All of a sudden it’s the end of April. In the last couple weeks, I’ve noticed that I’ve started to feel the rhythms here—of Trinity, of Dublin, of Ireland, even—and while I wouldn’t say I’m quite dancing, I’m certainly swaying slightly. Take it from anyone who’s ever seen me get down, this is the better option for all involved.
It might seem obvious or even inevitable that this would happen, but I know now what I didn’t know in September. I know when Frank the Friendly Security Guard is working, or when he’s worked the night before, by the pile of ash that accumulates on the steps over which he leans and chain smokes for the duration of his eight hour shift. He’s lovely and always happy to chat.
Regularly, I’m convinced to get out of bed when the Viking Tour Buses start their daily loops down Pearse Street, reciting to a boatload of horned-hat-wearing-simpletons the same speech they go through every day. “Oscar Wilde was born here, Pearse Street Dart Station is really old, to your left is Westland Row, look up and see Mary the Grouchy Pajama Wearing Viking shaking her fist menacingly,” yattayatta. Don’t tell anyone, but my hostility could easily be swayed with a complimentary hat.
But before I get all sentimental and rattle off the list of things I’m going to miss in Ireland, like my beloved Kit-Kat Chunky Bars and the fact that classes never, ever begin before 9am, I have a lot of gaps to fill in between my last update and now.
What better place to start than Trinity Ball? In the simplest terms—and please excuse my language—it was a complete and utter shitshow (One word? Two words?). But more on that in a minute. Thanks in large part to the volcano that took it upon itself to ground travelers all over Europe, two of the headliners were stranded elsewhere—England, I think—but Dizzee Rascal, the night’s main man, showed up in full force to rock to main stage with tunes like “Dance Wiv Me” and my personal favorite, “Flex.” He was so good that little old me, the wallflower, found myself in the mosh pit grooving with the best of them.
Besides the music though, the fashions were probably the best part of the night. Because it was a black tie affair, all the boys/men/boys donned tuxedos and even the scraggly ones looked quite respectable. The ladies, on the other hand, were not such an easy bunch to universalize about; while there were a handful of gorgeous gowns, there were quite a few mini dresses too, and when midnight rolled around and the cold swept in, Trinity Ball officials took to handing out the shiny gold space blankets they’d ordered to keep to near-naked from freezing. Amazingly, some ball-goers managed to make the blankets work, wrapping them around their goose-bumped bodies in full-length shawl style. Fearing the gold would clash with my pink dress, I abstained, though shards of what looked like gold aluminum foil remained stuck in bushes and caught on stair rails for days, reminding me of the night’s debauchery. Oh college, you get me every time. In other news, my converse prevailed shortly after my heels encountered the cobblestones.
Also, congratulations are in order (to me, duh) for completing my Modernism exam today—and I didn’t even have to write about James Joyce! Hallelujah! I’ve spent the last two weeks hyperventilating, thinking about the totally obscure questions I’d undoubtedly be asked, biting what’s left of my nails, whining to my roommates—did I mention hyperventilating? Anyway, textbook freaking out. When Claire and I arrived at the exam this morning (the buddy system was absolutely necessary), semi-confident that I could write about Virginia Woolf and Katherine Mansfield (She is so good, oh my God, please read her so we can talk about her pure genius—read “Prelude” and “At The Bay,” like them, and we shall be friends forever and ever), I fortunately was met with questions that perfectly suited my studying. That being said, on the second question, I got a bit overzealous in my answering and after confusing myself to the point of distraction, I decided to employ pretty language and attempt to confuse the grader as well. It seemed like a brilliant plan at the time, but I’ll keep you updated on how that pans out for me.
So, back to the things I’m going to miss about Ireland. Though it may sound insignificant, I’ve grown to love the fact that the “trash” option on my Gmail now says “bin,” and that the other day I unconsciously bought new bags for my “hoover.” Oh, and on that note, I’ve been meaning to tell anyone and everyone with a dirty kitchen that in the recent weeks of high-intensity studying I’ve found mopping particularly vile floors to be my personal fast track to nirvana…that and cleaning make-up brushes. Anywho, on the Ireland front, I’ll miss tea anytime and all the time, and I have already scheduled into my New York life time to schlep to the Butcher Block for digestives and buttons. Yum.
