Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Relocating
I'm relocating all of my 'Journal' entries to their own datestamp to keep them out of the main feed. Anyone interested in reading them can head to posts on May 22nd for Academic, May 23rd for Cultural. Or, click the links below under 'Labels' to jump to a category, or see them all.
Last Monday In Ireland
After class, tried to do some journals, did other stuff instead. Went to City Center to meet Dr. Renk for dinner at an Indian place that Keith recommended. Really good food, and the first legitimately spicy thing I've had in Ireland (well, second, but first that made me go daaaaaamn). Chatted about this and that, the course, then got onto serious injuries and family stuff - Keith and I felt awkward. Walked her home, ran into Dr. Chown, caught the bus home. Puttered a bit, then bed.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
I Did It Gaaaaal-way.
Thursday, two busses to catch the train to Galway - 2.5 hours, not too shabby. Checked into the hostel, which was nicer than in Cork. Discovered I had left my camera's memory card in my laptop in Dublin. Booo! Headed to the Town Hall Theatre with Sam, Diana and Keith so that they could buy some tickets. I already had tickets for 7 shows, so I didn't get any more. Bought a Film Fleadh program as a souveneir, then we had lunch at a nice Chinese place. Bought a memory card for my camera, then did a bit of shopping at a few stores, bought a CD Keith and I had heard in a store.
Diana and I headed to the Cinemobile (a trailer that converts to a movie theatre, to bring movies to the masses) to see "Empire," supposedly a re-telling of the Orpheus myth set in Belfast, shot on a budget of zero dollars/euros/pounds. Not great. Re-telling in the broadest sense of the term, overemphasis on setup, lack of emphasis on the myth. Alas. Chown and the Renks were there, also unimpressed. After, booked it to the Omniplex for the film we were seeing as a group, "Nothing Personal;" story of a Dutch loner/backpacker who falls into a weird semi-relationship with an Irish recluse . . . not a fan, but tolerable. Returned to the hostel to sort out plans for the Aran Islands on Saturday while others were seeing films. Keith and I grabbed dinner at a kebab place on our way to the Cinemobile, which had some technical problems so we grabbed a pint and ran into Dr. Renk before the movie. Watched "Seer," a film about 7 strangers who wake up in a farmhouse with no memories and a creature outside that wants to kill them. One of them has flashes of visions, and it all leads up to an interesting climx - reminiscent of 'Identity' in some ways, ending dragged a bit, but overall I enjoyed it. Galway was pretty dead when we walked back, hung out a bit. Tried to use internet on Keith's laptop, but something went wrong with it so we tried to get it to work for a few hours and went to bed.
Friday, got up and headed to a 10am screening of Shorts (drama category). A lot of the group was there, saw some really good stuff and some clunkers. Standouts were'39 Years,' about love and other secrets, 'The Crush,' about a schoolboy who falls for his teacher and challenges her fiance to a duel to the death; 'The Ottoman Empire,' about a man who knows where things that vanish into couches go and is terrified about it, 'Lovely Dinner,' a cannibal romance, and 'In the Night, in the Dark,' about a woman in bed who keeps hearing noises, which ended the way that kind of film SHOULD end. Got some lunch at a pizza place with Sam, Diana and Keith (a regular pack, we are these days), wandered and shopped, saw the Spanish Arch and a bit of the museum before I hiked to the Omniplex for 'In Dreams,' a Neil Jordan film that I really liked - check it out! Met Keith, Matt, Sam, Diana, Kelsie and Hannah for dinner at the Kings Head pub, had a fantastic cold seafood platter - crab meat and claws, mussels, slamon, halibut and an oyster, came with a free beer! Napped at the hostel, then Keith and I saw 'Outcast,' an utterly brilliant film that is hard to summarize. See links for details!
Saturday was the Aran Islands. We tried to get crepes, but the restaurant was closed, so we ate at the hostel (toast & cereal - just like Dublin!). Bus to Ros-a-Mhil, ferry to Inis Mor, the largest island. Kelsie, Diana and I went to check out the shops and get some tissues while Keith, Sam, Kris, Matt, and Hany rented bikes and headed out. Given our schedule, the coming rain, and my knee acting up I wasn't inclined to ride, so the three of us talked to some tour bus drivers, all basically the same route and all the same price ,€10. The last guy we talked to, however, had an almost-full van, so had lowered his rate to €7, so we went with him. Great driver, very funny and madcap. Took us to the seal colony, where only a few were present but hey, it's seals. Then to Dun Aonghasa, an ancient fort perched on a cliff, 330' above the ocean. A long hike up, but spectacular views, amazing scale. No guides or guardrails, so we got some dizzying photos. Saw a choral group who had been on the ferry with us warm up, but it started to rain so we headed back before they started their scheduled performance. Got lunch at a FANTASTIC shop that our driver recommended, as did the bike rental place (the rest of our group was coming out as we arrived). Ate, shopped a bit, then waited for the bus, which took us to the Northernmost point of the island, to 7 Churches, past our sopping wet classmates and their bicycles, a few monuments and the house that was built to film Man of Aran. Back to the port, did some more serious shopping, helped Sam finish her pint and find her ticket, then onto the Ferry. Three of the group had bought later tickets, but were able to get on the ferry with us. Bus took us home, where the bikers changed and showered, and the rest of us lazed a bit. Went to dinner at the kebab place with the group, then saw 'Sensation,' the story of a young man who uses his inheritance to help a call girl he hires start her own brothel. Better than it sounds, and it sounds pretty great, so chew on that. Wanted a pint after, so we tried to get those who didn't come to the film to meet us, then went and got them, went to a pub that some of them decided was too old a crowd. Keith and I stayted and argued about the film for 2 pints, then headed back to the hostel. Did some internet, talked to drunk classmates, met a band who is playing a show in Dublin the night before our final exam, and went to bed.
Slept in a bit on Sunday, packed, checked out of the hostel and left bag to wander.Breakfast at the crepe restaurant, then Diana and I found the JFK plaque/bust, Norah Barnacle's house, the Christopher Columbus visit memorial, and some shops. Tried to go to the museum, but it was closed. My umbrella never turned up, sadly. Tried to get cookies, settled for a pint and a candy bar, then Diana headed off and I went to buy a hurling stick. Back to hostel for luggage, caught our 3pm train to Dublin, headed home and had some tasty dinner. Meant to do some work and watch the final match over a pint with the group, but Keith and I basically collapsed. Watched the game at home and went to sleep.
Diana and I headed to the Cinemobile (a trailer that converts to a movie theatre, to bring movies to the masses) to see "Empire," supposedly a re-telling of the Orpheus myth set in Belfast, shot on a budget of zero dollars/euros/pounds. Not great. Re-telling in the broadest sense of the term, overemphasis on setup, lack of emphasis on the myth. Alas. Chown and the Renks were there, also unimpressed. After, booked it to the Omniplex for the film we were seeing as a group, "Nothing Personal;" story of a Dutch loner/backpacker who falls into a weird semi-relationship with an Irish recluse . . . not a fan, but tolerable. Returned to the hostel to sort out plans for the Aran Islands on Saturday while others were seeing films. Keith and I grabbed dinner at a kebab place on our way to the Cinemobile, which had some technical problems so we grabbed a pint and ran into Dr. Renk before the movie. Watched "Seer," a film about 7 strangers who wake up in a farmhouse with no memories and a creature outside that wants to kill them. One of them has flashes of visions, and it all leads up to an interesting climx - reminiscent of 'Identity' in some ways, ending dragged a bit, but overall I enjoyed it. Galway was pretty dead when we walked back, hung out a bit. Tried to use internet on Keith's laptop, but something went wrong with it so we tried to get it to work for a few hours and went to bed.
Friday, got up and headed to a 10am screening of Shorts (drama category). A lot of the group was there, saw some really good stuff and some clunkers. Standouts were'39 Years,' about love and other secrets, 'The Crush,' about a schoolboy who falls for his teacher and challenges her fiance to a duel to the death; 'The Ottoman Empire,' about a man who knows where things that vanish into couches go and is terrified about it, 'Lovely Dinner,' a cannibal romance, and 'In the Night, in the Dark,' about a woman in bed who keeps hearing noises, which ended the way that kind of film SHOULD end. Got some lunch at a pizza place with Sam, Diana and Keith (a regular pack, we are these days), wandered and shopped, saw the Spanish Arch and a bit of the museum before I hiked to the Omniplex for 'In Dreams,' a Neil Jordan film that I really liked - check it out! Met Keith, Matt, Sam, Diana, Kelsie and Hannah for dinner at the Kings Head pub, had a fantastic cold seafood platter - crab meat and claws, mussels, slamon, halibut and an oyster, came with a free beer! Napped at the hostel, then Keith and I saw 'Outcast,' an utterly brilliant film that is hard to summarize. See links for details!
