27 February 2008

Sing of old Eire and the ancient ways: Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days

So I didn't make it up to Donegal this past weekend, but I did get up to Sligo, home county of William Butler Yeats. Here's his statue in Sligo town, where I stayed a couple nights:

He looks kind of like a butterfly. Also, he is absolutely covered in his own poetry. And note that he only has half a pair of glasses; apparently they get stolen quite frequently because people like saying that they have Yeats' glasses. I love this statue so much.

This was my first solo trip of the semester. I was a bit apprehensive to travel alone, but it was absolutely the best experience I've had here as yet. I talked to so many more people than I ever would have had I been with friends, and our conversations actually went beyond the "What part of the states are you from/do you like it here/why Ireland" stage (this is a big deal for me).
People I met on Day 1:
-An old Sligo man reading Cosmo absolutely unashamedly on the train.
-My hostel proprietress: a middle-aged British woman whom I don't think I ever saw sober. She was fabulous. Within the first five minutes of our acquaintanceship she was complaining to me (and by complaining I mean yelling) about the men in her life. I apologize to any males reading this, but if any subject is to ensure an automatic understanding between a single 37-year-old British woman and a single 20-year-old American woman, it's men.
-A country boy from a farm out of Sligo town. He was the only person I've met whose accent I absolutely could not decipher. Maybe it's just because I met him at a pub, and he was quite far along by the time we started chatting.
Saturday I took a day trip down to Strandhill, a seaside town recommended to me by both the man on the train and my hostel proprietress. It was a bit of a nasty day, but still quite lovely.
The town, with Knocknarea Mountain in the background.

Knocknarea. I wanted desperately to climb it, but couldn't find a road up to it:


From the sand dunes by the Atlantic:

If you look really hard, you can see the Statue of Liberty:

Honestly this time, if you look really close you can see two surfers--the west coast of Ireland is renowned for its surfing:

Saturday night I went to a little pub called Foley's (again on the recommendation of my drunken Brit) that was having a trad (traditional music) session. It was absolutely full by the time I got there, so I just sat down at a table with another girl (named Shauna), and thus begins the night's adventures. People I met that night:
-About ten old men, who kept buying me drinks and telling me to watch out for other Irish men.
-Shauna's mum, who was absolutely wasted and told me to watch out for all the old Irish men in the pub (and who gave me the first motherly hug I've had in months).
-A British painter named Dominick, who was there to watch his friend, who was...
-The trad fiddler (whose name I sadly can't remember); he's also an emerging playwright, and looked amazingly like Jesus except for the fact that he was sipping (sipping) vodka.
After the trad session, Dominick and Jesus took me to an artsy pub and we talked the night away about (what else) art. The whole thing was almost embarrassingly bohemian, but also the best craic I've had since I got here.
Before my train on Sunday morning I toured the town and nearby Doorly Park.
The Quays along Garavogue River:

I met one of the old men from Foley's walking his dog along the river, so we walked on a stretch together. I don't think he even came up to my shoulder. I should have taken a picture of the two of us.
The mountains reminded me of something you'd see in the American southwest (minus, of course, the deserts):

And Sunday saw me safely back in Dublin. Monday my art history class headed out for a trip to Monasterboice (a cemetery) and Newgrange, a ridiculously old (predates the Pyramids) burial mound in County Meath.
Celtic crosses at Monasterboyce:

Newgrange, on possibly the windiest day I've experienced here (it takes a lot to blow me over, but I swear I was nearly knocked off my feet):

The tomb entrance (we went inside, but couldn't take pictures):

And of course, the obligatory Irish countryside shot:

And that's it for my quick mid-midterm catch-up. I leave absurdly early tomorrow morning for the IES trip to Belfast (and haven't started packing yet), so I should maybe get on that.
Happy leap year, everyone!

20 February 2008

Well

So maybe the play could have been (just a little) better. Let's just say Cecily was the twitchiest, most rodent-like and bizarre little creature imaginable. I didn't know human beings were physically capable of making some of the facial expressions that she used; it was... indescribable, really. Lady Bracknell was fabulous, however; there's just something about imposing old British women that goes straight to my heart.
The Irish Film Board shorts were very interesting. Many people involved in the films were at the screening, naturally--directors and actors and the like. We almost approached a boy who starred in one of the films, but decided to not become groupies to a fifteen-year-old. As for the films themselves, most were very clever, some were extremely strange, and several were in the Irish language (I even recognized a phrase in there: thank you (go raibh maith agat); not much, I know, but I was happy).
Speaking of Irish, I had my oral midterm for my Irish class today. It wasn't terrible; my teacher Siobhan is lovely, and I'm kind of surprised at how much we've actually learned in just a few weeks. There were a few awkward moments, though:

Siobhan: (in Irish, of course) Where are you from?
Me: I'm from Minnesota.
Siobhan: Are there good facilities there?
Me: (in English) Wait, what?
Siobhan: Are there good facilities there?
Me: Um... (in Irish) Yes! There is... a cafe, and... a park?
Siobhan: Is there a (jumble of guttural consonants)?
Me: (mouth gaping) Yes?
Siobhan: Is there a (indecipherable slur of obscure vowels)?
Me: (eyes glazing over) Yes?
Siobhan: (looking doubtful) There is?
Me: Oh, um, no?
Siobhan: Where are you living?
Me: I... live... in... Dundrum.
Siobhan: Are there good facilities there?
Me: Wait, what?
Siobhan: Are there good facilities there?
Me: There is... a cafe, and... a park?

Okay, so I'll never be fluent, but I am learning. The best expression I've learned thus far is the curse go gcuire sé sconna ort! Look it up if you really want to know what it means.
This weekend I'm hopefully taking a trip up to Donegal, and next week is the IES midterm trip up to Northern Ireland. What with traveling and the unnerving amount of schoolwork piling up, I'll probably be out of commission blog- and email-wise for the next couple of weeks.
Since I've given you an Irish curse, I'll leave you with an Irish blessing: Do chleamhnas féin agat (may you choose your own spouse).

18 February 2008

A new take on church basement hospitality

Yesterday Johanna and I went to a service at Christ Church Cathedral. Despite the incredible history of the cathedral (the original church was built by Vikings in the 1000s; the current building dates back to the 1100s and 1200s, though it's been restored since then, obviously), the service was small and surprisingly friendly. Afterwards was the typical tea and coffee reception. Atypically, however, this tea and coffee reception was served not in the church basement (the Vikings apparently lacked that sort of foresight), but in the church crypt. As a priest told us, "When you pass the dead people, you're there." So yes, yesterday I sipped coffee--the best coffee I've had here, incidentally; something tells me it came from actual beans instead of the freeze-dried flakes to which I have become sadly accustomed--in a cathedral crypt. And had a lovely long conversation with a priest, a hilarious and eccentric old British man, and a man who grew up in Belfast during the Troubles (and who absolutely loves Garrison Keillor--we got along very well).
In other news, the Jameson Dublin International Film Festival has officially begun (yes, this festival is sponsored by whiskey). I saw my first film on Saturday: Tricks (Sztuczki), a very cute, very quirky Polish film. Tomorrow I'm going with my film class to a series of short films, and Thursday I have tickets for Fairytale of Kathmandu about the scandals of an Irish poet in Nepal. Also, last night the Irish Film and Television Awards ceremony--attended by Mel Gibson and Daniel Day Lewis, among others--was held at the Gaiety Theatre. I passed by in the afternoon as they were setting up and saw the red carpet, rolled up, plastic-wrapped, and shunted off in a corner. Oh, the glamor of show business.
Tonight I'm going to see Oscar Wilde's The Importance of Being Earnest at a theatre just down the street from my apartment in Dundrum. I sort of have a thing for this play. I've read it twice to myself. I've read it out loud once (bad British accents and all). I've seen the movie. And now I am finally, finally seeing it on stage, in Oscar Wilde's home country.
It doesn't get better than this.

14 February 2008

Gore and geeks

It's cooled down a few degrees, but the sun is remarkably persistent. I brought my sunglasses more as a joke than anything, but have actually needed them this week.
Today I went to the National Museum to check out the bog bodies, remains from human sacrifices from pagan times that have been preserved remarkably well (disturbingly well, really) in the Irish bogs. One still has hair, one has perfect hands (down to his manicured nails), and one even has a face, which was pretty gruesome but very cool. There's also big chunks of bog butter on display, which was either sacrificed or simply lost (I guess bogs used to serve as refrigerators; whatever works, I guess, but I'm happy enough not to have to clean peat off my butter).
I also went to the National Library. Membership is free, and I had the romantic and geeky idea in my head that I wanted to read some James Joyce in the place where he himself used to study. I walked in confidently enough and asked to apply for membership, but then the guy at the desk thoroughly intimidated me by grilling me about what my exact purposes were, down to the specific material I wanted to read. I guess browsing isn't an option there. I mean, I understand why they have to be cautious--they have a lot of very old and very valuable texts there--and I did get a day pass in the end, but really, I think this library is a little intense for me. I don't think Joyce would mind if I read Dubliners in a pub instead. In fact, I think he'd prefer it.

11 February 2008

“Boloney is flattery laid on with a trowel. Blarney is flattery laid on with the lips; that is why you have to kiss a stone to get it.”