Also, I do appreciate the fact that here professors can stare down their bleary-eyed and visibly hungover students during early Friday morning classes and cheerfully say things like, “Looks like a couple of you must have gotten a bad pint,” or “Unmistakable: you had one too many last night”—uh, more like seven too many, if I had to guess…but still, endearing and remarkably understanding sentiments.
Tomorrow, I’m finally venturing outside of Dublin to meet up with Grandpa and Millie, who have been exploring the Irish countryside for the last couple days. They’ve hit Tralee and Dingle already, and so I’ll meet them in Galway for a whirlwind tour of the county, before we return to the big city on Saturday. More adventures for me please!
Looking forward to seeing so many of you so soon.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Chapter 4: Trinity Ball, The Canary Islands & Lucky Charms Tattoos
So much for my vow to be a more diligent blogger, emailer, communicator extraordinaire in 2010.
Despite a handful of relatively amusing hiccups in the last two months, I’m excited to report that Ireland Round #2 has already outdone itself. At the moment, I’m listening to one of the many artists I’ve never before heard of who are headlining Trinity Ball 2010—the biggest musical event in Europe! Of the sampling I’ve already done, I have to say that the artist known as Dizzee Rascal has proven the most amusing, made all the better by Wikipedia’s description of his tunes as “a blend of garage MCing, conventional rap, grime, ragga, and electronic music, with extremely eclectic samples and more exotic styles.” Not to be a deb, but I’d have to say that’s a very diplomatic review. On a positive note, there’s also a pretty significant amount of techno and electronic beats, which should be extra sick given the glow stick warehouse I’ve recently opened in my closet.
The Ball is scheduled for mid-April and I’m looking forward to enjoying it with the cousins, Sarah and Laura, and Clairebear. The experience Claire and I shared trying to buy the tickets (which, at the moment are still not physically in our hands, but rather, are promised with a certain degree of conviction), was one for the books, complete with several hours standing in the rain, busy signals, insignificant reference numbers, and lots of wrong answers. But alas, we prevailed! An outsider might even think we’re getting the hang of this bureaucracy thang.
For those of you with weak hearts, I urge you to skip on to the next paragraph, as not only will I be wearing a hot pink dress, I also plan to wear black heels to the event. Yes, you read that correctly. I’ve even been practicing parading around the apartment in borrowed heels while I work up the courage to buy my own (thanks Katie!). If you’re not familiar with WikiHow, I recommend checking it out, as it was with the website’s fine instructions that I began the learning process. However, according to my good friend Jackie Rosa, their 6-step instruction guide left out the all-important 7th step, which is to bite it in front of a large audience and then meekly scamper off. Maybe I can avoid that one, but I doubt it—I’m well aware that I owe karma for all the pleasure I’ve taken in watching oh so many others spill on the cobblestones these last couple months.
But anyway, enough on the Ball, let me tell you first about my trip to the Canary Islands with Sessie, and second, about a joyous St. Patrick’s Day spent with Julien!
Seeing as I accomplished so very little during fall semester’s reading week, this time around, I went all out and abandoned the possibility of any productivity, packing up only the necessities—a bathing suit and books—and flew to Lanzarote with Sessie. We weren’t on the main island, nor were we in the main city; we were about a twenty-minute cab ride from the airport in a small town called Arietta. To say it was a one-light town would be an overstatement, but to say it was perfect, would be an understatement in the extreme. The hotel we stayed in, El Mar Y Tu, was a new place, and interesting in that it was formerly just a big home that had recently been purchased by a Swiss man, Phillip, and his Columbian wife, Carolina. The second story, where we were staying, had been transformed into three apartment-style suites; husband and wife lived below, and hotel guests all shared a beautiful roof deck, looking out over the bluest water I’ve ever seen. At night, the sea became so rough that both Sessie and both woke up to the sounds of waves crashing against the hotel’s outer walls. Not surprisingly, being stirred by waves offers a much different sensation than that of a car alarm or fire truck.