Saturday was the Aran Islands. We tried to get crepes, but the restaurant was closed, so we ate at the hostel (toast & cereal - just like Dublin!). Bus to Ros-a-Mhil, ferry to Inis Mor, the largest island. Kelsie, Diana and I went to check out the shops and get some tissues while Keith, Sam, Kris, Matt, and Hany rented bikes and headed out. Given our schedule, the coming rain, and my knee acting up I wasn't inclined to ride, so the three of us talked to some tour bus drivers, all basically the same route and all the same price ,€10. The last guy we talked to, however, had an almost-full van, so had lowered his rate to €7, so we went with him. Great driver, very funny and madcap. Took us to the seal colony, where only a few were present but hey, it's seals. Then to Dun Aonghasa, an ancient fort perched on a cliff, 330' above the ocean. A long hike up, but spectacular views, amazing scale. No guides or guardrails, so we got some dizzying photos. Saw a choral group who had been on the ferry with us warm up, but it started to rain so we headed back before they started their scheduled performance. Got lunch at a FANTASTIC shop that our driver recommended, as did the bike rental place (the rest of our group was coming out as we arrived). Ate, shopped a bit, then waited for the bus, which took us to the Northernmost point of the island, to 7 Churches, past our sopping wet classmates and their bicycles, a few monuments and the house that was built to film Man of Aran. Back to the port, did some more serious shopping, helped Sam finish her pint and find her ticket, then onto the Ferry. Three of the group had bought later tickets, but were able to get on the ferry with us. Bus took us home, where the bikers changed and showered, and the rest of us lazed a bit. Went to dinner at the kebab place with the group, then saw 'Sensation,' the story of a young man who uses his inheritance to help a call girl he hires start her own brothel. Better than it sounds, and it sounds pretty great, so chew on that. Wanted a pint after, so we tried to get those who didn't come to the film to meet us, then went and got them, went to a pub that some of them decided was too old a crowd. Keith and I stayted and argued about the film for 2 pints, then headed back to the hostel. Did some internet, talked to drunk classmates, met a band who is playing a show in Dublin the night before our final exam, and went to bed.
Slept in a bit on Sunday, packed, checked out of the hostel and left bag to wander.Breakfast at the crepe restaurant, then Diana and I found the JFK plaque/bust, Norah Barnacle's house, the Christopher Columbus visit memorial, and some shops. Tried to go to the museum, but it was closed. My umbrella never turned up, sadly. Tried to get cookies, settled for a pint and a candy bar, then Diana headed off and I went to buy a hurling stick. Back to hostel for luggage, caught our 3pm train to Dublin, headed home and had some tasty dinner. Meant to do some work and watch the final match over a pint with the group, but Keith and I basically collapsed. Watched the game at home and went to sleep.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Runup to Galway
Monday was intense. Took a coach bus to a series of places, starting with the Hill of Tara, a series of ancient passage tombs and monuments, seat of the High Kings of old. Neat church and graveyard nearby. Started with a video, then a tour of the site. In the old days, potential kings had to come here to be tested. A worthy High King would fit into his predecessors cloak, harness 2 wild (never broken) horses to his chariot, ride it at top speed at the gates to Tara (which would open magically if he were worthy), then touch a special stone that would scream out his name if he were to be king. The stone did not scream my name when I hugged it, but to be fair I never harnessed the horses. Hany rolled down some hills, we hiked around, then got back on the bus.
--Next was Loughcrew, a hike up a mountain to the passage tomb and cairns at the top. A guide takes you INSIDE the passage tomb, talks about it, very cool. All the guides tell you the science, then the myth, and invite you to remember whichever one you prefer. After that, we climbed atop the tomb, hiked a bit, and walked down the mountain a quicker way. Hany got left behind, ran after us and couldn't stop, then fell. Lucky bastard missed stones, nettles, and a barbed wire fence by doing that and didn't injure himself. Back . . . to the bus!
--Kells - where the book came from. Celtic crosses and an old church, then about 15 minutes to check out shops and cram sandwiches down our gullets. Hany hurt himself jumping a low wall to see the crosses.
--Trim Castle (I Think - need to check) Nice groungs, rained a bit. Got some good photos, then a tour of the inside and roof of the castle. Pretty cool. We got back, and I opted not to go to the authors reading which had been made optional. Headed down for a pint with the crew afterwards.
Tuesday after class we toured the Jameson Distillery. It was fun, similar yet smaller than Guiness or Heineken. Guided tour, very basic process and history. I was selected as a Whisky Taster at the start, thanks to Matt abdicating (due to my name and all), so after the tour I got to sit and do a tasting of 3 whiskeys - Jack Daniels, Johnnie Walker, and Jameson. All good in their own way, overall I preferred the Jameson. Also had my free tour drink, Jameson and Ginger Ale, which was tasty. Got a certificate proclaiming me a trained whiskey taster, shopped, then home for dinner and to the pub to watch the Netherlands pound Uruguay. Wednesday we went to City Center after class for some lunch, then some general wandering and shopping. A few bookstores, a comic/movie/media store Keith and I found, Caroll's (the Irish gifts mecca), and the Sinn Feinn shop. Got a miniature hurling stick with a quote and an image of the Proclamation on it. Keith bought a beard trimmer that will require a power converter to use at home, but he's fine with that. Dinner, then to the pub to watch Spain throttle Germany - wtf Germany? Way to prove that octopus right!
--Next was Loughcrew, a hike up a mountain to the passage tomb and cairns at the top. A guide takes you INSIDE the passage tomb, talks about it, very cool. All the guides tell you the science, then the myth, and invite you to remember whichever one you prefer. After that, we climbed atop the tomb, hiked a bit, and walked down the mountain a quicker way. Hany got left behind, ran after us and couldn't stop, then fell. Lucky bastard missed stones, nettles, and a barbed wire fence by doing that and didn't injure himself. Back . . . to the bus!
--Kells - where the book came from. Celtic crosses and an old church, then about 15 minutes to check out shops and cram sandwiches down our gullets. Hany hurt himself jumping a low wall to see the crosses.
--Trim Castle (I Think - need to check) Nice groungs, rained a bit. Got some good photos, then a tour of the inside and roof of the castle. Pretty cool. We got back, and I opted not to go to the authors reading which had been made optional. Headed down for a pint with the crew afterwards.
Tuesday after class we toured the Jameson Distillery. It was fun, similar yet smaller than Guiness or Heineken. Guided tour, very basic process and history. I was selected as a Whisky Taster at the start, thanks to Matt abdicating (due to my name and all), so after the tour I got to sit and do a tasting of 3 whiskeys - Jack Daniels, Johnnie Walker, and Jameson. All good in their own way, overall I preferred the Jameson. Also had my free tour drink, Jameson and Ginger Ale, which was tasty. Got a certificate proclaiming me a trained whiskey taster, shopped, then home for dinner and to the pub to watch the Netherlands pound Uruguay. Wednesday we went to City Center after class for some lunch, then some general wandering and shopping. A few bookstores, a comic/movie/media store Keith and I found, Caroll's (the Irish gifts mecca), and the Sinn Feinn shop. Got a miniature hurling stick with a quote and an image of the Proclamation on it. Keith bought a beard trimmer that will require a power converter to use at home, but he's fine with that. Dinner, then to the pub to watch Spain throttle Germany - wtf Germany? Way to prove that octopus right!
Sunday, July 4, 2010
If You Like It Then You Better Put A Cork In It
Well, this whole blogging thing hasn't exactly been smooth, but I'll try to get y'all up to speed in a condensed format. Yes, I'm recycling the title, but I like it.
Around the time of my last post, saw the movie 'His & Hers,' a documentary which interviewed dozens of women from young to elderly about themselves and their relationship with men. Very cool, often funny, occasionally wrenching. I recommend it. Had a bit of a hike after taking the wrong bus, made Sam cry (a theme for me) but she was fine by the time she came back to get the housekey from her roommate and stayed with us at the pub. Hany wasn't speaking for awhile after we all yelled at him for saying he was going to go on a hunger strike on the bus. On to Friday. Rather, on Friday when I get back from class.
Or, the next day. Both good. Two weeks ago Friday we went to the IFC for our weekly film screenings, then headed once again to the bus station for our 4.5 hour ride to Cork. The whole group went, and all 10 of us shared a hostel room. Kinda fun, really. Hostel was tolerable, but not great. Breakfast was included, but was only toast, so some of us chose not to participate. Internet was stupid expensive. We had some money confusion when Winnie only wanted to stay one night but it was too late, so a few of us overpaid until she could repay us. Ate at a nice restaurant with a fixed menu - I had sweet potato soup and a crab tart with a glass of wine. Winnie went to church instead. We found a pub for some drinks and saw Ghana fall apart in penalty shootout. Lame! Live music, then bed for all but Hany, Sam and Kris.
Saturday we got up and all but Winnie (who went to church) caught a bus to Kinsale, a port town that can be described as slightly better than quaint, where I spend the day with Keith, Sam, and Diana. Lunch at Mother Hubbards, which is apparently well-known, and then walked to town. Saw a batch of 68' sailboats in on the last stop of the Clipper 09-10 Round the World Yacht Race - very cool. Shopped a bit, visited Desmond Castle where we paid a Euro to get into the Wine Museum, which basically meant wander the castle then look at a room with wine stuff in it. It was neat. Wandered the street fair that was set up, listened to music, got some ice cream and a pint, then back to the bus to Cork. Relaxed in the hostel for a bit, then went to dinner while Winnie went to church. Had a HUGE and DELICIOUS fixed meal - rib and wing appetizer, fish and chips main, and a Bailey's cheesecake. Unreal, and under €20. Keith, Kelsie and Hany went back to the hostel while the rest of us had a pint. Then, bed.
Sunday we checked out of the hostel, learned that everything in town was closed until noon. Ate at McDonalds (those who didn't catch the earlier bus), wandered, then bus. Lovely bit of salmon at home in Dublin, then bed.
Around the time of my last post, saw the movie 'His & Hers,' a documentary which interviewed dozens of women from young to elderly about themselves and their relationship with men. Very cool, often funny, occasionally wrenching. I recommend it. Had a bit of a hike after taking the wrong bus, made Sam cry (a theme for me) but she was fine by the time she came back to get the housekey from her roommate and stayed with us at the pub. Hany wasn't speaking for awhile after we all yelled at him for saying he was going to go on a hunger strike on the bus. On to Friday. Rather, on Friday when I get back from class.
