall was incrementally built up, and stands at 42 feet in some sections to prevent people from throwing explosives over it! I got to sign a section of the wall:
The Black Cabs tour of Belfast was another reminder of the often-intolerable world in which we live. Yet the graffiti on the wall was visually and memorably triumphant in my mind as we got back on a bus and departed for our next destination, Port Rush, a resort town on the coast of the North Sea.
Though the forecast had called for a completely miserable and rainy weekend, we had not seen rain yet as we arrived in at our hotel in Port Rush. Before dinner, I took a walk along the coast, touched the North Sea, and looked out onto the water that crawled over the horizon to where I knew was the North Pole. I was a gorgeous evening, and all the more tranquil because the buzz of the town was shut down because tourist season has finally ended in Ireland.
Dinner deserves its own paragraph. We ate at a restaurant called Coast and it was an unbelievable meal. I had Chilli Chicken Risotto, and though it was a struggle, licked my plate clean. Then I was faced with a massive slice of chocolate fudge cake, topped with a scoop of vanilla ice cream—this rivals the Triple Chocolate Meltdown at Applebee’s, my Metuchen friends. After leaving the restaurant, I was convinced my stomach needed the entire rest of the night to process what I had just subjected it to, so I went on a beach walk and then hit the sack.
My alarm goes off at 6:40 a.m. but I am convinced to sleep another thirty minutes. My goal is to see the sun rise across the water, so I rewake with determination at 7:15, and trudge downstairs.
I stroll amidst the high grass on the bluffs next to the hotel, and am whipped around by a fierce wind that is the harbinger of the storm that was supposed to roll in yesterday. The sky is clear, however, and though I’m not able to see the sun rising over the water, I experience the gradual lighting of beach as I stroll back for breakfast. These are the last few hours of completely dry weather we will have the remainder of the weekend.
Our first destination for the day is the Old Bushmills Distillery. In comparison to the Jameson Distillery in Dublin, which I visited about two weeks ago, I actually enjoyed Bushmills better because it was the actual location of whiskey manufacturing, while Jameson was simply a museum since actual production moved in the 1970s. Bushmills also gave us a tour of the bottling room, which was like entering an episode of “How It’s Made”—NBJ, you would have drooled. Thankfully, most of this tour was inside, because at this point it was starting to pour outside.
It is after this tour that we are given the unfortunate news that the next item on our itinerary, the Carrick-a-Rede rope bridge was closed. I am devastated—this rope bridge was something that I had had on my to-do list since the summer. I had been SO excited to see it on the Northern Ireland trip itinerary, and just like that, it was struck off the agenda. (Keep reading though…)
Instead, we depart for Dunluce Castle, which instantly ameliorates our disappointment. The castle is literally on the edge of a cliff. In fact, at one point in its history, the earth under the kitchen eroded and broke off into the sea, apparently taking with it several servants. The views from the various bedrooms in the ruined castle are incredible, and put new meaning to the property additive “ocean-view.” As we drive away from the spectacular scene, a rainbow appears.
We are now heading to Giant’s Causeway, perhaps the top tourist destination in Northern Ireland. The location is a UNESCO World Heritage Site and is considered by many to be the tenth Great Natural Wonder of the World.
Eamonn, here’s my research: the “causeway” was formed 50 to 60 million years ago when the area was subject to intense volcanic activity, highly fluid basalt found its way into cooling lava. As the lava cooled rapidly, the basalt contracted, both horizontally and vertically; however, the vertical contractions are what are now stunning. The height of the hexagonal prisms indicates the speed and which the basalt cooled. The formation stretches across the sea ten miles to Scotland, where a similar formation remerges on the southern coast.
The term “causeway” is a misnomer of lore. According to Irish legend, the warrior Finn McCool built the causeway as he sought to defeat the Scottish giant Brenandonner. When Brenandonner crossed over to Ireland, he mistook Finn for a sleeping child, and feared that a child of that size must have a much larger patriarchal protector, and thus fled back to Scotland, tearing up the causeway as he went.
Enough with the background garbage. What an exhilarating experience…
The rain has started to come down hard at this point. Yet we are unfazed, and crawl across the rocks like ants on a picnic basket. One foolish tourist has an umbrella out, but struggles against the wind that keeps inverting it. Every time a big gust blows I wedge my boots into a good foothold and plant my body as if I am bracing to be tackled. I walk along the edge of the stones and allow the water to rush up around my ankles, not really caring now since my entire body is drenched at this point.
The stupid tourist loses hold of her umbrella and it goes sailing into the abyss.
The sea has worn the columns over the millions of years, but they are still distinctly hexagonal and almost unnatural looking, like the pixels of some dated computer game. I remember a quote from my guidebook by William Thackeray (I don't know his significance, but the quote was poignant): "When the world was moulded and fashioned out of formless chaos, this must have been the bit left over."