In some ways, the hotel was more like a bed and breakfast. One afternoon, after a morning swim, Sessie and I were invited to join Phillip and Carolina, their infant son, her best friend, the village priest, and another hotel guest, a lovely British woman named Sue, for a late lunch on the roof. And boy, did we make the right decision in accepting their invitation. We dined on an appetizer of cheeses and meats I’d never heard of, and then moved on to a main course of the most scrumptious paella ever dreamed up. Just thinking about it makes my mouth water. After three hours of beautiful conversation, delicious food, and local wine, we moved on to dessert and the sun began to set. How’s that for an authentic experience?
By the end of our five days in Arietta, Sessie (aka “la gringa”) and I felt like we belonged. We knew the sweet man in the café where each morning we ate our chocolate croissants, and we looked forward to hitting the beach and seeing the Argentinean man who was traveling the world, selling beautiful glass jewelry wherever the winds led him.
Even the one rotten onion from my Lanzarote experience turned into a juicy apple! It must have been the second day and Sessie and I were playing in the water, Sessie doing flips and me nervously scanning for potentially evil (read: hungry) fish, when out of nowhere a gigundo wave snuck up on us. Silly Mary, water camera in hand, thought it absolutely critical to capture a photo of the wave, leaving her entirely unprepared when it—duh—took her down. (Sorry, I just couldn’t admit that was my decision, and talking about myself in the third person provided just enough distance to make it bearable.) But back to the story.
We were both taken out big-time, feet up in the air, not sure which way is up-style, and I remember while being under the water, probably not having been knocked down by a wave since I was five or six, feeling a huge—and for me, uncharacteristic—calmness. I wasn’t freaking out or reminding myself of my weak swimming abilities, nor was I worried about the next breath of air I was to take in. I was exaggeratedly aware that fighting against the current, the undercurrent, whatever, was not going to help my case, and I was confident that I would emerge, right way up, with plenty of time. There was no rush and no panic and the overwhelming feeling of calm was one I was able to carry with me for the rest of the trip. Now I just need to bottle it. So that was the apple-y bit. The onion was losing my beloved silver bracelet in the tumble and not noticing soon enough to track it down. But as Sessie reminded me at the time, as nice a thing as it was, it was only ever just a thing.
So that was Lanzarote. Before you sprout grey hairs and wrinkles though, I’ll wrap this bad boy up with a recap of Paddy’s Day weekend. On Wednesday morning, BFF Julien arrived in Dublin, entirely unwilling to wear the green, white, and orange lay I bought for him! He did redeem himself, but more on that later. After a quick tour of Trinity and a nap, he was ready for the party.
My lovely suitemates, Margaret and Katie, and I hosted several of our nearest and dearest for a festive breakfast, complete with green eggs and ham, scones, and some choice green beverages, before hitting the parade. I had been warned it was nothing to compare with New York’s parade, but for what Dublin’s parade lacked in floats, it made up for in authenticity and, more importantly, in people-watching. Julien photographed a series of puking girls and overly festive Americans. As a side note, don’t believe what anyone else says: we stand out even when we think we’re blending. Actually, I take that back—Americans stand out especially when we think we’re blending.
After a stint at the parade, a visit to one or two landmark Dublin pubs (strictly for Julien’s benefit, Mom), we made our way out to fish with cousin Tom and several of his friends on the River Dodder. For me to claim we were actually fishing would be unfair; there was a single rod in sight and it was most definitely unmanned, but Tom wore a fishing hat and another boy was in a proper vest, so we’ll count it anyway.
But compared to Julien’s 21st birthday, which was March 20th, St. Patrick’s Day was relatively civil. We began the day with crepes, hit the Jameson Distillery, where the birthday boy earned an official diploma in whiskey tasting (what a scholar!), and then—drum roll please—we visited Zulu Tattoo, where Julien had seven of the Lucky Charms marshmallows tattooed up his calf. I do not lie. The whole experience was remarkable. We befriended the tattoo artists and the receptionist, who entertained us with funny tattoo stories and questioned whether Julien’s tattoo was just a “little bit racist.” Compared to Julien’s antics of the day, my new belly button piercing (a huge deal for me!) was entirely tame. All in all, having Julien in town was a huge treat! I haven’t laughed so hard, so much, in months.