Or, the next day. Both good. Two weeks ago Friday we went to the IFC for our weekly film screenings, then headed once again to the bus station for our 4.5 hour ride to Cork. The whole group went, and all 10 of us shared a hostel room. Kinda fun, really. Hostel was tolerable, but not great. Breakfast was included, but was only toast, so some of us chose not to participate. Internet was stupid expensive. We had some money confusion when Winnie only wanted to stay one night but it was too late, so a few of us overpaid until she could repay us. Ate at a nice restaurant with a fixed menu - I had sweet potato soup and a crab tart with a glass of wine. Winnie went to church instead. We found a pub for some drinks and saw Ghana fall apart in penalty shootout. Lame! Live music, then bed for all but Hany, Sam and Kris.
Saturday we got up and all but Winnie (who went to church) caught a bus to Kinsale, a port town that can be described as slightly better than quaint, where I spend the day with Keith, Sam, and Diana. Lunch at Mother Hubbards, which is apparently well-known, and then walked to town. Saw a batch of 68' sailboats in on the last stop of the Clipper 09-10 Round the World Yacht Race - very cool. Shopped a bit, visited Desmond Castle where we paid a Euro to get into the Wine Museum, which basically meant wander the castle then look at a room with wine stuff in it. It was neat. Wandered the street fair that was set up, listened to music, got some ice cream and a pint, then back to the bus to Cork. Relaxed in the hostel for a bit, then went to dinner while Winnie went to church. Had a HUGE and DELICIOUS fixed meal - rib and wing appetizer, fish and chips main, and a Bailey's cheesecake. Unreal, and under €20. Keith, Kelsie and Hany went back to the hostel while the rest of us had a pint. Then, bed.
Sunday we checked out of the hostel, learned that everything in town was closed until noon. Ate at McDonalds (those who didn't catch the earlier bus), wandered, then bus. Lovely bit of salmon at home in Dublin, then bed.
Friday, July 2, 2010
If You Like It Then You Better Put A Cork On It
It appears that I may have extra readers - Sam, of 'the younguns' fame, has been peeking. Shame, shame! And hello Aggie, as well!
I'm in Cork, paying for internet, so goodbye!
I'm in Cork, paying for internet, so goodbye!
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Coupla Days
Crazy that I'm creeping up on the halfway point of this program, and 3 weeks in Europe total. Wow. Anyway!
As you may have inferred, I visited the Guiness Storehouse and Kilmainham Gaol this week, specifically on Monday. We headed down as a class, got our tickets and such, then went to the storehouse. It was pretty cool, though somehow I liked the Heineken Experience better. More beers, maybe? Who can say! Anyway, some old gear and tubs, exhibits on transport and how ahead of the times Guiness has always been, advertising exhibits and such. There is a small bar where you can pour your own pint, but I opted to save my free pint ticket for the Gravity Bar, a glass-walled, circular bar at the top of the 7-story structure (shaped like a pint glass). Amazing views of the city, truly dazzling. Only one pint, but hadn't eaten since breakfast so I felt it a bit. Visited the gift shop, got myself a hat and a little something for Amanda, then the group hiked an endless hill to the Gaol (it was seriously a long walk, and the neighborhood looked a little sketchy to us). Anyway.
Kilmainham is a prison that was used by the British to hold and execute not only criminals but the 1916 Rising leaders and others. Many famous revolutionaries passed through that place, and it's fascinating to stand in. The newer portion was epic and airy, panopticon style of easy viewing for guards. The older part is downright dank, stone walls and echoing halls, windows that originally had no glass, and the original doors. Pretty harsh stuff, and freezing in winter. Also have a small museum that we visited, then hopped a bus back to city center for lunch.On the bus, a woman asked Keith to give a sip of his water bottle to a woman she claimed was pregnant, so he just gave it to her (it was a few days old anyway). The woman and her friends then smoked meth, which was unexpected and ridiculous. Made me nostalgic for Galesburg!
Anyway, most of us went to Eddie Rockets for lunch, basically an american diner themed restaurant. Decent food, standard prices for Dublin. Winnie went home and Kelsie wandered off on her own. After lunch we split up; Keith, Hany and I did some shopping, got a pint at Gogartys, and went to Trinity to hang out until music time. We chatted with a girl from Naperville there studying through NYU, disappointed kids at a leadership camp that kept asking us scavenger hunt questions we didn't know the answers to, and the others filtered in to join us. The music was great, two violins, a flute, a vocalist, a dancer, and uilleann pipes - so cool. Musicians talked about their instruments, history and culture around them, and so on. A lovely evening. Got a pint at O'Neills, and headed for home.
Tuesday after class we had a film, The Wind That Shakes The Barley. After that, some itnernet time doing journals and updates, then home for dinner. Our family put a TV/DVD player in our room, so we have some entertainment if we want it. We've watched some Mythbusters, soccer and King of Queens up there so far. The announcer on Mythbusters sounds Australian/Irish here. Good stuff. Later we came back to campus for more internet, then met up with the group at the Autobahn for . . . a pint.
Today (Wednesday) we had a good discussion in class, watched Dancing at Lughnasa, then internet time including setting up our trip to Cork this weekend - we'll have everyone but Winnie along for this trip, so it should be good. We've booked 9 of the 10 beds in our room at the hostel. Originally hadn't planned to go, but realized that I'd regret not going more than it was worth. Also, successfully set up transfer ability from my HSBC to my TCF bank account, so in a few days a good chunk of cash should be available to me again, which will make me feel better about things. I'm not in dire straights or anything, but the fact that I am still unable to access the money I was planning to use for this trip (HSBC) from an ATM means that my other account has to bear the brunt of my activities, so this transfer will put me more at ease. Anyway, went home for dinner and a shower, then came back for the internet. Planning to head home fairly soon I suspect and call it a relaxed night - first day since I hit Europe without some form of alcohol - I may faint! Must remember tomorrow to . . . have a pint.
As you may have inferred, I visited the Guiness Storehouse and Kilmainham Gaol this week, specifically on Monday. We headed down as a class, got our tickets and such, then went to the storehouse. It was pretty cool, though somehow I liked the Heineken Experience better. More beers, maybe? Who can say! Anyway, some old gear and tubs, exhibits on transport and how ahead of the times Guiness has always been, advertising exhibits and such. There is a small bar where you can pour your own pint, but I opted to save my free pint ticket for the Gravity Bar, a glass-walled, circular bar at the top of the 7-story structure (shaped like a pint glass). Amazing views of the city, truly dazzling. Only one pint, but hadn't eaten since breakfast so I felt it a bit. Visited the gift shop, got myself a hat and a little something for Amanda, then the group hiked an endless hill to the Gaol (it was seriously a long walk, and the neighborhood looked a little sketchy to us). Anyway.
Kilmainham is a prison that was used by the British to hold and execute not only criminals but the 1916 Rising leaders and others. Many famous revolutionaries passed through that place, and it's fascinating to stand in. The newer portion was epic and airy, panopticon style of easy viewing for guards. The older part is downright dank, stone walls and echoing halls, windows that originally had no glass, and the original doors. Pretty harsh stuff, and freezing in winter. Also have a small museum that we visited, then hopped a bus back to city center for lunch.On the bus, a woman asked Keith to give a sip of his water bottle to a woman she claimed was pregnant, so he just gave it to her (it was a few days old anyway). The woman and her friends then smoked meth, which was unexpected and ridiculous. Made me nostalgic for Galesburg!
Anyway, most of us went to Eddie Rockets for lunch, basically an american diner themed restaurant. Decent food, standard prices for Dublin. Winnie went home and Kelsie wandered off on her own. After lunch we split up; Keith, Hany and I did some shopping, got a pint at Gogartys, and went to Trinity to hang out until music time. We chatted with a girl from Naperville there studying through NYU, disappointed kids at a leadership camp that kept asking us scavenger hunt questions we didn't know the answers to, and the others filtered in to join us. The music was great, two violins, a flute, a vocalist, a dancer, and uilleann pipes - so cool. Musicians talked about their instruments, history and culture around them, and so on. A lovely evening. Got a pint at O'Neills, and headed for home.
Tuesday after class we had a film, The Wind That Shakes The Barley. After that, some itnernet time doing journals and updates, then home for dinner. Our family put a TV/DVD player in our room, so we have some entertainment if we want it. We've watched some Mythbusters, soccer and King of Queens up there so far. The announcer on Mythbusters sounds Australian/Irish here. Good stuff. Later we came back to campus for more internet, then met up with the group at the Autobahn for . . . a pint.
Today (Wednesday) we had a good discussion in class, watched Dancing at Lughnasa, then internet time including setting up our trip to Cork this weekend - we'll have everyone but Winnie along for this trip, so it should be good. We've booked 9 of the 10 beds in our room at the hostel. Originally hadn't planned to go, but realized that I'd regret not going more than it was worth. Also, successfully set up transfer ability from my HSBC to my TCF bank account, so in a few days a good chunk of cash should be available to me again, which will make me feel better about things. I'm not in dire straights or anything, but the fact that I am still unable to access the money I was planning to use for this trip (HSBC) from an ATM means that my other account has to bear the brunt of my activities, so this transfer will put me more at ease. Anyway, went home for dinner and a shower, then came back for the internet. Planning to head home fairly soon I suspect and call it a relaxed night - first day since I hit Europe without some form of alcohol - I may faint! Must remember tomorrow to . . . have a pint.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Belfast and Beyond
What a great city. Apparently among the safest in the world for travellers, and definitely among the friendliest and most helpful. People jumping into the street to give directions (not really, but just about). Hostel was okay, rickety beds and gross showers, and I left my shower stuff in there on Friday and it was gone by Saturday. Alas. We all grabbed £'s at an ATM - Northern Ireland is still part of the UK, and thus on the pound, although they issue their own 'Ulster Pounds' which are equal in value to British ones.
