Goodbye, Dublin

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.

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.

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

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.

"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!

1. See the Book of Kells
2. Cross the Carrick-a-Rede Rope Bridge
   
3. Kiss the Blarney Stone
4. Visit St. Patrick's Cathedral
5. Drive the Ring of Kerry
6. Pet a sheep
7. See the sun set on the Atlantic Ocean
8. Visit all four Irish provinces: Ulster (Belfast), Munster (Cork), Connacht (Galway), and Leinster (Dublin)
   
9. Visit Newgrange
10. Drink Guinness at the Guinness Storehouse
11. Be the Jameson Whiskey taste-tester
12. See a Gaelic football or hurling game, live
13. Run the Dublin Half Marathon
14. See the Belfast Peace Line
15. Learn the Irish language
16. Read Ulysses
17. Experience a literary pub crawl
18. Visit an Aran Island
19. See the Irish Sea
20. Ride each form of public transportation: Luas, DART, Dublin Bus, horse?--nah.
    
21. Hike Mount Brandon
22. See the Dingle Peninsula
    
23. Visit the Cliffs of Moher
24. Visit the James Joyce House
25. View Louis le Brocquy works in the Irish Museum of Modern Art
26. Read a play by Synge
27. Climb on the the Giant's Causeway
    
28. Pick up a brogue
29. 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:

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!

Obligatory Post on Classes?

Well, I’ve managed to survive my first three weeks of real class here at Trinity. The first week was frustrating because of the hassle of signing up for classes across three different departments, but facing it with patient persistence paid off as I was ultimately able to enrol in all the classes I desired/needed to take. All of my classes only meet once a week, for one or two hours, and I have regular 3 day weekends which is nice for exploring the city on Fridays, or getting out early for a weekend trip. The classes are primarily lecture-driven, which is a little strange at first given the tendency of classes (especially English ones) at Wash U to be reliant on class discussion. Some of the professors literally read off their lectures from a script, which is awkward. Another (daunting) difference is the minimal assessment of classes at Trinity—almost all my classes are assessed on simply one paper at the end of the term.

I have started to take Irish classes! Dia Dhuit, (pronounced “dia gwhitt”) meaning “God to you”, or the ubiquitous Irish salutation. The class has some shortcomings—it is not for credit, and thus is not taken as seriously as I or the other students might take it if I were actually getting a grade (although most of the students there are engaged simply because they are there on their own accord); in addition, the class only meets twice a week, each for just fifty minutes, which pales in comparison to how often I met for German in high school (everyday for 45 minutes) and how often students meet in college level language courses (almost 6 hours of class). However, seizing the opportunity of learning a new language has reinvigorated a desire within me to start taking language classes back at Wash U. Frau, I think you’ll be happiest to hear that I am taking German when I get back in the spring!

I'm finally back in the rhythm of going to school, which is good because I suppose that's why I'm here! I really enjoy all my classes and the different approach to classroom learning that I am having at Trinity is certainly eye-opening and refreshing.

Freshers' Week and Arthur's Day

It is 5:44pm here in Dublin, on a Sunday afternoon, and I have just woken up from my second hearty nap of the day, third if you count the ten minutes I was awake in bed before rolling over and going back to sleep. However, the fatigue is a good one, one of accomplishment after finishing the Dublin Half Marathon yesterday! Thanks to my race partner Jess, and my crowd of American cheerers who even got a call out for being especially enthusiastic and encouraging, it was really an awesome experience. Needless to say, I will be taking a break from running for the next couple of weeks, and might try some swimming instead to relieve the tension in my knees.

The half marathon was the capstone to a great week of festivities and business. Trinity’s orientation week, known here as “Freshers’ Week”, was held everyday from 9 until 5 in the front square. Every club (they are called societies here) sets up a table and does its pitch, and often try to entice students with free food and candy and worthless stuff (except the salad dressing I got from the Philosophical Society—clutch). Some clubs hound everyone; some clubs do serious judging, for instance, the Japanese club, which stopped only me out of a couple of my friends. I should’ve said “no hablo engles”.