Oh! And one last thing: on Sunday night, just in time for my big week of essay writing, my poor computer beeped, burped, and crashed. No biggie though, because I brought it to the Apple store and they had it fixed in two days. When I went today to pick Little Mac up at the shop, I announced myself, saying, as one does, “Hi, I’m Mary Corcoran—“ but couldn’t get more out before I was interrupted by a voice from the backroom, a motherly voice, that said: “I wouldn’t admit to that here!” She then appeared, scolded me for all the damage I had done to my machine, and went on to recruit a co-worker to continue reprimanding me. Not terribly stung by their words, I was pleased to have a working computer back in my life, and then entertained by the abuse they unleashed on a boy about my age, handing him back his computer and roaring, “Now, I don’t want to ever see you in here with a broken computer again!” Oh, the power.
On that note, I should probably get to bed if I’m ever going to make it through tutorials tomorrow.
PS. Have you ever heard what Freud said about the Irish? "This is one race of people for whom psychoanalysis is of no use whatsoever." I like it.
Despite a handful of relatively amusing hiccups in the last two months, I’m excited to report that Ireland Round #2 has already outdone itself. At the moment, I’m listening to one of the many artists I’ve never before heard of who are headlining Trinity Ball 2010—the biggest musical event in Europe! Of the sampling I’ve already done, I have to say that the artist known as Dizzee Rascal has proven the most amusing, made all the better by Wikipedia’s description of his tunes as “a blend of garage MCing, conventional rap, grime, ragga, and electronic music, with extremely eclectic samples and more exotic styles.” Not to be a deb, but I’d have to say that’s a very diplomatic review. On a positive note, there’s also a pretty significant amount of techno and electronic beats, which should be extra sick given the glow stick warehouse I’ve recently opened in my closet.
The Ball is scheduled for mid-April and I’m looking forward to enjoying it with the cousins, Sarah and Laura, and Clairebear. The experience Claire and I shared trying to buy the tickets (which, at the moment are still not physically in our hands, but rather, are promised with a certain degree of conviction), was one for the books, complete with several hours standing in the rain, busy signals, insignificant reference numbers, and lots of wrong answers. But alas, we prevailed! An outsider might even think we’re getting the hang of this bureaucracy thang.
For those of you with weak hearts, I urge you to skip on to the next paragraph, as not only will I be wearing a hot pink dress, I also plan to wear black heels to the event. Yes, you read that correctly. I’ve even been practicing parading around the apartment in borrowed heels while I work up the courage to buy my own (thanks Katie!). If you’re not familiar with WikiHow, I recommend checking it out, as it was with the website’s fine instructions that I began the learning process. However, according to my good friend Jackie Rosa, their 6-step instruction guide left out the all-important 7th step, which is to bite it in front of a large audience and then meekly scamper off. Maybe I can avoid that one, but I doubt it—I’m well aware that I owe karma for all the pleasure I’ve taken in watching oh so many others spill on the cobblestones these last couple months.
But anyway, enough on the Ball, let me tell you first about my trip to the Canary Islands with Sessie, and second, about a joyous St. Patrick’s Day spent with Julien!
Seeing as I accomplished so very little during fall semester’s reading week, this time around, I went all out and abandoned the possibility of any productivity, packing up only the necessities—a bathing suit and books—and flew to Lanzarote with Sessie. We weren’t on the main island, nor were we in the main city; we were about a twenty-minute cab ride from the airport in a small town called Arietta. To say it was a one-light town would be an overstatement, but to say it was perfect, would be an understatement in the extreme. The hotel we stayed in, El Mar Y Tu, was a new place, and interesting in that it was formerly just a big home that had recently been purchased by a Swiss man, Phillip, and his Columbian wife, Carolina. The second story, where we were staying, had been transformed into three apartment-style suites; husband and wife lived below, and hotel guests all shared a beautiful roof deck, looking out over the bluest water I’ve ever seen. At night, the sea became so rough that both Sessie and both woke up to the sounds of waves crashing against the hotel’s outer walls. Not surprisingly, being stirred by waves offers a much different sensation than that of a car alarm or fire truck.