Dinner at a pub nearby, had AMAZING bangers and mash - I never want to not eat champ (mashed potatos with green onions) ever again. Walked a ways, and found a pub called Fibber Magees, great live music, good drinks, and a wacky bachelor party with the groom in a Baywatch outfit. Hany motorboated him. Sat in the bar next door, which connected by a door, and talked to a guy we met who is from Rockford. Small world!
Saturday was an EPIC one. We hopped on a bus at 9am and headed out. Stopped at Carrickfergus castle, where William of Orange landed, then a harbor for a restroom stop, then on the the Giant's Causeway. Lunch at the hotel, then we walked. Amazing, spectacular. Just wow. We ran into the Rockford guy and his friends, Keith and I started to climb a steep hill, then backed out, but he went back and did it after all. I'm jealous, but happy for him. Photos and such for a few hours, then some of us caught the tram back, took photos of those who walked, and hit the shop. Got a postcard and a t-shirt. Then back onto our (un-air conditioned) bus with the annoying women from Yorkshire who renamed Keith and were drunk and infuriating. Well, they got quiter as the day wore on. Next was the Bushmills distillery, disappointing since we didn't get to do the tour, just take some photos and walk the gift shop. After a quick stop on the roadside to see a ruined castle, it was on to the Carrick-a-Rede rope bridge. A looong walk through fields along cliffs, then a fantastic rope bridge to a tall island where was sat and enjoyed it. A long hike back, then the bus headed back to Belfast.
We talked pizza or BBQ for dinner, got locations of two places from the hostel desk, but they were more upscale than we had in mind so we ate at a large pub-type restaurant. Our server updated us on the soccer match when she could. Had the rib appetizer and a side of chips - perfect. Next we walked towards Fibber Magees again, with a stop at Filthy McNasty's, a bar/club with music from the US and quotes from rock stars on the walls. Had a Newcastle, then on the Fibber's. Great night with many pints.
Sunday, Keith went off to find an ancestral house, and the rest of the group took a Black Taxi tour, seeing murals in Protestant and Catholic neighborhoods, seeing the Bobby Sands mural on the Sinn Fein HQ, and seeing the Peace Wall, where people leave messages. Our driver gave us marker pens, and we left our marks on the wall. Really cool stuff. My ATM card wouldn't work, so Sam loaned me £3 to take the tour (£10 each). Hany broke my umbrella, which has been the source of much amusement. Discovered the bus back to Dublin was cheaper and just as fast as the train, so we bought tickets and headed towards the train station to get food and intercept Keith. We stopped at St. George's Market to see the stalls, and decided to eat. Hany offered to take out money for me, to pay him back later so I could eat. We found an ATM after a bit of an adventure, and I had a crepe filled with mozzarella, roasted peppers and pesto, as well as some caribbean fried dough things to share. Pretty good, though the crepe was served in a paper cone and when I unwrapped it to use as a plate juice went down my leg. Ah well. Matt and Diana went to find Keith, but he already had his ticket so we caught the bus (empty enough to all have our own seats, plus air conditioning!), met Keith at the statue of O'Connell. Kelsie called, and we went to her place then to the pub by DCU for a pint. Hannah met us, we had a pint, then got food at nearby 'Aberdeen Chinese Takeaway.' Ate on the green, and headed for bed. Up next: This Week, Featuring Keith!
Dinner at a pub nearby, had AMAZING bangers and mash - I never want to not eat champ (mashed potatos with green onions) ever again. Walked a ways, and found a pub called Fibber Magees, great live music, good drinks, and a wacky bachelor party with the groom in a Baywatch outfit. Hany motorboated him. Sat in the bar next door, which connected by a door, and talked to a guy we met who is from Rockford. Small world!
Saturday was an EPIC one. We hopped on a bus at 9am and headed out. Stopped at Carrickfergus castle, where William of Orange landed, then a harbor for a restroom stop, then on the the Giant's Causeway. Lunch at the hotel, then we walked. Amazing, spectacular. Just wow. We ran into the Rockford guy and his friends, Keith and I started to climb a steep hill, then backed out, but he went back and did it after all. I'm jealous, but happy for him. Photos and such for a few hours, then some of us caught the tram back, took photos of those who walked, and hit the shop. Got a postcard and a t-shirt. Then back onto our (un-air conditioned) bus with the annoying women from Yorkshire who renamed Keith and were drunk and infuriating. Well, they got quiter as the day wore on. Next was the Bushmills distillery, disappointing since we didn't get to do the tour, just take some photos and walk the gift shop. After a quick stop on the roadside to see a ruined castle, it was on to the Carrick-a-Rede rope bridge. A looong walk through fields along cliffs, then a fantastic rope bridge to a tall island where was sat and enjoyed it. A long hike back, then the bus headed back to Belfast.
We talked pizza or BBQ for dinner, got locations of two places from the hostel desk, but they were more upscale than we had in mind so we ate at a large pub-type restaurant. Our server updated us on the soccer match when she could. Had the rib appetizer and a side of chips - perfect. Next we walked towards Fibber Magees again, with a stop at Filthy McNasty's, a bar/club with music from the US and quotes from rock stars on the walls. Had a Newcastle, then on the Fibber's. Great night with many pints.
Sunday, Keith went off to find an ancestral house, and the rest of the group took a Black Taxi tour, seeing murals in Protestant and Catholic neighborhoods, seeing the Bobby Sands mural on the Sinn Fein HQ, and seeing the Peace Wall, where people leave messages. Our driver gave us marker pens, and we left our marks on the wall. Really cool stuff. My ATM card wouldn't work, so Sam loaned me £3 to take the tour (£10 each). Hany broke my umbrella, which has been the source of much amusement. Discovered the bus back to Dublin was cheaper and just as fast as the train, so we bought tickets and headed towards the train station to get food and intercept Keith. We stopped at St. George's Market to see the stalls, and decided to eat. Hany offered to take out money for me, to pay him back later so I could eat. We found an ATM after a bit of an adventure, and I had a crepe filled with mozzarella, roasted peppers and pesto, as well as some caribbean fried dough things to share. Pretty good, though the crepe was served in a paper cone and when I unwrapped it to use as a plate juice went down my leg. Ah well. Matt and Diana went to find Keith, but he already had his ticket so we caught the bus (empty enough to all have our own seats, plus air conditioning!), met Keith at the statue of O'Connell. Kelsie called, and we went to her place then to the pub by DCU for a pint. Hannah met us, we had a pint, then got food at nearby 'Aberdeen Chinese Takeaway.' Ate on the green, and headed for bed. Up next: This Week, Featuring Keith!
One Week Later
Well, the whole travel blog thing hasn't been as resounding a success as I had perhaps hoped, but I feel that I am not wholly to blame. We don't have internet access at home, and it took us until last Tuesday to get access at school, so it fell by the wayside in favor of hand-writing. However, I will now attempt to catch up a bit. The info below and to follow will be semi-condensed, but in a fun way, and chunked by where I was at the time.
Last week was a lot of settling in. I arrived Sunday on schedule and took a cab to my house. Suzanne (housemom) is very nice, a childminder who does laundry every day since she's home. That's good for me, since I only brought a week's worth of clothes. We can't shower in the morning or past 10pm, so basically we shower in the afternoon and use a lot of deodorant/body spray to make up the difference. Not the end of the world. Cereal, toast and juice for breakfast every day, and the dinners we've eaten at home have been good. We've eaten dinner downtown more often than I'd expected, since last week we had to go down basically every day for something or other for the program. Beds are comfy, we're both (Keith and I) mostly over our allergy/cold period, and it's only a 10 minute walk or so to campus. We come in early and sit on the internets for awhile every day.
Sunday we met for dinner at a pub, then had to find our way home with no map. We did so with a little help from a local who was very helpful.
Classes are odd, but good. We're basically in class for 2.5 hours every day, then usually something in the afternoon. Our first day, last Monday, was the Book of Kells and the Long Room at Trinity. It was cool, but we didn't get to see much of the book itself - they put out 2 pages every day along with other relevant documents. Most of the exhibit is about the process, history, and culture of the book. The Long Room is basically a library, century-old books on giant stacks. Long and nifty, no photos allowed at either unfortunately. I got a SIM card for my phone, and a few others have phones that work in one way or another so most of the pairs can keep in contact and plan, as well as call our professors if things go wrong, such as with our bus passes which were not bus passes. We got the passes the next day, but still a bit of a shock. Anyway, we (Keith, Kelsie, Hannah and I) walked to Stephens Green, shopped a bit, ate at home and went to Autobahn pub with Kelsie and Hannah.
Side note - for brevity, I will describe some people as part of specific roommate pairings; Kelsie and Hannah are 'the ladies,' Matt and Hany are 'the boys', Kris and Sam are 'the younguns', and . . . well, Diana and Winny will be described separately since we mostly encounter Diana. If pressed, I will call them 'the girls.'
Tuesday was a long one; caught the bus after lunch and walked to Henry Street, down Mary Street to the old Jameson Distillery (will take the tour in the near future), then to St. Patricks down a street we were advised to get off of by a concerned local, pointing us to a main road. St. Patricks was neat - Jonathan Swift's grave, a chair William of Orange sat in, etc. Walked past Christchurch and ate at a hipster type place, then on to the Literary Pub Crawl; began with a bit from Waiting for Godot. The actors were quite good, doing a few pieces and giving a lot of information on the pubs, the writers, etc. Pubs we visited were The Duke, O'Neills, The Stand, and David Byrnes'.