This past Thursday, 24 September 2009, was the 250th anniversary of Arthur Guinness signing the 9000 year lease on the Guinness Storehouse in Dublin. There are some interesting things to point out. A- the original lease was for NINE THOUSAND YEARS. It was obviously to make the point that Guinness wanted his beer to be around forever, but think of the magnitude of that number, and imagine ANYTHING being around for that long—inconceivable (as Vizzini would say). B- Festivities included a Guitar Hero competition, in which my mediocre (at best) video game skills creamed the Irish and won me an iPod docking station. Unfortunately, it has a European plug, so I think I will try to pawn it off online. C- Dublin took to the streets for this “holiday” (in fact, it was promoted as Arthur’s Day” and I nabbed a couple posters as mementos). Everyone raised their glasses at 5:59pm (get it?—17:59 on 24 September 2009, 1759 being the year of the signing). There were benefit concerts all over the world, and tickets cost, you guessed it, 17,59 Euros. All in all, a fantastic day I will always remember, for the community, spirit, and commemoration of Arthur in Dublin.

And then I turned in a paper.

Here are some thoughts I’ve had since moving to Dublin:

• The 40 US dollars in my wallet seem worthless—I would rather have them stolen than 10 Euros because I could actually use 10 Euros, although 10 Euros is worth a lot less than $40.
• Papers are assigned in word length, not page length.
• Living in a city is more convenient than I thought.
• Pretzels don’t exist in Ireland.

More to come.

Seeing the Other Side of the Atlantic

I’ve just returned to Dublin from a fantastic weekend in Galway, a city on the western coast of Ireland.

Yet for how much fun the weekend was, the minute I stepped off the bus I felt an overwhelming sense of relief. Perhaps it was because the three-and-a-half hour ride, though a mere five Euros, was draining and slightly uncomfortable. Perhaps it was because I was ready to take a shower in my bathroom and wash my clothes. Perhaps it was because I was exhausted and was ready to go to sleep.

All these reasons, however, can be lumped under the umbrella of feeling relief when you return home from a trip. And this first trip made me realize the status the wonderful city of Dublin has as my home at this moment in my life. In other words, I am starting to think that I have begun to make the transition from “trip mentality” to “home living mentality.”

To backtrack to my wonderful weekend, I will mention a few highlights:

We arrived Friday night, and stayed at a hostel called Snoozles—perhaps the most convenient location, friendly staff, affordable pricing, and overall appeal of a hostel (even though I was expecting the worst since this was my first hostel experience).

We made Saturday a day trip to the Aran Islands, or rather one of the Aran Islands, Inish Mor. This was an incredible place to visit, and a certain must-do if you ever spend time in Ireland, especially on the west coast. Hopefully, if you do, you’ll get as nice weather as we did—perfect, sunny, high 60s, a slight breeze, and no rain or clouds in sight. Renting bikes for the day is the way to go, because you can virtually cover the entire island in just a few hours, leaving time for sightseeing. The highlight was parking our bikes and hiking up to an old fort; however, the fort wasn’t incredibly interesting. The real pleasure was the location of the fort, perched at the edge of a massive cliff that dropped straight down 300 feet into the Atlantic Ocean. It was absolutely breath-taking, especially peering over the edge to the brilliant water below. Looking out into the horizon was also surreal, because I realized that somewhere, far out there was New Jersey, and the east coast of the United States. Despite the 3000 mile divide, I felt oddly connected to my friends and family back home.

Sunday was a nice day to stroll around the city of Galway, and we enjoyed a fantastic lunch at McSwiggin’s (many thanks to Sarah for the recommendation!). I also got a run in in the morning, which was clutch because a) I didn’t bring my running shoes for nothing, and b) I needed to get the soreness out of my legs from biking.

