Whew, it’s been a while.
As much as I’ve thought about sitting down and banging out another update, I’ve consistently been putting off doing so, almost completely out of fear that I’ll be unable to do my stories and experiences justice. Please let my absence speak to the full days and delirious adventures I’ve been entertaining over the last two months.
I feel I should probably touch on my remarkable, eye opening classes at some stage, but first, my newest vendetta: if and when I am Queen of the Universe, umbrellas will be outlawed. It may even be my first official act (either that establishing a rule as to which side of the sidewalk one is entitled to walk on—no one can agree here!)
Winter is settling into Dublin, and much unlike the warnings signs this dreary season emits in Michigan, here its entrance is marked by an unforgiving chill in the air and a dramatic increase in rain. I adore the rain, the humidity, the threat of downpour, and the chance (read: hope) of a thunder and lightning storm. And that’s all fine and well—really—but recently, I’ve come to be something of a walking threat to society as soon as the skies open. Call me a code orange or red if you like, but I have my reasons for lunacy: enough pokes in the eye with umbrellas, and the sacrifices my poor head of hair has suffered due to loads of seemingly oblivious umbrella holders, and I’ve become a sort of seasonal crazy person. Attempting to shake my madness, I crossed over to the dark side on Wednesday and bought an umbrella. It’s purple. Dublin is once again a safe place. And today, the scattered rain showers even afforded me the chance to spy the biggest rainbow I’ve ever seen! It looked like it was close enough to touch.
In other news, my being here is feeling more and more normal. That being said, I continue to shock myself back into reality with startled inner dialogues, often beginning with heated questions as absurd as “What is that 5-year-old doing driving? She’s not even paying attention!” Oh wait, she’s in passenger’s seat.
Fortunately, I’m quickly launched back into my surroundings, grounded by accents that bound me to time and place. My nesting qualities have made a big ol’ appearance in the last couple weeks as I’ve noticed the relationships that have blossomed between the baristas at the coffee shop, the building security guards, and myself—it isn’t home, but it’s a comfort.
But anyway, whether speaking either to my own lack of cultural consciousness, or to a simply bizarre event, I felt very much out of the loop last week my suite was checked in a routine quality assurance visit. Two sweet little old Irish women let themselves in and visited not only the kitchen and the bathrooms, but also our bedrooms, working their way down a checklist and looking more and more horrified with each door they opened. When our paths crossed in the kitchen, the ladies greeted me kindly and swiftly continued their work; one wiped her finger across a very disgusting stovetop and the other informed me that the floor was in desperate need of a mopping. I agreed. And with that they were on their way—I thought. Walking out the front door, the smaller of the two turned to me without a drop of meanness in her eyes and said, “Oh, and you should make your bed. You’ll feel better.” I couldn’t even argue with her logic, so I thanked her instead.
On Thursday, I’ll be thinking of all my far away turkey-gobbling amigos, but I will also be busy cooking up a storm with Claire. We’ve decided to have our own celebration at her house, and braced with the Turkey print paper plates so sweetly provided by Gram, we’ll be doing so in high style. I’ve invited hoards of cousins and Claire will be having some of her Irish friends over to join us. It was my plan to tell them all that according to tradition they’re required to dress up like pilgrims and Indians, but I fear the infiltration of American movies and television will not only betray my lie, but also find me guilty of extreme political incorrectness. I’ll keep you posted.
Anyhow, the last two weeks have been particularly lively, as I was lucky enough to have three visitors! Beginning with Colin’s pit stop and a weeklong exchange of stories from Copenhagen and Dublin, and ending with a long weekend visit from Gramma and Boo, I’m recharged socially, if not emotionally, and ready for the three weeks I have before heading home to New York for the holidays. Woot woot!
Having friends and family in town finally gave me the kick in the butt necessary to see many of the city’s gorgeous landmarks and historic sites. While Colin and I joined up with Claire to see the Jameson Distillery, Gramma and Boo and I went the more conventional route, visiting Christ Church, St. Patrick’s Cathedral, the National History Museum, the National Gallery, Phoenix Park, and a cool Viking exhibit, among others. The highlight for me, if not wandering through St. Stephen’s Green on a sunshiny morning, was seeing the Edvard Munch exhibit at the National Gallery. And I can’t fail to mention that on our trip up to Phoenix Park, we spotted the wild deer! The park itself is said to be three times the size of Central Park, and way back in the day of lords and ladies, deer were installed in it for hunting purposes. Luckily, the poor babies haven’t been hunted for years and at this point they’re pretty accustomed to people strolling right up to them! They have wild horns but mellow characters and they’re truly gorgeous—can you imagine wild deer strolling around Bronson Park or Windmuller? I think not.