Wednesday we showered and napped after class, then went down to The Abbey Theatre to see the premier of a play, 'Bookworms.' Good show, front-row-center seats. The Youngun's weren't impressed, but they've apparently never been to an awkward dinner party. Thursday after calss we watched a film, 'When Brendan Met Trudy' - excellent movie, see it if you can. We ate, then took the bus to City Center and walked to the hostel where Dustin was staying. We headed out to find a pub, and ran into Dr.s Renk and Chown, who invited us to join them for dinner. They ate, we had some pints (Dustin had wine), then he walked with us to the Circle Theatre to see Tom Stoppard's 'Arcadia;' it was pretty good, but really long and hot. No automated message at the start, a guy in a tux came out and did the emergency exits/no smoking/ no photos thing. That was neat. By the end we were rushing to catch a bus back, since they stop running at like 11:30 (and aren't that reliable sometimes in general).
Friday was a private screening of two films at the Irish Film Institute, 'Hush A Bye Baby' and 'Nora;' both pretty good. Afterwards, seven of us rushed to catch a train to Belfast: Myself, Keith, Matt, Hany, Kris, Sam and Diana. Arrived just fine, got to our hostel and checked in without them discovering our group was technically over their limit of 6 by cleverly booking in two shifts online. Reminds me I still owe Matt for the room and train tickets. Kelsie and Hannah didn't come, in part because their hosts were having a party they were going to. Winny also didn't come, for her own reasons. Train was fine, rode backwards with nobody next to me so I had some room. Train was delayed by some signal issues, but since the sun is up until like 10pm here it didn't cause problems.
Last week was a lot of settling in. I arrived Sunday on schedule and took a cab to my house. Suzanne (housemom) is very nice, a childminder who does laundry every day since she's home. That's good for me, since I only brought a week's worth of clothes. We can't shower in the morning or past 10pm, so basically we shower in the afternoon and use a lot of deodorant/body spray to make up the difference. Not the end of the world. Cereal, toast and juice for breakfast every day, and the dinners we've eaten at home have been good. We've eaten dinner downtown more often than I'd expected, since last week we had to go down basically every day for something or other for the program. Beds are comfy, we're both (Keith and I) mostly over our allergy/cold period, and it's only a 10 minute walk or so to campus. We come in early and sit on the internets for awhile every day.
Sunday we met for dinner at a pub, then had to find our way home with no map. We did so with a little help from a local who was very helpful.
Classes are odd, but good. We're basically in class for 2.5 hours every day, then usually something in the afternoon. Our first day, last Monday, was the Book of Kells and the Long Room at Trinity. It was cool, but we didn't get to see much of the book itself - they put out 2 pages every day along with other relevant documents. Most of the exhibit is about the process, history, and culture of the book. The Long Room is basically a library, century-old books on giant stacks. Long and nifty, no photos allowed at either unfortunately. I got a SIM card for my phone, and a few others have phones that work in one way or another so most of the pairs can keep in contact and plan, as well as call our professors if things go wrong, such as with our bus passes which were not bus passes. We got the passes the next day, but still a bit of a shock. Anyway, we (Keith, Kelsie, Hannah and I) walked to Stephens Green, shopped a bit, ate at home and went to Autobahn pub with Kelsie and Hannah.
Side note - for brevity, I will describe some people as part of specific roommate pairings; Kelsie and Hannah are 'the ladies,' Matt and Hany are 'the boys', Kris and Sam are 'the younguns', and . . . well, Diana and Winny will be described separately since we mostly encounter Diana. If pressed, I will call them 'the girls.'
Tuesday was a long one; caught the bus after lunch and walked to Henry Street, down Mary Street to the old Jameson Distillery (will take the tour in the near future), then to St. Patricks down a street we were advised to get off of by a concerned local, pointing us to a main road. St. Patricks was neat - Jonathan Swift's grave, a chair William of Orange sat in, etc. Walked past Christchurch and ate at a hipster type place, then on to the Literary Pub Crawl; began with a bit from Waiting for Godot. The actors were quite good, doing a few pieces and giving a lot of information on the pubs, the writers, etc. Pubs we visited were The Duke, O'Neills, The Stand, and David Byrnes'.
Wednesday we showered and napped after class, then went down to The Abbey Theatre to see the premier of a play, 'Bookworms.' Good show, front-row-center seats. The Youngun's weren't impressed, but they've apparently never been to an awkward dinner party. Thursday after calss we watched a film, 'When Brendan Met Trudy' - excellent movie, see it if you can. We ate, then took the bus to City Center and walked to the hostel where Dustin was staying. We headed out to find a pub, and ran into Dr.s Renk and Chown, who invited us to join them for dinner. They ate, we had some pints (Dustin had wine), then he walked with us to the Circle Theatre to see Tom Stoppard's 'Arcadia;' it was pretty good, but really long and hot. No automated message at the start, a guy in a tux came out and did the emergency exits/no smoking/ no photos thing. That was neat. By the end we were rushing to catch a bus back, since they stop running at like 11:30 (and aren't that reliable sometimes in general).
Friday was a private screening of two films at the Irish Film Institute, 'Hush A Bye Baby' and 'Nora;' both pretty good. Afterwards, seven of us rushed to catch a train to Belfast: Myself, Keith, Matt, Hany, Kris, Sam and Diana. Arrived just fine, got to our hostel and checked in without them discovering our group was technically over their limit of 6 by cleverly booking in two shifts online. Reminds me I still owe Matt for the room and train tickets. Kelsie and Hannah didn't come, in part because their hosts were having a party they were going to. Winny also didn't come, for her own reasons. Train was fine, rode backwards with nobody next to me so I had some room. Train was delayed by some signal issues, but since the sun is up until like 10pm here it didn't cause problems.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Berlin Part 2
Walked to the TV tower, saw some churches, got photos of the East German street crossing light men (look it up). Left foot hurts like hell. Finished 'A Star Called Henry.' Check in should open soon. Blurgh.
Day 2
Well then. Apologies for any odd spellings or characters, I am using a freaky German keyboard.
So, day 2 in Amsterdam was pretty loaded. Granola and toast for Breakfast, showered and checked out, stored my suitcase in their lock-room and headed out. First stop: the Van Gogh museum. Very cool, and ate up like 3 hours. Good pieces, good displays, interesting anecdotes and themes noted throughout, as well as contemporary pieces for comparison and such.
Next, to the Heineken Experience! Seriously, if you,re in Amsterdam, do this. Good stuff at the original Heineken brewery, where they now do small batches for the tours )main brewery relocated). History and awards, take all the photos and video you want. Through the brewing room where you get to taste Wort )sweet, kinda gross, then past the horses and on to the "Brew You" video, which takes you through the whole beer brewing process on a shaking floor with water spray, heat lamps and bubbles to make it immersive. Very fun. After the video, a small beer is served by a brief guide who talks about various things like why they pour with a big head (keeps air out). Then a couch-lined room showing commercials and video from around the world and on to more information on the process, marketing and brand itself. Ends at a bar, where you get another free beer (our guide didn,t collect our tokens the first time, so we got 2).
Walked back for my suitcase, went to Centraal Station and put it in a locker, then walked to the Dam to see it, the royal palace and the national memorial. Then over to the Anne Frank house, which was neat and interesting but kind of underwhelming - not sure what I expected, but there you go. Still worth doing. Meandered back to the station, caught my train to Amstel Station to catch my bus (had some fries with mayo on the way).
Crazy guy at the bus station asked for change, I,d seen him in the train terminal talking loudly to himself (NOT an earpiece, I checked). He asked if I spoke English, and explained his dislike for all the "tourists" he had already asked who didn,t' then asked for change to call relatives since he lost all his Euros. I told him I had no change left, and he seemed fine with it. Then he looked in the general direction of a guy on a bench and seemed to have half of a conversation with . . . who can say. He later entered the bus station and ranted at a payphone, something about New York. Good times!
Bus. Oh cripes, what a bad idea. I sat next to a guy with smelly feet, but we got on well. I frankly don't smell like fresh cookies myself, so whatever. We chatted a bit about various laments, he was heading on to Poland from Berlin. My tailbone hurt for some reason so I couldnät recline comfortably, and couldn't sleep easily bolt upright, so basically I tried to doze in between long bouts of staring at darkness. Checked passports around midnight when we hit Germany, stopped for food and restroom around 2am, arrived in berlin a bit after 6am. I made my way to the hostel, which was incredibly easy from the bus depot, so that was a saving grace of that debacle. But I can't check in until 2pm - it#s 8:35am wight now. I'm going to rest up a bit, then I figure I might as well walk to the TV tower and see what's up. I wish I could get a shower first, though. Later, hoping to meet up with Rachel, sightseeing tomorrow starting with a walking tour that gets rave reviews, hook up with Olaf and go from there. I fly out Sunday for Dublin at long last (so ready).
Lesson learned: Traveling alone basically sucks. No one to talk to, lots of random seat partners, can't use the restroom because you can't leave your bag, and you watch all the myriad tourists with their friends or relations for company and get hella jealouis and lonely (jealonly?).
That said, I feel kind of like a badass for pulling this off so far. At this point, if I do nothing but sit in a hostel room until Sunday I can be proud that I did what I done.
So, day 2 in Amsterdam was pretty loaded. Granola and toast for Breakfast, showered and checked out, stored my suitcase in their lock-room and headed out. First stop: the Van Gogh museum. Very cool, and ate up like 3 hours. Good pieces, good displays, interesting anecdotes and themes noted throughout, as well as contemporary pieces for comparison and such.
Next, to the Heineken Experience! Seriously, if you,re in Amsterdam, do this. Good stuff at the original Heineken brewery, where they now do small batches for the tours )main brewery relocated). History and awards, take all the photos and video you want. Through the brewing room where you get to taste Wort )sweet, kinda gross, then past the horses and on to the "Brew You" video, which takes you through the whole beer brewing process on a shaking floor with water spray, heat lamps and bubbles to make it immersive. Very fun. After the video, a small beer is served by a brief guide who talks about various things like why they pour with a big head (keeps air out). Then a couch-lined room showing commercials and video from around the world and on to more information on the process, marketing and brand itself. Ends at a bar, where you get another free beer (our guide didn,t collect our tokens the first time, so we got 2).