An interesting observation about the entire weekend was how much different aspects of the trip reminded me of places I’ve been in the US. Galway is a charming coastal city, full of winding streets lined with brightly painted shops with decorative signs hanging above their doors and flower beds crawling out their windows. It sort of reminded me of a quaint New England beach town—like Edgartown on the Vineyard. The ferry ride to the Aran Islands reminded me of my visit to Block Island with Sarah this summer, although the animals on the island were much less exotic and much more in their wild habitats. Driving around the coast made me think of Maine or Cape Cod, with houses set back from the road and tiers of lawn that are highlighted by stone walls and flowerbeds. Come to think of it, the bus ride to Galway reminded me of driving to St. Louis, passing through farmland and flat fields of Ohio and Indiana.

All this is just to say that new experiences are sometimes not too far removed from past ones in certain independent aspects. It’s easy to fall into comparisons with things and places you are familiar with. But the moment of experience, the amalgamation of all these assorted familiar aspects will never cease to provide you with a new, perhaps tiring, and hopefully wonderful encounter.

The First Week: Sightseeing and Cultural Moments

Please excuse my blogpost-deficit week. As everyone reading this knows, the first week of class hits you pretty hard after a summer break, and especially hard after only having landed three days ago in another country.

Yes, I am still operating on “trip-mentality,” and I imagine I will be for most of the semester. But I am convinced that a significant part of the study abroad experience is taking trips, and doing new things, and not worrying about the difference between an A and an A-. OK, I’ll probably be worrying about that difference, but the point still stands—I have been doing many things this week, seeing sights, meeting Irish people, getting lost in the city, working on my brogue (I wish), all of which I hope will contribute to my experience here as much as my in class work does.

Disclaimer: this post is somewhat long…I suggest taking it in doses.

So you probably are wondering what I’ve seen...

Since my last post, I have:

• seen the Book of Kells: Unbelievable. Some professors thought that we students might be disappointed when we see the manuscript that is so hyped up as a tourist attraction. And, truth be told, it really took a well-predicted day of rain to drive away the throngs of would-be visitors and give me the opportunity to sneak in and see it. But this is a must-see if you come to Dublin, and if you know someone at Trinity, ask him/her to bring you in for free. The Book of Kells is so fascinating—to think that it was labored over, probably under very bad lighting, by so many monks for who knows how many years, and that Rapidographs did not account for the most delicate strokes and details—quill pens did. Some of the interlaced designs are just mind-blowing, and you really cannot imagine anyone these days spending the time to create such a work of art. Look up pictures on Google, and then make sure you are looking at them in the right scale, because chances are, the photographs you see have been magnified many times, and still the detail is stunning.
• visited the GAA (Gaelic Athletic Association) and Croke Park: This was especially interesting for me, because they couldn’t stop talking about how all the players of these national sports (Gaelic football, kind of a cross between soccer and rugby, and hurling, a lacrosse, soccer, rugby hybrid) are amateurs, representing their counties for the love of the game and their country. It triggers a resentment of American sports associations, which most of you probably know I already have. Of course, these Irish athletes aren’t doing badly for themselves; they probably do promotional gigs and make a good deal off those, not to mention the celebrity status of many of them. But these players are really what sports and competition are about, and reminded me of my love for amateur athletics like high school games and the Olympics.
• seen an All-Ireland Hurling Championship: That game I mentioned before? Unreal. Such a brutal sport, played at a pace that rivals lacrosse. The players barely wear any padding either, and must sustain many bruises and gashes during each game. A funny story about this was my and my flatmates’ attempt to find a pub to watch this game in. The hurling championship, we had been told, was the equivalent of the Superbowl in the US. Which made us surprised when we walked nearly ten blocks without finding a pub that wasn’t merely occupied by a couple old men and the bartender. We were looking for rowdy Irish people to get riled up about the game, and we couldn’t find anywhere that had more then five patrons! We came to the conclusion (and are still questioning its accuracy) that people might be hosting their own private house parties for such a match. In any event, we finally did find a pub where there were a bunch of people, and sat down to a great, great final. Unfortunately, Tipperary, the team I have now adopted as my Irish team after only five minutes of watching, was defeated in the final plays, as Kilkenny (now four-time reigning champ) came back and prevented the upset.
• visited St. Patrick’s Cathedral: This is another must-see. There is so much history in this place it is hard to take in all at once. My favorite attraction was Jonathan Swift’s grave, alongside his beloved Stella (took a class on him last semester, and brought things full circle for me). I plan on coming back to an evensong service, because seeing one of the original scores of Handel’s “Hallelujah Chorus” made me realize how significant a place this is for music, church music in particular.
• visited Kilmainham Gaol: This is an old prison, dating back to the late 1700s, and was most famous for being the place where the leaders of the Easter Rebellion of 1916 were executed. It’s really an eerie thing to see a prison—to walk around in cells you know were once occupied by people that were waiting to be hanged, to see the lever that dropped the floor where prisoners were executed. Sorry, grim. But really a historic place, and well worth the informative guided tour.
• signed up for the Dublin Half Marathon: Yes, I was suckered into this, but I am glad someone finally got me to commit, because I have been wanting to run a half marathon for a while now. And what better story to tell than that my first half marathon was in Ireland? Now the training starts though—I run at the end of September!