At this particular moment, I’m feeling particularly assimilated as I’m cozied up on the couch listening to the rain beat on the windows, sipping black tea, and preparing to sink into my reading for the week. I’m working my way through Gertrude Stein’s Three Lives for tomorrow’s Modernism class, and then after that it’s on to Maria Edgworth’s Belinda for Literary Childhoods. Three weeks and four papers to go: I’m in the game.
You’re in my thoughts!
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Chapter 1
I wish I knew where to start…the beginning is hardly ever as good an idea as it might sound.
So, Arthur’s Day it is.
Last Thursday was a mega celebration all throughout the world, celebrating the 250th anniversary of the founding of Arthur Guinness’s brewery. From what I understand, parties took place in the U.S. too, but believe me when I say Dublin was the only place to be. That evening, my cousins picked me up and brought me to their local college bar—which, I might add, is the biggest, rowdiest thing I have ever encountered—and at 17:59, i.e. almost 6pm, everyone in the entire bar and city and country raised their pints shouting all sorts of things, but mostly, “To Arthur.” Fun Fact: The Arthur’s Day celebrations temporarily boost the failing Irish economy by 2%—how’s that for something?
For hours and hours cheers of “To Arthur” could be heard from living room windows, bars, gutters, and more…it seemed everyone was out. The streets were packed and lively, and half-guzzled glasses of Guinness lined the sidewalks, marking where people seemed to have simply said “Enough” or at least something to that effect. In honor of the holiday, I even sucked it up and choked down a glass (Don’t worry Mom, it was just one and I couldn’t have possibly had more if I wanted—it is like eating a whole turkey!)
The highlight of Arthur’s Day though, undoubtedly, was the Irish dancing. The place we were at, called the Living Room located off O’Connell Street, had a big outdoor stage and hosted a man and woman who put on show just shortly after the big toast. When they’d finished, they invited 12 of the most drunk humans I’ve ever encountered onto the stage so that they could engage in their own version of step dancing. Needless to say, watching them link arms, kick legs, and skip about made my night entirely complete…oh yes, that and my green glowsticks.
But on to more serious matters—like classes! Today was the first official day of the Michaelmas Term and boy, oh boy, was it a mammoth fail. Claire, my friend from K College, found me wandering hopelessly on the fourth floor, searching for Room 4050A, where, at 10am, I was to enjoy a spritely lecture on Non-Realist Writing. As it turned out we were headed to the same place, and so together we wandered until we found what we believed to be the room. Not only was there a printed piece of paper with an arrow pointing toward the door, some very helpful students—I can only assume they were students—drew with chalk in the cinderblocks, announcing the same information. So in we went, sat down, and we waited. 10 minutes late, our professor walked in and welcomed us to “Jews in the Medieval World.”
After the comedy of errors that has been my experience thus far in navigating Trinity College, paired with the sense of confidence with which I had only moments earlier plopped myself down, I knew that this was one of those times when giggles would be hard to suppress. I did my best not to make eye contact with Claire, instead choosing to shake with laughter and focus intensely on my shoes until it passed (always a good strategy—and subtle too!).
It worked fine until the kind professor announced that, lucky for us, we wouldn’t have any reading this week so that we could “find our feet and sort out our classes.” Claire scoffed, I laughed, Claire laughed—it was contagious and it disastrous. Eventually we recovered and the professor continued. Occasional outbursts were had, and they were only made worse by the reality familiar to even the most casual history student that Jewish history is hardly ever funny. In short, I spent the better part of an hour with a shit-eating-grin on my face doing my best to think about sad things just in order to keep it under control…dead babies, AIDS, 9/11, etc. Sometimes it worked, other times…err, not so much.
Finally the clock wound down, and after class I took a serious look at the visiting student board. I now seem to have made some sense of how it all goes…still not sure what went wrong this morning, but hopes for finding my afternoon classes are high.
And have I mentioned I live by my stomach? That is, of course, after I was introduced to my first Chipper. Ask anyone who was there, it was a challenge to get me out. So far I’ve tried batter burgers (WOAH), and tasty fries (make sure you’re sitting down). The latter is just a tin of chips with bacon and onions mixed in and yummy cheese melted on top. I opted for ketchup but I’m pretty sure it’s sick either way. I’ve been trying to think where we could open one up in the neighborhood, and really, now that La Plaza Mexico is closed I think we would be foolish not to scoop up such prime real estate! Who’s in?
In other news, I’m overjoyed daily by tourists and fellow students who ask me for directions and lull me into a sense of at least looking like I belong, so much so that the disappointment in their eyes as soon as I open the mouth no longer even phases me!
I’m learning how to cook so that I can expand my diet beyond frozen pizzas and cheese, and so far it’s going pretty damn well. I made a scrumptious chicken parm meal, a tomato sauce with bacon and lots of veggies, all sorts of truly delish salads, and—DRUM ROLL PLEASE—Pavlova. Yes, you heard me right. I made meringue with hand whipped cream and fresh fruit. Expect some at Christmas because I’m on a kick now.