Walked back for my suitcase, went to Centraal Station and put it in a locker, then walked to the Dam to see it, the royal palace and the national memorial. Then over to the Anne Frank house, which was neat and interesting but kind of underwhelming - not sure what I expected, but there you go. Still worth doing. Meandered back to the station, caught my train to Amstel Station to catch my bus (had some fries with mayo on the way).
Crazy guy at the bus station asked for change, I,d seen him in the train terminal talking loudly to himself (NOT an earpiece, I checked). He asked if I spoke English, and explained his dislike for all the "tourists" he had already asked who didn,t' then asked for change to call relatives since he lost all his Euros. I told him I had no change left, and he seemed fine with it. Then he looked in the general direction of a guy on a bench and seemed to have half of a conversation with . . . who can say. He later entered the bus station and ranted at a payphone, something about New York. Good times!
Bus. Oh cripes, what a bad idea. I sat next to a guy with smelly feet, but we got on well. I frankly don't smell like fresh cookies myself, so whatever. We chatted a bit about various laments, he was heading on to Poland from Berlin. My tailbone hurt for some reason so I couldnät recline comfortably, and couldn't sleep easily bolt upright, so basically I tried to doze in between long bouts of staring at darkness. Checked passports around midnight when we hit Germany, stopped for food and restroom around 2am, arrived in berlin a bit after 6am. I made my way to the hostel, which was incredibly easy from the bus depot, so that was a saving grace of that debacle. But I can't check in until 2pm - it#s 8:35am wight now. I'm going to rest up a bit, then I figure I might as well walk to the TV tower and see what's up. I wish I could get a shower first, though. Later, hoping to meet up with Rachel, sightseeing tomorrow starting with a walking tour that gets rave reviews, hook up with Olaf and go from there. I fly out Sunday for Dublin at long last (so ready).
Lesson learned: Traveling alone basically sucks. No one to talk to, lots of random seat partners, can't use the restroom because you can't leave your bag, and you watch all the myriad tourists with their friends or relations for company and get hella jealouis and lonely (jealonly?).
That said, I feel kind of like a badass for pulling this off so far. At this point, if I do nothing but sit in a hostel room until Sunday I can be proud that I did what I done.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Day 1-ish
Well, here I am in Amsterdam and utterly exhausted. So far, not exactly the banner trip I had been anticipating. Lets see . . .
Minor panic attacks and fury/regret (furgret?) prior to leaving, combined with not, as it turns out, knowing my HSBC pin number and thus leaving me in a precarious position. I can't get cash from my HSBC account without it, and that's the one I planned to use to fund this whole mess. A solution is in place but just one more damn frustration.
Moving on! The seat I chose on my transatlantic flight was not as good as I was led to believe. The bulkhead was close enough to make any gained legroom minimal, though I picked up the trick of wedging your legs against it in midair, so we'll see on the flight back. My seat wouldn't stay in the upright position even when I wanted it to, provoking chiding from flight attendants and grunts from the guy behind me. We could see the bastards in premium class with their reclinerbed chairs. The seats were laughably narrow - I'm not svelt, but this was ridiculous. The personal TV was pretty awesome; watched Shutter Island and Daybreakers, neither of which was as good as I'd hoped. Food was decent, the old guy next to me was pretty nice, but a woman right behind us passed out mid-flight and provoked some flurry of activity and concern. Also, smell of vomit for the rest of the flight - yay!
Thought I lost my watch in Dublin airport, but found it outside Amsterdam Centraal Station, so all good there. Didn't find a phone place, but no hurry on that.
Amsterdam, what little I've seen, is very "nifty." Lots of canals and bikes, people sort of faffing about and hippie-types. The process of getting to my hostel was a bit more complex than I had anticipated - train from airport to Centraal, tram to a certain stop, then a longer walk than expected. However, it was easy to find once I got my bearings, and is away from really crazy stuff. At this point I'm too exhausted to want to do anything - I'm really not sure what I'll even eat at this point. The Filmmuseum, which used to be like 5 blocks from here in a huge park, has moved just far enough that I'm no longer willing to make that a trip for today.
The hostel itself is pretty cool - if this were a bar, I would hang out at it. And it is a bar, though you have to be staying here to use it (and the wifi). My room has 6 beds, I have a lower bunk. Sink and mirror in the room, shower and WCs on each floor. My own locker, which is large enough to hold my entire suitcase (but isn't). I like this bar - sort of relaxed, good music, funky, a smoking room through a glass door (what a concept!), and the World Cup on TV. I think I'll be a lot happier with things once I get some sleep - right now I'm sort of generically hostile to the world, though a delicious beer called Dommelsch is helping. Drinking at 3 in the afternoon is nothing new, but it's like 8am at home sooooo . . .
Okay then. Tomorrow I will sightsee, then haul my way out to the bus station and head to Berlin on an overnight bus that was a much better idea a month ago!
Minor panic attacks and fury/regret (furgret?) prior to leaving, combined with not, as it turns out, knowing my HSBC pin number and thus leaving me in a precarious position. I can't get cash from my HSBC account without it, and that's the one I planned to use to fund this whole mess. A solution is in place but just one more damn frustration.
Moving on! The seat I chose on my transatlantic flight was not as good as I was led to believe. The bulkhead was close enough to make any gained legroom minimal, though I picked up the trick of wedging your legs against it in midair, so we'll see on the flight back. My seat wouldn't stay in the upright position even when I wanted it to, provoking chiding from flight attendants and grunts from the guy behind me. We could see the bastards in premium class with their reclinerbed chairs. The seats were laughably narrow - I'm not svelt, but this was ridiculous. The personal TV was pretty awesome; watched Shutter Island and Daybreakers, neither of which was as good as I'd hoped. Food was decent, the old guy next to me was pretty nice, but a woman right behind us passed out mid-flight and provoked some flurry of activity and concern. Also, smell of vomit for the rest of the flight - yay!
Thought I lost my watch in Dublin airport, but found it outside Amsterdam Centraal Station, so all good there. Didn't find a phone place, but no hurry on that.
Amsterdam, what little I've seen, is very "nifty." Lots of canals and bikes, people sort of faffing about and hippie-types. The process of getting to my hostel was a bit more complex than I had anticipated - train from airport to Centraal, tram to a certain stop, then a longer walk than expected. However, it was easy to find once I got my bearings, and is away from really crazy stuff. At this point I'm too exhausted to want to do anything - I'm really not sure what I'll even eat at this point. The Filmmuseum, which used to be like 5 blocks from here in a huge park, has moved just far enough that I'm no longer willing to make that a trip for today.
The hostel itself is pretty cool - if this were a bar, I would hang out at it. And it is a bar, though you have to be staying here to use it (and the wifi). My room has 6 beds, I have a lower bunk. Sink and mirror in the room, shower and WCs on each floor. My own locker, which is large enough to hold my entire suitcase (but isn't). I like this bar - sort of relaxed, good music, funky, a smoking room through a glass door (what a concept!), and the World Cup on TV. I think I'll be a lot happier with things once I get some sleep - right now I'm sort of generically hostile to the world, though a delicious beer called Dommelsch is helping. Drinking at 3 in the afternoon is nothing new, but it's like 8am at home sooooo . . .
Okay then. Tomorrow I will sightsee, then haul my way out to the bus station and head to Berlin on an overnight bus that was a much better idea a month ago!
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Friday, June 4, 2010
Summer 2010 Book List
And of course, it wouldn't be an English department trip without some books - IRISH BOOKS!
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Summer 2010 Film List
My program is "Media and Culture in Ireland," and as such we must watch films - FILMS ABOUT IRELAND!
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Doomed to Europe: My Summer 2010 Itinerary
Itinerary:
June 15-16 : Amsterdam, The Netherlands
June 17-19 : Berlin, Germany
June 20-July 17: Dublin, Ireland [Study Abroad Destination]
June 15-16 : Amsterdam, The Netherlands
June 17-19 : Berlin, Germany
June 20-July 17: Dublin, Ireland [Study Abroad Destination]
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Recommissioned/Repurposed
I hereby declare this Blog re-opened. I will be starting out by using it as part of my Study Abroad travels this summer, 2010. Hopefully, this will jump-start the process, and I will keep it up in the long term.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Cultural Journal 15 - Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes
The hardest question for me to answer after my time in Ireland is: how have I changed as a result of my trip? It’s a tough one because I truly don’t feel that I am fundamentally different from when I arrived. Having been abroad for several weeks before, culture shock wasn’t a huge issue for me, and Ireland was far more similar to the USA than several of the places I’ve been. I can’t really say that I have a ‘new appreciation for the world outside my own country,’ or that I had a Joycean epiphany about how closed-minded I was before I met another culture. I already loved other countries, and Ireland was as much a notch in my suitcase handle as a chance to finally see how non-Americans live. The food wasn’t crazy different from what I might eat at home, and being well over 21 drinking in public wasn’t anything new to me.
But I have changed; I know this, because I know that travel changes one in a million tiny ways. Talking to friends, I find myself saying “one time in Dublin,” or referencing in-jokes from the trip. I’ve got new friends, not just on facebook but in real life, and their presence in my life has changed me as well. I’ve noticed that I’m more aware of my actions at home; in part, this is due to a new living situation, but I’ve consistently found myself more concerned that I am acting in an acceptable manner, a holdover from living with an Irish family. I crave foods that I previously didn’t even think about; bangers & mash has topped my list of wish-I-was-eating-it-right-now foods. I watched a bartender poor a Guinness the other day, and I knew that he was doing it wrong; part of me wanted to offer him advice, but that’s not really how we do things here.