I walk away from the columns on a trail that hikes upward, giving tourists a spectacular view from afar. The horizon is now a blur as the wind stirs up the water and the mist hovers above the sea. I hike higher, and finally reach the peak, drenched to the bone, but utterly exhilarated. I take in the magnificence of the view, and the power of Nature as it whips my raincoat against my body.
I turn around and am startled by a herd of sheep, simply grazing and apparently equally unaffected by the torrential downpour. I chuckle to myself, and begin to walk alone along the edge of the cliff. A couple times I find myself doing the rugby plant with my body, so I maintain a safe distance from the cliffs just in case the wind blows just a little too hard.
Drenched, I enter the gift shop where most of the others have already found shelter. I am dripping with water, but completely dry inside. How else should one experience such a place as Giant’s Causeway?
So it’s Sunday, our last morning in the Port Rush area. The weather has calmed down a little, but the drizzle still continues, and the sun is struggling to shine through the clouds. We are hopeful though, for we have just learned that the Carrick-a-Rede rope bridge might open back up today!
We get the confirmation about 15 minutes later, and I am enveloped in excitement. Though I can’t change much, my body yearns to drag people out of the hotel faster and to step a little harder on the gas so that we make it there in time in case it closes early.
When we get there, we are still a one-kilometre walk away, but the winds have died down, and assurance is granted that we will be able to cross! I see the rope bridge far off in the distance, yet it disappears behind cliff edges as we begin to walk the trail toward it.
Before I know it, I turn a corner and it is there right in front of me.
I hurry down the steps a set my first foot on the bridge—WOW. I look down. One hundred feet separate me and the rocky chasm where waves are hurling through the island and the mainland.
I should backtrack. The Carrick-a-Rede rope bridge was built a couple hundred years ago by salmon fishermen who realised that the best place to fish was on the outer end of the small island. On the island, there are still the remnants of the moorings and anchors for fishing boats, though the salmon population was decimated and no longer exists there.
On my way back from the bridge, the rain was picking up, and the rope rails were billowing out with the wind. I decided to try crossing without holding the ropes. I felt like a contestant on Fear Factor. Slowly, I inched my way across, and took in the experience that I had been dreaming of since summer, and that I knew I probably would never relive again.
Northern Ireland was a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and I’m glad that I got to do some of these activities while I still have the thigh muscles and agility to do them. As we rode along the coast I looked out into the ocean and saw some seabirds flying along the edge of the coastal cliffs. What a life birds have, with the ability to soar around and perch on the inside of cliffs…
But as a human, I’m pretty sure I’ve come as close as one can to flying this weekend.
The weekend trip required absolutely no planning on my part, since it was organised by IES staff members. Even our meals were planned and paid for (and boy, were they delicious). All I really had to do was pack my bag and meet at the bus station (granted we did have to meet there quite early—I woke up at 6:45 for the first time since I got over jet-lag). From there, we took a bus to Belfast, the capital of Northern Ireland, which is actually politically part of the United Kingdom. I was making my first trip outside the Republic of Ireland!
Of course, this came with some stipulations: our cell phones operated on different rates, we had to use the British Pound currency instead of the Euro, and we had to carry our passports.
We arrived in Belfast, and began an eating spree at the Crown Bar, an old Victorian-styled restaurant. The décor of the restaurant was mind-blowingly ornate, but what was really impressive was the food they served us. I ordered a DELICIOUS Beef and Guinness Pie, which was essentially stewed steak under a flaky pastry, and probably contained enough salt to last me until November.
The guides on the Black Cab tour were incredibly knowledgeable, and were dedicated to presenting the situation from multiple perspectives—each of the four drivers spoke at a different section of the tour, and brought something different to the table. Incredibly, there still exists a barrier known as the “Peace Line,” which is essentially the Berlin Wall of Northern Ireland. It separates communities that are whole-heartedly Unionist from those that are staunchly Republican. When the Peace Line was first erected, it was six feet high, but because of violence throughout the 1980s and on, the wall was incrementally built up, and stands at 42 feet in some sections to prevent people from throwing explosives over it! I got to sign a section of the wall:
The Black Cabs tour of Belfast was another reminder of the often-intolerable world in which we live. Yet the graffiti on the wall was visually and memorably triumphant in my mind as we got back on a bus and departed for our next destination, Port Rush, a resort town on the coast of the North Sea.
Though the forecast had called for a completely miserable and rainy weekend, we had not seen rain yet as we arrived in at our hotel in Port Rush. Before dinner, I took a walk along the coast, touched the North Sea, and looked out onto the water that crawled over the horizon to where I knew was the North Pole. I was a gorgeous evening, and all the more tranquil because the buzz of the town was shut down because tourist season has finally ended in Ireland.