In some ways, the hotel was more like a bed and breakfast. One afternoon, after a morning swim, Sessie and I were invited to join Phillip and Carolina, their infant son, her best friend, the village priest, and another hotel guest, a lovely British woman named Sue, for a late lunch on the roof. And boy, did we make the right decision in accepting their invitation. We dined on an appetizer of cheeses and meats I’d never heard of, and then moved on to a main course of the most scrumptious paella ever dreamed up. Just thinking about it makes my mouth water. After three hours of beautiful conversation, delicious food, and local wine, we moved on to dessert and the sun began to set. How’s that for an authentic experience?
By the end of our five days in Arietta, Sessie (aka “la gringa”) and I felt like we belonged. We knew the sweet man in the café where each morning we ate our chocolate croissants, and we looked forward to hitting the beach and seeing the Argentinean man who was traveling the world, selling beautiful glass jewelry wherever the winds led him.
Even the one rotten onion from my Lanzarote experience turned into a juicy apple! It must have been the second day and Sessie and I were playing in the water, Sessie doing flips and me nervously scanning for potentially evil (read: hungry) fish, when out of nowhere a gigundo wave snuck up on us. Silly Mary, water camera in hand, thought it absolutely critical to capture a photo of the wave, leaving her entirely unprepared when it—duh—took her down. (Sorry, I just couldn’t admit that was my decision, and talking about myself in the third person provided just enough distance to make it bearable.) But back to the story.
We were both taken out big-time, feet up in the air, not sure which way is up-style, and I remember while being under the water, probably not having been knocked down by a wave since I was five or six, feeling a huge—and for me, uncharacteristic—calmness. I wasn’t freaking out or reminding myself of my weak swimming abilities, nor was I worried about the next breath of air I was to take in. I was exaggeratedly aware that fighting against the current, the undercurrent, whatever, was not going to help my case, and I was confident that I would emerge, right way up, with plenty of time. There was no rush and no panic and the overwhelming feeling of calm was one I was able to carry with me for the rest of the trip. Now I just need to bottle it. So that was the apple-y bit. The onion was losing my beloved silver bracelet in the tumble and not noticing soon enough to track it down. But as Sessie reminded me at the time, as nice a thing as it was, it was only ever just a thing.
So that was Lanzarote. Before you sprout grey hairs and wrinkles though, I’ll wrap this bad boy up with a recap of Paddy’s Day weekend. On Wednesday morning, BFF Julien arrived in Dublin, entirely unwilling to wear the green, white, and orange lay I bought for him! He did redeem himself, but more on that later. After a quick tour of Trinity and a nap, he was ready for the party.
My lovely suitemates, Margaret and Katie, and I hosted several of our nearest and dearest for a festive breakfast, complete with green eggs and ham, scones, and some choice green beverages, before hitting the parade. I had been warned it was nothing to compare with New York’s parade, but for what Dublin’s parade lacked in floats, it made up for in authenticity and, more importantly, in people-watching. Julien photographed a series of puking girls and overly festive Americans. As a side note, don’t believe what anyone else says: we stand out even when we think we’re blending. Actually, I take that back—Americans stand out especially when we think we’re blending.
After a stint at the parade, a visit to one or two landmark Dublin pubs (strictly for Julien’s benefit, Mom), we made our way out to fish with cousin Tom and several of his friends on the River Dodder. For me to claim we were actually fishing would be unfair; there was a single rod in sight and it was most definitely unmanned, but Tom wore a fishing hat and another boy was in a proper vest, so we’ll count it anyway.
But compared to Julien’s 21st birthday, which was March 20th, St. Patrick’s Day was relatively civil. We began the day with crepes, hit the Jameson Distillery, where the birthday boy earned an official diploma in whiskey tasting (what a scholar!), and then—drum roll please—we visited Zulu Tattoo, where Julien had seven of the Lucky Charms marshmallows tattooed up his calf. I do not lie. The whole experience was remarkable. We befriended the tattoo artists and the receptionist, who entertained us with funny tattoo stories and questioned whether Julien’s tattoo was just a “little bit racist.” Compared to Julien’s antics of the day, my new belly button piercing (a huge deal for me!) was entirely tame. All in all, having Julien in town was a huge treat! I haven’t laughed so hard, so much, in months.
