Chapta Five: Vikings & Gold Space Blankets

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.