People ask me to see my photographs constantly, or pester me with questions about my trip, to the point that I occasionally get annoyed about the whole thing. I think this happens because I’ve already assimilated the experience. To me, it isn’t as big a deal anymore because I lived it. It’s inside me, a part of me. I think it’s hard for most people to say how travel has changed them, because the big changes only happen in books, movies, and propaganda materials (and perhaps Study Abroad promotional materials, if that’s different from propaganda). In truth, the changes that occur when we travel are too many and too subtle to be aware of most of the time. But I think that makes them more important – it’s the little changes that other cultures make in us that bring the world together.
But I have changed; I know this, because I know that travel changes one in a million tiny ways. Talking to friends, I find myself saying “one time in Dublin,” or referencing in-jokes from the trip. I’ve got new friends, not just on facebook but in real life, and their presence in my life has changed me as well. I’ve noticed that I’m more aware of my actions at home; in part, this is due to a new living situation, but I’ve consistently found myself more concerned that I am acting in an acceptable manner, a holdover from living with an Irish family. I crave foods that I previously didn’t even think about; bangers & mash has topped my list of wish-I-was-eating-it-right-now foods. I watched a bartender poor a Guinness the other day, and I knew that he was doing it wrong; part of me wanted to offer him advice, but that’s not really how we do things here.
People ask me to see my photographs constantly, or pester me with questions about my trip, to the point that I occasionally get annoyed about the whole thing. I think this happens because I’ve already assimilated the experience. To me, it isn’t as big a deal anymore because I lived it. It’s inside me, a part of me. I think it’s hard for most people to say how travel has changed them, because the big changes only happen in books, movies, and propaganda materials (and perhaps Study Abroad promotional materials, if that’s different from propaganda). In truth, the changes that occur when we travel are too many and too subtle to be aware of most of the time. But I think that makes them more important – it’s the little changes that other cultures make in us that bring the world together.
Cultural Journal 14 - Two Options For History
At historical sites like the Hill of Tara we would often have tour guides to show us around and explain things to us. Many times the guides would begin by telling the group that they were going to give us two different explanations: the historical/scientific, and the mythical; they would then suggest that we choose for ourselves which one we preferred. That threw me for a loop at first; I often found that, listening to our Irish guides, I wondered why they were bothering with academic information when there was such a wealth of interesting mythological information, and why, if they had accepted the scientific, they bothered to mention the mythical – that seems like a job for a pamphlet or visitors center. As a student, I guess I’ve gotten used to the idea of “the correct answer.” Even though I know that not every question has one, I do often conceptualize that there is an answer preferable or more correct than any others, and as a general rule I lean towards the non-mythical explanations; even as a Religious Studies major, I always sought a historical explanation for beliefs and creeds. It’s something I watch for in my students’ writing, but not something I ever thought to watch for in myself.
It took me some time to wrap my mind around it, but once I did I found it easy to just sort the bits I found most interesting and file them away for later. It’s hard to say why the park rangers all seem to take this tactic, but since so many of them do it I assume that it is systematic. I wonder if it is an expression of the importance the Irish place on their own history. The “navel gazing” we’ve talked about in class seems to find expression here, as our Irish guides offer us two explanations that should be treated as equally important: the scientific/historical explanation enhances our understanding of the natural world we live in, and the mythical explanation embodies the Irish history and culture. Culture is shaped by where a people live and the geographical and man-made features they encounter on a daily basis. If we emphasize the mythical side, we rob ourselves of scientific understanding of phenomena and history. If we only focus on the historical explanation, we miss out on the rich mythology of Ireland. It seems like the Irish have taken that fact to heart, and chosen to express both these perspectives in equal measure.
It took me some time to wrap my mind around it, but once I did I found it easy to just sort the bits I found most interesting and file them away for later. It’s hard to say why the park rangers all seem to take this tactic, but since so many of them do it I assume that it is systematic. I wonder if it is an expression of the importance the Irish place on their own history. The “navel gazing” we’ve talked about in class seems to find expression here, as our Irish guides offer us two explanations that should be treated as equally important: the scientific/historical explanation enhances our understanding of the natural world we live in, and the mythical explanation embodies the Irish history and culture. Culture is shaped by where a people live and the geographical and man-made features they encounter on a daily basis. If we emphasize the mythical side, we rob ourselves of scientific understanding of phenomena and history. If we only focus on the historical explanation, we miss out on the rich mythology of Ireland. It seems like the Irish have taken that fact to heart, and chosen to express both these perspectives in equal measure.
Cultural Journal 13 - To The Bus!
Riding the bus as a primary form of transport is not something I have done extensively. Growing up I never lived far enough from school to get bussed, and public transport in the suburbs has always been, while existent, far from convenient. I was pleased with how reliable and pleasant our regular bus journeys were, but we did have some interesting experiences riding them.
A particularly memorable one was a day I’m sure several have written about. We got on the bus at Kilmainham to head back to city center, and sat near a small group of people talking very loudly with gruff accents. A block or two into the ride, one of them leaned over and, slurring slightly, asked Keith if he would give a sip from his water bottle to her companion, who was pregnant. An odd request, but Keith (wisely) simply handed over the bottle and said she could have the rest of it. They expressed gratitude, and went back to talking. A few moments later, the smell of smoke reached us, tinged with a sweetness that I couldn’t place at first. In discussing it later, Keith suggested that it was probably meth, and after consulting some friends from downstate I think he may have been right. It was odd to think about drug problems in other countries, especially meth which I associate with smaller, more remote communities in Illinois (though it has made its way into the Chicago area). The stereotype of Irish addiction is the alcoholic, but I had somehow forgotten the fact that despite its openness and friendliness, Dublin is still a true city and has all the problems that come along with that.
Another, less intrusive experience I had was riding on a bus with a gaggle of young teenage girls at the back. Their conversation was boisterous, and ranged from singing to argument. Then two of them began to get into an argument (friendly, but an argument nevertheless) and one of the two began swearing rather freely. Her friends kept shushing her, she refused to listen; when they told her that everyone could hear her, she replied that everyone could hear them, and kept right at it. Some of my fellow passengers looked put out by this, but I actually enjoyed it. It reinforced the similarities between cultures for me – I remember talking just like that when I was around that age, with all the same arguments and laughing that went with it. It was nice to find a commonality with a segment of the population I hadn’t had much exposure to, apart from the horde of youngsters wandering DCU in their pajamas and what I can only describe as costumes. I’m still not sure what was going on there.
A particularly memorable one was a day I’m sure several have written about. We got on the bus at Kilmainham to head back to city center, and sat near a small group of people talking very loudly with gruff accents. A block or two into the ride, one of them leaned over and, slurring slightly, asked Keith if he would give a sip from his water bottle to her companion, who was pregnant. An odd request, but Keith (wisely) simply handed over the bottle and said she could have the rest of it. They expressed gratitude, and went back to talking. A few moments later, the smell of smoke reached us, tinged with a sweetness that I couldn’t place at first. In discussing it later, Keith suggested that it was probably meth, and after consulting some friends from downstate I think he may have been right. It was odd to think about drug problems in other countries, especially meth which I associate with smaller, more remote communities in Illinois (though it has made its way into the Chicago area). The stereotype of Irish addiction is the alcoholic, but I had somehow forgotten the fact that despite its openness and friendliness, Dublin is still a true city and has all the problems that come along with that.
Another, less intrusive experience I had was riding on a bus with a gaggle of young teenage girls at the back. Their conversation was boisterous, and ranged from singing to argument. Then two of them began to get into an argument (friendly, but an argument nevertheless) and one of the two began swearing rather freely. Her friends kept shushing her, she refused to listen; when they told her that everyone could hear her, she replied that everyone could hear them, and kept right at it. Some of my fellow passengers looked put out by this, but I actually enjoyed it. It reinforced the similarities between cultures for me – I remember talking just like that when I was around that age, with all the same arguments and laughing that went with it. It was nice to find a commonality with a segment of the population I hadn’t had much exposure to, apart from the horde of youngsters wandering DCU in their pajamas and what I can only describe as costumes. I’m still not sure what was going on there.
Cultural Journal 12 - Idioms
The Irish have a number of idioms and turns of phrase that I find fascinating. Our house mother has two that I’ve grown quite fond of: “Grand” and “Happy Days”. “Grand” she uses as a synonym for good or well, as in “I’m grand” when we ask how she is, “you’re grand” when we express concern that we were doing something right or wrong (but were in fact right), and just “grand” as a response to things we tell her that she approved of. “Happy Days” is a more general expression that she is pleased. One time in particular we had come home after class and told her we were going to city center for dinner, and apologized for not knowing sooner. She replied that as far as she was concerned, if she didn’t have to cook “its happy days.” I’m not sure why, but that expression really sticks with me.
One that I love is appending, “self” to words (e.g. himself, herself, yourself) used as a direct reference. I don’t hear this one spoken quite as often as I read it; in A Star Called Henry Missis Drake says to Melody “Good girl yourself” after she climbs onto the newspaper-strewn bed (24). A bus driver says to Henry “How’s yourself?” in greeting and “Good man yourself” in response to Henry’s escape from Kilmainham (343). Reading this I was reminded of a coffee mug my father had when I was young that said “‘Tis Himself” on it. I always liked the expression, but had never thought of using it the way it seems to be used here.