Oh! And one last thing: on Sunday night, just in time for my big week of essay writing, my poor computer beeped, burped, and crashed. No biggie though, because I brought it to the Apple store and they had it fixed in two days. When I went today to pick Little Mac up at the shop, I announced myself, saying, as one does, “Hi, I’m Mary Corcoran—“ but couldn’t get more out before I was interrupted by a voice from the backroom, a motherly voice, that said: “I wouldn’t admit to that here!” She then appeared, scolded me for all the damage I had done to my machine, and went on to recruit a co-worker to continue reprimanding me. Not terribly stung by their words, I was pleased to have a working computer back in my life, and then entertained by the abuse they unleashed on a boy about my age, handing him back his computer and roaring, “Now, I don’t want to ever see you in here with a broken computer again!” Oh, the power.
On that note, I should probably get to bed if I’m ever going to make it through tutorials tomorrow.
PS. Have you ever heard what Freud said about the Irish? "This is one race of people for whom psychoanalysis is of no use whatsoever." I like it.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Chapter 3
Round 2, Week 4 of my Dublin experience has proven lively and busy, busy, busy. For my first weekend back in the country, I was visited by itty-bitty Haley Decker stopping through on her European sojourn. Seeing a familiar face made a relatively unfamiliar place feel all the more homelike. It is strange being the tour guide!
During Haley’s stay we strolled along the Liffey, exploring and looking for The Winding Stair coffee shop after being tipped off by a friend that it’s a great place to look out over the river and read. Led by yours truly, we traipsed all over, walking nearly as far west as Phoenix Park and way more north than most Dubliners would advise. Eventually, after giving up and giving in to the cold, we headed back toward city center, when, after only walking for about five minutes more, we spotted the sneaky café, hiding in plain sight. We ventured in and though it was closed for a break between lunch and dinner, we peeked around and made sure to put it on our list of places to return to. The view was pretty magnificent.
And as of last week, I am proud to announce the successful implementation of Claire & Mary’s Plan for Making Friends V2.0. On Thursday, after dinner at my apartment—chicken francaise sans dance—we charged across campus to attend a debate held by Trinity’s 300-year-old Philosophical Society. Unfortunately, as for the topic, it wasn’t too riveting; the junior debaters argued over the possibility of life after death, a topic, you might point out, that is difficult to prove either way without expert witnesses (of which, disappointingly, there were none). Regardless, laughs were had, and post-debate at the generous wine reception (the one they advertise relentlessly each week in the hopes of luring a greater audience), we were smiley and successful in meeting real live Irish students.
One of them, a friend from my Literary Childhoods class, kept us entertained for quite a while, the highlight of our conversation probably being his equation of Trinity’s file keeping system with that featured in The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy…papers must be “signed in triplicate, sent in, sent back, lost, found, subjected to public inquiry, queried, lost again, and finally buried in soft peat for three months, recycled…”—you get the point. In all honesty, I am still somewhat confused by how the college is organized, but I remain entirely fascinated by this elusive “administration” professors and students rant about whenever anything goes wrong. Claire and I share a vision of some sort of little man behind the curtain à la The Wizard of Oz. I’ll keep you posted on what we found out.
In other news, if you haven’t yet read The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, you should. I know it sounds like something your pre-teen sister would read and weep about, but it is a touching story written unconventionally as a compilation of letters among several people, namely a young woman writer in London and the members of the society for which the book is named. It takes place in Guernsey, which is located in the Channel Islands just south of England, during and after WWII. The book broke my heart in a sappy, girly way, and luckily I was able to bring Claire down with me after convincing her to read it too. That being said, we’re planning a weekend trip to Guernsey to explore the island ourselves!
The next month is destined to be full of adventure as not only do I expect several beloved visitors, Sessie Burns and I are setting off for the Canary Islands on February 28th. I expect a week full of sunshine and reading and I plan to pack little more than a bathing suit and some books…and well, loads of sunscreen—let’s be realistic, right? We’ll be away for the first week of March, which is Trinity’s Hilary Term reading week…whatever that means. (Just kidding, Mom.) On my list of things to do (or else), is read Charles Dickens’ Bleak House. For those of you unfamiliar with this long-winded work, it’s one of those books you might use to flatten something or hold down a massive pile of papers. Needless to say, I’m hoping to be pleasantly surprised by it.