Dinner deserves its own paragraph. We ate at a restaurant called Coast and it was an unbelievable meal. I had Chilli Chicken Risotto, and though it was a struggle, licked my plate clean. Then I was faced with a massive slice of chocolate fudge cake, topped with a scoop of vanilla ice cream—this rivals the Triple Chocolate Meltdown at Applebee’s, my Metuchen friends. After leaving the restaurant, I was convinced my stomach needed the entire rest of the night to process what I had just subjected it to, so I went on a beach walk and then hit the sack.
* * *
My alarm goes off at 6:40 a.m. but I am convinced to sleep another thirty minutes. My goal is to see the sun rise across the water, so I rewake with determination at 7:15, and trudge downstairs.
I stroll amidst the high grass on the bluffs next to the hotel, and am whipped around by a fierce wind that is the harbinger of the storm that was supposed to roll in yesterday. The sky is clear, however, and though I’m not able to see the sun rising over the water, I experience the gradual lighting of beach as I stroll back for breakfast. These are the last few hours of completely dry weather we will have the remainder of the weekend.
Our first destination for the day is the Old Bushmills Distillery. In comparison to the Jameson Distillery in Dublin, which I visited about two weeks ago, I actually enjoyed Bushmills better because it was the actual location of whiskey manufacturing, while Jameson was simply a museum since actual production moved in the 1970s. Bushmills also gave us a tour of the bottling room, which was like entering an episode of “How It’s Made”—NBJ, you would have drooled. Thankfully, most of this tour was inside, because at this point it was starting to pour outside.
It is after this tour that we are given the unfortunate news that the next item on our itinerary, the Carrick-a-Rede rope bridge was closed. I am devastated—this rope bridge was something that I had had on my to-do list since the summer. I had been SO excited to see it on the Northern Ireland trip itinerary, and just like that, it was struck off the agenda. (Keep reading though…)
Eamonn, here’s my research: the “causeway” was formed 50 to 60 million years ago when the area was subject to intense volcanic activity, highly fluid basalt found its way into cooling lava. As the lava cooled rapidly, the basalt contracted, both horizontally and vertically; however, the vertical contractions are what are now stunning. The height of the hexagonal prisms indicates the speed and which the basalt cooled. The formation stretches across the sea ten miles to Scotland, where a similar formation remerges on the southern coast.
The term “causeway” is a misnomer of lore. According to Irish legend, the warrior Finn McCool built the causeway as he sought to defeat the Scottish giant Brenandonner. When Brenandonner crossed over to Ireland, he mistook Finn for a sleeping child, and feared that a child of that size must have a much larger patriarchal protector, and thus fled back to Scotland, tearing up the causeway as he went.
Enough with the background garbage. What an exhilarating experience…
The stupid tourist loses hold of her umbrella and it goes sailing into the abyss.
The sea has worn the columns over the millions of years, but they are still distinctly hexagonal and almost unnatural looking, like the pixels of some dated computer game. I remember a quote from my guidebook by William Thackeray (I don't know his significance, but the quote was poignant): "When the world was moulded and fashioned out of formless chaos, this must have been the bit left over."I walk away from the columns on a trail that hikes upward, giving tourists a spectacular view from afar. The horizon is now a blur as the wind stirs up the water and the mist hovers above the sea. I hike higher, and finally reach the peak, drenched to the bone, but utterly exhilarated. I take in the magnificence of the view, and the power of Nature as it whips my raincoat against my body.
I turn around and am startled by a herd of sheep, simply grazing and apparently equally unaffected by the torrential downpour. I chuckle to myself, and begin to walk alone along the edge of the cliff. A couple times I find myself doing the rugby plant with my body, so I maintain a safe distance from the cliffs just in case the wind blows just a little too hard.
Drenched, I enter the gift shop where most of the others have already found shelter. I am dripping with water, but completely dry inside. How else should one experience such a place as Giant’s Causeway?
* * *
So it’s Sunday, our last morning in the Port Rush area. The weather has calmed down a little, but the drizzle still continues, and the sun is struggling to shine through the clouds. We are hopeful though, for we have just learned that the Carrick-a-Rede rope bridge might open back up today!
We get the confirmation about 15 minutes later, and I am enveloped in excitement. Though I can’t change much, my body yearns to drag people out of the hotel faster and to step a little harder on the gas so that we make it there in time in case it closes early.
When we get there, we are still a one-kilometre walk away, but the winds have died down, and assurance is granted that we will be able to cross! I see the rope bridge far off in the distance, yet it disappears behind cliff edges as we begin to walk the trail toward it.
Before I know it, I turn a corner and it is there right in front of me.
I hurry down the steps a set my first foot on the bridge—WOW. I look down. One hundred feet separate me and the rocky chasm where waves are hurling through the island and the mainland.