Hope something in that list caught your interest! So long for now.

The Library

Which of these libraries is real?


If you chose the first one, you lose. It is the second library that is real, and is, in fact, the library at which I will be studying this semester. Now I know, it's no Olin (library at Wash U), but there must be something special about it if George Lucas modeled the Jedi Library in Star Wars after it...(that's the one on the left...good job).

This particular room is known as the Long Room, a massive chamber that houses most of the early printed books and old manuscripts of Trinity College. It is only one wing of three that comprise the Trinity College Library complex--the other two are actually quite modern in design. It is here that tourists come to pay 8 Euro a visit to see the Book of Kells, an illuminated manuscript of the four Gospels that dates back to 9th century. Each day, the page is turned, and it is one of those artifacts that is preserved in a bomb-bullet-proof, humidity-regulated chamber that has an escape chute to the middle of the earth in case of a nuclear war.

I got lost in this library yesterday. It was a fascinating time, actually. All of the wings and floors are connected, but because of the staggering of the construction of each of the sections, there are some crazy passages that lead no where, and thin spiral staircases that you can enter but not exit. It was on one of these staircases that I finally capitulated, and asked a woman how to get out (I was lucky she was there).

I have not yet seen the Book of Kells, but I do imagine there will be at least one day that I decide to brave the throng of tourists. Why wouldn't I? They are paying 8 Euro a visit, and I get free admission with my student card!

In other news, a Dublin pigeon relieved himself on my left shoulder today, perhaps 30 seconds after I walked into St. Stephen's Green, the city park right by campus. No picture for evidence though...

The First Twenty Four Hours

Remember how I mentioned at the end of my last post a feeling of liberation from turning off my cell phone?

Take it back. It is 9:30am, Dublin time, and I am at the airport, waiting for my luggage. It is the first time I’ve been somewhere with virtually no communication and no prospective communication with anyone. I’m relying on the primitive social skills of guess-and-check who might be on my program.

Fail. I’ve already asked two people if they are study abroad students and possibly insulted them since they Dubliners.

I decide to take a taxi on my own, which ended up being a great decision anyway, since I got to have a great conversation with the cab driver. He gave me a map to follow as we drove south toward the city center, and pointed out landmarks along the way to help me get a feel for the city I’d be living in for the next four months.

We get to my apartment. It’s really nice…and really cozy. OK, it’s tiny, especially the bedrooms. But a view out my window across the rooftops of other neighborhood houses and the occasional hum of the LUAS lightrail train that runs literally 100 feet from my room make up for it.