Oh, and Lucozade? Can you say brilliant?
So, Arthur’s Day it is.
Last Thursday was a mega celebration all throughout the world, celebrating the 250th anniversary of the founding of Arthur Guinness’s brewery. From what I understand, parties took place in the U.S. too, but believe me when I say Dublin was the only place to be. That evening, my cousins picked me up and brought me to their local college bar—which, I might add, is the biggest, rowdiest thing I have ever encountered—and at 17:59, i.e. almost 6pm, everyone in the entire bar and city and country raised their pints shouting all sorts of things, but mostly, “To Arthur.” Fun Fact: The Arthur’s Day celebrations temporarily boost the failing Irish economy by 2%—how’s that for something?
For hours and hours cheers of “To Arthur” could be heard from living room windows, bars, gutters, and more…it seemed everyone was out. The streets were packed and lively, and half-guzzled glasses of Guinness lined the sidewalks, marking where people seemed to have simply said “Enough” or at least something to that effect. In honor of the holiday, I even sucked it up and choked down a glass (Don’t worry Mom, it was just one and I couldn’t have possibly had more if I wanted—it is like eating a whole turkey!)
The highlight of Arthur’s Day though, undoubtedly, was the Irish dancing. The place we were at, called the Living Room located off O’Connell Street, had a big outdoor stage and hosted a man and woman who put on show just shortly after the big toast. When they’d finished, they invited 12 of the most drunk humans I’ve ever encountered onto the stage so that they could engage in their own version of step dancing. Needless to say, watching them link arms, kick legs, and skip about made my night entirely complete…oh yes, that and my green glowsticks.
But on to more serious matters—like classes! Today was the first official day of the Michaelmas Term and boy, oh boy, was it a mammoth fail. Claire, my friend from K College, found me wandering hopelessly on the fourth floor, searching for Room 4050A, where, at 10am, I was to enjoy a spritely lecture on Non-Realist Writing. As it turned out we were headed to the same place, and so together we wandered until we found what we believed to be the room. Not only was there a printed piece of paper with an arrow pointing toward the door, some very helpful students—I can only assume they were students—drew with chalk in the cinderblocks, announcing the same information. So in we went, sat down, and we waited. 10 minutes late, our professor walked in and welcomed us to “Jews in the Medieval World.”
After the comedy of errors that has been my experience thus far in navigating Trinity College, paired with the sense of confidence with which I had only moments earlier plopped myself down, I knew that this was one of those times when giggles would be hard to suppress. I did my best not to make eye contact with Claire, instead choosing to shake with laughter and focus intensely on my shoes until it passed (always a good strategy—and subtle too!).
It worked fine until the kind professor announced that, lucky for us, we wouldn’t have any reading this week so that we could “find our feet and sort out our classes.” Claire scoffed, I laughed, Claire laughed—it was contagious and it disastrous. Eventually we recovered and the professor continued. Occasional outbursts were had, and they were only made worse by the reality familiar to even the most casual history student that Jewish history is hardly ever funny. In short, I spent the better part of an hour with a shit-eating-grin on my face doing my best to think about sad things just in order to keep it under control…dead babies, AIDS, 9/11, etc. Sometimes it worked, other times…err, not so much.
Finally the clock wound down, and after class I took a serious look at the visiting student board. I now seem to have made some sense of how it all goes…still not sure what went wrong this morning, but hopes for finding my afternoon classes are high.
And have I mentioned I live by my stomach? That is, of course, after I was introduced to my first Chipper. Ask anyone who was there, it was a challenge to get me out. So far I’ve tried batter burgers (WOAH), and tasty fries (make sure you’re sitting down). The latter is just a tin of chips with bacon and onions mixed in and yummy cheese melted on top. I opted for ketchup but I’m pretty sure it’s sick either way. I’ve been trying to think where we could open one up in the neighborhood, and really, now that La Plaza Mexico is closed I think we would be foolish not to scoop up such prime real estate! Who’s in?
In other news, I’m overjoyed daily by tourists and fellow students who ask me for directions and lull me into a sense of at least looking like I belong, so much so that the disappointment in their eyes as soon as I open the mouth no longer even phases me!
I’m learning how to cook so that I can expand my diet beyond frozen pizzas and cheese, and so far it’s going pretty damn well. I made a scrumptious chicken parm meal, a tomato sauce with bacon and lots of veggies, all sorts of truly delish salads, and—DRUM ROLL PLEASE—Pavlova. Yes, you heard me right. I made meringue with hand whipped cream and fresh fruit. Expect some at Christmas because I’m on a kick now.
Oh, and Lucozade? Can you say brilliant?
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