I should backtrack. The Carrick-a-Rede rope bridge was built a couple hundred years ago by salmon fishermen who realised that the best place to fish was on the outer end of the small island. On the island, there are still the remnants of the moorings and anchors for fishing boats, though the salmon population was decimated and no longer exists there.
* * *
Northern Ireland was a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and I’m glad that I got to do some of these activities while I still have the thigh muscles and agility to do them. As we rode along the coast I looked out into the ocean and saw some seabirds flying along the edge of the coastal cliffs. What a life birds have, with the ability to soar around and perch on the inside of cliffs…
But as a human, I’m pretty sure I’ve come as close as one can to flying this weekend.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
"Make sure to *blank* before you leave!"
Stole this idea from someone, but it's brilliant. It's a list of things that I compiled before I came to Dublin, and while I've been here. I'll cross them off as they happen, and hopefully write a little about each. Feel free to suggest anything else!
See the Book of KellsCross the Carrick-a-Rede Rope Bridge
Kiss the Blarney StoneVisit St. Patrick's Cathedral- Drive the Ring of Kerry
- Pet a sheep
- See the sun set on the Atlantic Ocean
Visit all four Irish provinces: Ulster(Belfast), Munster(Cork), Connacht(Galway), and Leinster(Dublin)
- Visit Newgrange
Drink Guinness at the Guinness StorehouseBe the Jameson Whiskey taste-tester- See a Gaelic football or hurling game, live
Run the Dublin Half MarathonSee the Belfast Peace Line- Learn the Irish language
- Read Ulysses
- Experience a literary pub crawl
Visit an Aran IslandSee the Irish SeaRide each form of public transportation: Luas, DART, Dublin Bus, horse?--nah.
- Hike Mount Brandon
- See the Dingle Peninsula
- Visit the Cliffs of Moher
- Visit the James Joyce House
- View Louis le Brocquy works in the Irish Museum of Modern Art
- Read a play by Synge
Climb on the the Giant's Causeway
- Pick up a brogue
- Be able to leave less than seven foam rings
Glen-da-lock
I cannot sing the praises of IES more loudly. They have been instrumental in getting us twelve Trinity students prepared for the challenges, adventures, and experiences of living in Ireland. They provided things instrumental to getting settled in Ireland: a letter of financial guarantee that helped me obtain a student visa, an apartment to live in, maintenance services when our refrigerator and washing mashing broke on the same weekend, RAs to help us get adjusted and reach living agreements with our flatmates…I could go on. Not only this, but they organise weekly events for us from table quizzes to dessert potlucks, making an effort to get to know each of us on a more personal level.
One of the bigger events that they organise is a day trip to Glendalough (I have phoneticized it in the post title), a 8th century monastic settlement south of Dublin nestled between two pristine lakes (in fact, the name “Glendalough” actually means “between two lakes”—lough being the now familiar term for lake). We had an absolutely gorgeous September day (I know, I’m a little late in posting this entry) for this hike. And the view from the top was spectacular.
Unfortunately, my camera died at the top! But this ended up being quite a blessing in disguise. I was really able to take in nature and experience the exhilaration of standing at the top of a mountain where monks stood over 1000 years ago, looking at the exact same beautiful surroundings. The descent was a little treacherous since my knee had acted up on my run the day before, and I wanted to make sure I was OK for the half marathon that I ran the next day (see Freshers’ Week Post—I know, I’m probably confusing you all).
Here are some pictures that I did capture before my camera died:
And one I stole form Jess:
One of the bigger events that they organise is a day trip to Glendalough (I have phoneticized it in the post title), a 8th century monastic settlement south of Dublin nestled between two pristine lakes (in fact, the name “Glendalough” actually means “between two lakes”—lough being the now familiar term for lake). We had an absolutely gorgeous September day (I know, I’m a little late in posting this entry) for this hike. And the view from the top was spectacular.
Unfortunately, my camera died at the top! But this ended up being quite a blessing in disguise. I was really able to take in nature and experience the exhilaration of standing at the top of a mountain where monks stood over 1000 years ago, looking at the exact same beautiful surroundings. The descent was a little treacherous since my knee had acted up on my run the day before, and I wanted to make sure I was OK for the half marathon that I ran the next day (see Freshers’ Week Post—I know, I’m probably confusing you all).
Here are some pictures that I did capture before my camera died:
And one I stole form Jess:
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Taking Control of my Blog
If you have been following my blog, you'll realize that I've been slow in posting recently. My excuse--classes started...
I am going to make a better effort to write more often, however. Also, I am learning more about my blog page, such as how to enable comments and hopefully eventually how to post pictures. Please take advantage of these upgrades and post questions/comments/suggestions!
I am going to make a better effort to write more often, however. Also, I am learning more about my blog page, such as how to enable comments and hopefully eventually how to post pictures. Please take advantage of these upgrades and post questions/comments/suggestions!
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