First of all, I didn't want to brag too publicly too early about this, but I feel the need to tell you all that it is currently over 50 degrees and sunny here in Dublin. The forecast for the rest of the week? Around fifty degrees and sunny. Every day. Brilliant (quite literally). I mean, who knows how long this will last, but honestly, Ireland, you haven't been living up to your reputation. One or two bad months does not a clammy climate make.
This weekend I went down to Cork, where it was actually quite cold (relative to the tropical paradise of Dublin, that is). It's sometimes jokingly called the People's Republic of Cork and has a friendly rivalry with Dublin. Budweiser seems to have chosen sides:

We stayed with Kelsey's friend, who's studying this semester at University College, Cork. We were extremely grateful for free housing, of course, but the sleeping arrangements were a bit odd:

We didn't spend a whole lot of time in the city itself. Saturday we took a day trip to the nearby coastal town of Cobh (pronounced cove). Cobh was the Titanic's final port of call; it's also where the Lusitania's victims and survivors were brought after the ship was sunk by a German U-Boat. It was pretty sleepy the day we were there, though.


On the way back to Cork, we stopped at Fota Wildlife Park. It was amazing--a zoo of sorts, but with the absolute minimum amount of fencing possible. We saw penguins, black swans, pelicans that came up to my waist, cheetahs (which, yes, were caged), zebras, monkeys, something that looked suspiciously like an anteater, and, well, basically everything that can survive in this climate. Just to show how up close and personal we're talking, here's a lemur I hung out with for a while:

Also, this was the second time in my life that I've come face to face with an ostrich. I wouldn't mind if that never happened again.
Sunday morning we headed out to Blarney Castle:

I had heard some pretty negative things about Blarney, but really, I found it to be thoroughly beautiful and enjoyable. I think a lot of the criticism comes from people who just rush up to kiss the stone and skip all the paths and trails around the castle. Also, I guess during the peak tourism season there's an unbelievably long line up to the stone. The day we went, we had to wait maybe three minutes. It may have been a bit chilly, but doing this thing in February was the way to go.
We walked the Wishing Steps--you're supposed to go up and down, backwards, with your eyes shut, thinking about your wish. A little tricky, but we managed.

There's also a hype about the Blarney Witch. Here she is in profile:

And of course we kissed the stone. Yes, I know all the stories about what people do to the stone, and yes, I know how many people have kissed it before me, but they do clean it, and we were there in the morning, and it's the off-season, so it had probably only been kissed 75 times before me that day. Actually, I did it wrong--the old man (who is a legend in himself, actually) was lowering me down (you have to lie down and bend over backwards, and there's only a couple bars between you and a loooooong drop to the ground), and I assumed that the entire wall counted, so I kissed it about three times on the way down to the stone itself. A little overeager? Apparently you're supposed to kiss it, not make out with it. I was mocked for that one. I don't know if that counteracted the effects of kissing the stone; however, if this is noticeably more eloquent than my former posts, you know why.
My botched job:

Tessa did it right:

In other news, I have officially been in Ireland for over a month. I have so much more that I want to do and see and learn, of course, but it's remarkable how much Dublin feels like home.

06 February 2008

Nothin' but blue skies


Today was absolutely and without exception the most beautiful day I have seen here--or anywhere, really, in a very long time. For some reason I had it in my head that Ash Wednesday would be a depressing day in Dublin. Not so. It felt like early May in Minnesota. I did find my way into a church to be blessed with ashes (it was interesting; there was a sign outside advertising all-day walk-in blessings, so all these business people were there on their tea breaks). Then my afternoon class happened to be canceled today, so I took the opportunity to revel, explore, and picnic in St. Stephen's Green.
I also took some long-overdue pictures of places from my everyday life.
My apartment building (that's my bedroom window circled, if you can see it; wow, I'm corny):

My bedroom. Last night I bleached the toxic mold growing on the windowsill and woke up this morning without a sore throat for the first time in a week. Note the 'Nuns Having Fun' calendar, a parting gift from Steph, safety-pinned to the curtain because we can't put tacks in the walls. Guess which bed is mine:

View from my window. Yes, it's just a parking lot. I never said that Dundrum was exciting:

Kitchen:

Living room:

View from couch of the lovely construction going on next door. The construction workers are our constant companions:

This is where I go to school--the IES center in the Rathmines district:

Grand Canal in Rathmines:

More Rathmines:

Moving on towards city centre:



The rest of these are in St. Stephen's Green and, let's be honest, are mainly to inspire jealousy:




Yes, this tree is flowering in February:




It's amazing how much a little sun can improve my mood.
This isn't exactly fitting the tone of the rest of this post, but I found out yesterday that my cat Cleo, whom we've had since I was eight, died earlier this week. It's sad, but she couldn't have asked for a more spoiled life.
Slán, Cleo.