My four roommates and I are taking it all in at this point. We decide to take a stroll around the neighborhood and up to Trinity College, where we will all be taking classes this semester. Within ten minutes of us being outside, the spontaneous and inexplicable weather patterns of Ireland begin (yes, perhaps even more fickle than St. Louis). A two minute catharsis of cool rain, followed by an unveiling of the sun from behind the rain clouds. The air is cool, and a long sleeved shirt is comfortable. Should have packed more of those…

Grafton Street – a cool, swanky shopping district that lies on one route from my apartment to Trinity. It is full of pedestrians, and the curving street is lined with all sorts of shops. Outside the shops there are mimes and ventriloquists and artists dangling marionettes. A particular favorite is the man, clad in some sort of bronze coating, who stands stock still as a statue until someone throws a few Euro cents into a bucket, at which point he becomes fully animated and starts jangling the bells he is holding.

We arrive and Trinity, which on a Saturday afternoon has devolved into a tourist attraction for travelers. We make our way around the group tours, and check out the beautiful grounds, knowing that we will become much more attached to the place in a few days.

It is now our first night out. We head to the district right behind our apartment in search of a restaurant/pub where we can enjoy our first legally ordered drinks. We happen upon a nice one called Smyth’s, but when we inquire about food, discover that the kitchen is already closed. No matter, we walk a few yards and find a nice burger place, where we make friends with the waitress who is glad to giggle off our Irish dining inexperience.

After a great meal, we head back to Smyth’s for drinks. Ethan is just about to order when Jenna points out a sign that reads, “We ID under 21.” What are the chances? Here we are, in Dublin, finally stripped of the American laws and the irresponsibilities that perpetuate it, and we can’t even order a beer.

Good thing we can just walk next door, which is exactly what we did. We ordered our first of many Guinnesses, and toasted to not having officially started our junior year at Wash U, and to not coming home from abroad as seniors (suck it spring abroaders).

After some time there, we head home, our biological clocks still a little off whack. We are meeting IES representatives tomorrow morning, so we call it in a little early.

I wake up at 4am, and not being able to get back to sleep, decide to conclude this entry about my first 24 hours.

Overriding all my feelings is a general sense of excitement—for things unexpected, for the feeling of newness. This is my first time in Europe, and I am ready to step out of the written experiences of others and step into the actual scene. I want to internalize the culture, from interacting with locals on a regular basis to telling the temperature in Celsius instead of Fahrenheit. Yet amidst this excitement, I am aware of a self-consciousness I have about being distinctly foreign. I talk differently, I walk on the wrong side of the street by accident, when I purchase something I take twice as long to count out the new currency. Some of these differences will hopefully be alleviated within the first month. But I do sincerely hope that I embrace my distinction as an American, and that I responsibly represent my culture to the Irish in a way that cultivates mutual respect and understanding.

A Sour Way to Leave the States

After checking in my luggage and saying goodbye to my father and Beatrice, I made my way to the security checkpoint to get screened. Right before I could put my carry on luggage on the belt to get X-rayed, a group of three travelers came running up in front of me, frantically worrying about missing their flight that was currently boarding, and pleading to jump ahead in line so they wouldn't miss it.

I let them.

It was harmless enough until I got through screening (they were gone by now), and the woman who was right next to me realized her cell phone was missing. She and the TSA personnel came to the conclusion that the rushing travelers had swiped her phone by mistake.

I lent her my phone to call hers.

When she called, the hurried man said something along the line of, "Sorry, at the gate." He didn't pick up when she tried to call again. She said she didn't want to keep me, and I said I'd continue to call her phone as I walked to my gate. I was completely baffled that someone would have the audacity to not return someone else’s property, especially after he had been granted such a favor by everyone in that line.

I called the number, and finally got through. The man said he would give it to a flight attendant, and hung up. I was dealing with a real winner.

Well, the phone owner eventually called me back, to tell me she had gotten the phone returned. What a minor event, but one so revealing of the ruthlessness of some individuals.

Even more, this episode made me consider the piece of junk I was holding in my hand, and the unreasonable lack of sympathy it generated in this situation. I made a couple final calls and texts, and turned mine off, glad to be liberated from its pressure to constantly communicate…at least until I get a new one in Dublin.