Classes this term are shaping up to be pretty alright. My two favorites are The Irish Welfare State, which is all about the birth of social policies in Ireland dating back to the Great Potato Famine; and my Subcultures, The Body and Gender class. In the latter, we just read an article from the early 1960s called, “Becoming a Marihuana User,” complete with excerpted dialogues from hippies who said things like, “I came on like I had turned on [smoked marihuana] many times before, you know. I didn’t want to seem like a punk to this cat.” You’ve got to love it. Anyway, on the other end of the spectrum, I nearly lost consciousness in my Supernatural Literature class today, but seeing as I was definitely in the minority and could not be roused by talk of spinning heads or cannibals, I’ll take the blame.
During Haley’s stay we strolled along the Liffey, exploring and looking for The Winding Stair coffee shop after being tipped off by a friend that it’s a great place to look out over the river and read. Led by yours truly, we traipsed all over, walking nearly as far west as Phoenix Park and way more north than most Dubliners would advise. Eventually, after giving up and giving in to the cold, we headed back toward city center, when, after only walking for about five minutes more, we spotted the sneaky café, hiding in plain sight. We ventured in and though it was closed for a break between lunch and dinner, we peeked around and made sure to put it on our list of places to return to. The view was pretty magnificent.
And as of last week, I am proud to announce the successful implementation of Claire & Mary’s Plan for Making Friends V2.0. On Thursday, after dinner at my apartment—chicken francaise sans dance—we charged across campus to attend a debate held by Trinity’s 300-year-old Philosophical Society. Unfortunately, as for the topic, it wasn’t too riveting; the junior debaters argued over the possibility of life after death, a topic, you might point out, that is difficult to prove either way without expert witnesses (of which, disappointingly, there were none). Regardless, laughs were had, and post-debate at the generous wine reception (the one they advertise relentlessly each week in the hopes of luring a greater audience), we were smiley and successful in meeting real live Irish students.
One of them, a friend from my Literary Childhoods class, kept us entertained for quite a while, the highlight of our conversation probably being his equation of Trinity’s file keeping system with that featured in The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy…papers must be “signed in triplicate, sent in, sent back, lost, found, subjected to public inquiry, queried, lost again, and finally buried in soft peat for three months, recycled…”—you get the point. In all honesty, I am still somewhat confused by how the college is organized, but I remain entirely fascinated by this elusive “administration” professors and students rant about whenever anything goes wrong. Claire and I share a vision of some sort of little man behind the curtain à la The Wizard of Oz. I’ll keep you posted on what we found out.
In other news, if you haven’t yet read The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, you should. I know it sounds like something your pre-teen sister would read and weep about, but it is a touching story written unconventionally as a compilation of letters among several people, namely a young woman writer in London and the members of the society for which the book is named. It takes place in Guernsey, which is located in the Channel Islands just south of England, during and after WWII. The book broke my heart in a sappy, girly way, and luckily I was able to bring Claire down with me after convincing her to read it too. That being said, we’re planning a weekend trip to Guernsey to explore the island ourselves!
The next month is destined to be full of adventure as not only do I expect several beloved visitors, Sessie Burns and I are setting off for the Canary Islands on February 28th. I expect a week full of sunshine and reading and I plan to pack little more than a bathing suit and some books…and well, loads of sunscreen—let’s be realistic, right? We’ll be away for the first week of March, which is Trinity’s Hilary Term reading week…whatever that means. (Just kidding, Mom.) On my list of things to do (or else), is read Charles Dickens’ Bleak House. For those of you unfamiliar with this long-winded work, it’s one of those books you might use to flatten something or hold down a massive pile of papers. Needless to say, I’m hoping to be pleasantly surprised by it.
Classes this term are shaping up to be pretty alright. My two favorites are The Irish Welfare State, which is all about the birth of social policies in Ireland dating back to the Great Potato Famine; and my Subcultures, The Body and Gender class. In the latter, we just read an article from the early 1960s called, “Becoming a Marihuana User,” complete with excerpted dialogues from hippies who said things like, “I came on like I had turned on [smoked marihuana] many times before, you know. I didn’t want to seem like a punk to this cat.” You’ve got to love it. Anyway, on the other end of the spectrum, I nearly lost consciousness in my Supernatural Literature class today, but seeing as I was definitely in the minority and could not be roused by talk of spinning heads or cannibals, I’ll take the blame.
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