Now? Homework. Of course. I have to write a 'cultural journal.' I think I'm going to write about how the Irish stereotypes are all about drinking and dancing and leprechauns and good all-around craic, and how a lot of Irish literature and film contrasts so sharply with that. We watched a movie yesterday in my Northern Ireland class about Bloody Sunday that literally brought me to tears. In my film class tomorrow we're finishing Song for a Raggy Boy, which depicts the horrendous brutality of a Christian Brothers school (my creative writing professor, who attended a Christian Brothers school, told us that the movie hardly exaggerates at all). I'm so grateful to have the opportunity to live here long enough to experience both sides of the coin.
Happy Ash Wednesday (a phrase that, until today, I would have called an oxymoron).

02 February 2008

Hóigh! A chleiteoigín!

Somehow it's been another week since my last post. Honestly, if time keeps accelerating like this it'll be April by next week. This is out of control.
Tuesday morning my art history class went to check out the Book of Kells at Trinity College. Don't feel bad if you don't know what that is; I only knew from my high school art history class. It's a big deal here though, and with good reason. The Book of Kells is an illuminated manuscript from the Middle Ages, probably the world's most famous. Maybe not all that exciting for most people, but I loved it. A picture stolen off the internet:

The Book of Kells is on permanent display at the library at Trinity. Our tour included a trip through the Long Room, which, if you love the smell of old books as much as I do, was basically heaven. There's a really funny controversy about the Long Room. I don't know if any of you have seen Star Wars Episode II: Attack of the Clones, but it seems George Lucas used the design of the room without permission for the Jedi Archives.
The Long Room:

The Jedi Archives:

I don't know if Trinity actually sued over this, but I find it amusing.
Thursday I had my second session of my Irish language class. It's very humbling at this point in my academic career to have difficulty counting to ten. Something very cute about counting in Irish: one is haon, two is , three is trí, and so on, but when you count you say "a haon, a dó, a trí," which is the equivalent of "a-one, a-two, a-three."
Now to the most fun and most painful part of this post, which also happens to be where the title comes in. Supposedly (and who knows how accurate this is; I got it from a less than reputable source), "Hóigh! A chleiteoigín!" means something akin to "Hey, twinkletoes!"
So last night Jenna, Tessa, Zeke, and I went to this Irish dance event through the European Business School, which has some sort of connection to IES (some EBS students live in IES housing, some IES students are taking EBS classes, and we're all invited to each other's events).
Getting there was enough of an adventure. We're not particularly good planners; the event was in a suburb of Dublin, and we knew we had to take the DART to Seapoint, so we went to the station and bought our tickets from the machine without even knowing if we needed to go northbound or southbound. We made it to the right station and saw a train, so we just hopped on it without knowing if it was the right one. Turns out it was--lucky us--but it doesn't end there. We got off the train at Seapoint and realized... we had no idea where in the town the event was going to be held. So we're in this deserted street at 8:30 on a Friday night without even knowing the name of the building (or the name of the event, actually) that we needed to find.
But this big group of European kids came up behind us, and we figured that they were EBS kids so we just glommed onto their group and got there alright. It was a neat place; it was sort of a community center (or neighbourhood centre, if you will) dedicated to preserving Irish culture; there were a lot of jam sessions going on, just people coming with their instruments and playing traditional music together.
Zeke and Jenna enjoying the free tea and scones they gave us:

Tessa and I are classy ladies:

But then, the next surprise of the night--this wasn't an Irish dancing show we were attending; it was an Irish dancing workshop. This old man demonstrated the steps to a bunch of dances to us--briefly and none too clearly--and then we all got up and sort of kicked our way around the room. Awkward, crowded, hot, and absolutely amazing. This is how it was supposed to look:

And now, because I trust you all to not use this against me, I am going to include a video that Jenna took of Tessa, Zeke and me doing I don't even know what kind of dance. If any of you were laboring under the delusion that I am a graceful human being, you're in for a rude awakening. Zeke was my partner in this dance; that's Tessa on the end of our line.

After three hours of this, we caught the EBS bus back to city centre and made it to the Luas with one minute to spare before the last train of the night. I love it when things just barely work out; the evening was fabulous from beginning to end.
Tonight Zeke and Jenna made us tacos and flautas for dinner. (What? Something other than cereal and grilled cheese in my diet?) You'd think Ireland and Mexico wouldn't mesh all that well, but really, until extremely recently Ireland was basically a third world country, and the Irish have had a lot of the same stereotypes against them in Europe as Mexicans have in America. I've heard that there have been a lot of marriages between the Irish and Mexicans. Maybe that explains the Carlos O'Kelly's Mexican restaurants in the midwest?
Right now we're watching the Irish (fine, Gaelic) channel on TV, and South Park just came on. Dubbed over. Without subtitles. This is amazing.
I love this country. Can I just say that right now?