“Allright?” is one that took me some time to get the hang of. Our house mother’s sons use this frequently, and at first I would answer (“Good, you?” or similar). But I noticed on a few occasions when I didn’t directly respond this way, the following question was usually something along the lines of “how are you?” I came to realize that “Allright” is more of a greeting, that it has essentially lost its original meaning as an inquiry into my current state and become and equivalent of “Hello.” The next time one of the boys said ‘Allright,’ I said “Allright, how are you?” and conversation proceeded normally from there. It was a great moment where I felt I had unraveled a small mystery about Irish communication – I felt like a resident, or at least a visitor, rather than just a tourist.
One that I love is appending, “self” to words (e.g. himself, herself, yourself) used as a direct reference. I don’t hear this one spoken quite as often as I read it; in A Star Called Henry Missis Drake says to Melody “Good girl yourself” after she climbs onto the newspaper-strewn bed (24). A bus driver says to Henry “How’s yourself?” in greeting and “Good man yourself” in response to Henry’s escape from Kilmainham (343). Reading this I was reminded of a coffee mug my father had when I was young that said “‘Tis Himself” on it. I always liked the expression, but had never thought of using it the way it seems to be used here.
“Allright?” is one that took me some time to get the hang of. Our house mother’s sons use this frequently, and at first I would answer (“Good, you?” or similar). But I noticed on a few occasions when I didn’t directly respond this way, the following question was usually something along the lines of “how are you?” I came to realize that “Allright” is more of a greeting, that it has essentially lost its original meaning as an inquiry into my current state and become and equivalent of “Hello.” The next time one of the boys said ‘Allright,’ I said “Allright, how are you?” and conversation proceeded normally from there. It was a great moment where I felt I had unraveled a small mystery about Irish communication – I felt like a resident, or at least a visitor, rather than just a tourist.
Cultural Journal 11 - P-P-P-Powerscourt
Powerscourt is pretty ridiculous; I’ve stayed in hotels with fewer amenities and golf courses with less landscaping. I have a hard time imagining what it would have been like to live there in its heyday. I can only imagine that these were people who didn’t have to worry or even think about money for the most part – I’m sure it was always in there somewhere, but that kind of opulence and gigantism could only have been the result of people with SERIOUS money. The inside of the house was apparently gutted by a fire in the 70’s, but given the size (large enough to accommodate shops, two food halls and a freaking escalator) I picture large rooms filled with fine art and furniture, richly appointed bedrooms for the family members, and a warren of back halls and preparation rooms for servants (who apparently had to use a hidden walkway to remain unseen approaching the house). The residents had Italian gardens, a private lake, Japanese gardens, several fountains, and who knows what kind of wine cellar. The people in a place like that seem almost alien in my mind, utterly unconnected to anything I have experienced or can understand.
However, I think that I can connect with the Irish population who had to look at Powerscourt (and places like it). I’m pretty far removed from a poor rural farmer in Ireland, but even I feel a twinge of anger at this kind of opulence. While people scratched out a living in fields, the people who lived in this grand house were (I assume) more or less idle, concerned with grand events and social calendars, not only naming their pets (including some livestock) but burying them in a dedicated cemetery on the grounds with a better view than most people get while alive. A private waterfall and deer park for the lord of the manor while subsistence farmers eat almost the same thing day in and day out seems pretty crappy. Knowing that English lords in Ireland did nothing to help the starving Irish during the potato famine goes from sad to criminal when faced with the kind of homes the bastards lived in. It might be unfair to the family, for all I know they were an exception, but I find it unlikely in light of the extreme fussiness and expense that has gone into Powerscourt estate.
However, I think that I can connect with the Irish population who had to look at Powerscourt (and places like it). I’m pretty far removed from a poor rural farmer in Ireland, but even I feel a twinge of anger at this kind of opulence. While people scratched out a living in fields, the people who lived in this grand house were (I assume) more or less idle, concerned with grand events and social calendars, not only naming their pets (including some livestock) but burying them in a dedicated cemetery on the grounds with a better view than most people get while alive. A private waterfall and deer park for the lord of the manor while subsistence farmers eat almost the same thing day in and day out seems pretty crappy. Knowing that English lords in Ireland did nothing to help the starving Irish during the potato famine goes from sad to criminal when faced with the kind of homes the bastards lived in. It might be unfair to the family, for all I know they were an exception, but I find it unlikely in light of the extreme fussiness and expense that has gone into Powerscourt estate.
Cultural Journal 10 - Bubble Bubble, Toil And . . .
When Dr. Chown told us that we should go to Belfast our first weekend because of marching season, it seemed like good advice, but perhaps a bit overwrought. Although we’d learned something about the Troubles, and gotten a crash course from Dr. Chown as he was suggesting this to us, I knew that the peace process had been going on for decades, and figured that there might be some bad sentiment, but that things couldn’t still be all that bad. After all, some preliminary research I’d done made clear that things had improved, that Orange Order marches had been less intrusive on Catholic neighborhoods, and in general the Marching Season had become a far tamer affair. Although we took Dr. Chown’s advice, I felt at the time that it was overkill.
Good grief was I wrong. The violence during Marching Season this year was staggering, with news reports of casualties and daily footage of the violence. It was shocking to see an individual on tape throwing Molotov cocktails at a line of police trucks and realize that not only was it happening on the same landmass I was on, it was happening in a place I myself had visited not two weeks previously. Shocked as I was, I’ll admit that I half expected the people of the Republic of Ireland to be supportive of the spirit, if not the violence, of the reaction to marching season, but when Keith and I spoke to our house mother about it she quickly condemned the whole affair. Having a son in the Garda, I’m sure she’s generally against any kind of violence towards the police, but her reaction made it clear that she wanted nothing to do with what was happening up there. As more news reached us of the violence, we heard reporters claiming that the violence was no longer about marching season, but instead anger about economic and social issues finding a convenient excuse to be vented. It took me awhile to wrap my head around the idea that this kind of violence in Northern Ireland might not actually be about religious or governmental loyalties, but that these loyalties were being used as a starting point for larger issues that might damn well cross those lines. Looking back on a time when I thought that I supported the struggle of the IRA in Northern Ireland for “freedom”, it makes me feel kind of dumb for thinking anything was ever that simple, and for sometimes falling into that same trap.
Good grief was I wrong. The violence during Marching Season this year was staggering, with news reports of casualties and daily footage of the violence. It was shocking to see an individual on tape throwing Molotov cocktails at a line of police trucks and realize that not only was it happening on the same landmass I was on, it was happening in a place I myself had visited not two weeks previously. Shocked as I was, I’ll admit that I half expected the people of the Republic of Ireland to be supportive of the spirit, if not the violence, of the reaction to marching season, but when Keith and I spoke to our house mother about it she quickly condemned the whole affair. Having a son in the Garda, I’m sure she’s generally against any kind of violence towards the police, but her reaction made it clear that she wanted nothing to do with what was happening up there. As more news reached us of the violence, we heard reporters claiming that the violence was no longer about marching season, but instead anger about economic and social issues finding a convenient excuse to be vented. It took me awhile to wrap my head around the idea that this kind of violence in Northern Ireland might not actually be about religious or governmental loyalties, but that these loyalties were being used as a starting point for larger issues that might damn well cross those lines. Looking back on a time when I thought that I supported the struggle of the IRA in Northern Ireland for “freedom”, it makes me feel kind of dumb for thinking anything was ever that simple, and for sometimes falling into that same trap.
Cultural Journal 9 - Begging
When I was in Italy, I got used to being hassled by beggars. Whether they were asking for a handout or trying to earn it via entertainment or trickery, in general they were pushy, loud and sometimes outright hostile. Even those offering some kind of performance were bothersome, from the big-eyed accordion-wielding child on a train to the would-be street magicians vying for my attention (or distraction). Even in the USA, I’ve been badgered by people in the street looking for money, and frequently endured yelling and even veiled threats if I don’t cough up the goods. In Berlin just before arriving in Ireland, I witnessed at several prominent tourist sites women in headscarves asking if people spoke English or German, and then conferring with those who said yes, showing them a paper or photograph, and generally walking away with some pocket change. Given the economic trouble in Ireland presently, and after reading that the “traveller” culture has a reputation for being a nuisance, I honestly expected to have a similar experience in Ireland.
I was surprised to find that even the major tourist sites that we visited seem utterly devoid of any begging at all. At first I assumed that Garda or site employees shag them away, but the sites were also pretty devoid of those authority figures, at least on the outside, and the approaches to them were similarly empty, unlike the Vatican where I passed block after block of beggars before I even reached the gates, and they seemed unmolested by police. I think instead that it is a difference of attitude. Those panhandlers that I did see in Dublin (and there were a number of them, along streets and on bridges) tend to sit or kneel with their eyes downcast and a hat or box in front of them; they carry no signs and shout no slogans or claims, simply waiting and seeming to imply their need in an almost apologetic way. Rather than expecting aid, they seem embarrassed by having to ask, and only once did I catch a muttered comment when I didn’t drop money in the cup. I wonder if it’s an after-effect of colonialism, that the entire population of the Republic wants very much to be independent and productive, to show not only their nation but their people can survive without outside interference. If this is the case, it could explain the deferential attitude of panhandlers that I saw, as they are forced into a position of needing the kind of outside aid they so desperately want to be free of.
I was surprised to find that even the major tourist sites that we visited seem utterly devoid of any begging at all. At first I assumed that Garda or site employees shag them away, but the sites were also pretty devoid of those authority figures, at least on the outside, and the approaches to them were similarly empty, unlike the Vatican where I passed block after block of beggars before I even reached the gates, and they seemed unmolested by police. I think instead that it is a difference of attitude. Those panhandlers that I did see in Dublin (and there were a number of them, along streets and on bridges) tend to sit or kneel with their eyes downcast and a hat or box in front of them; they carry no signs and shout no slogans or claims, simply waiting and seeming to imply their need in an almost apologetic way. Rather than expecting aid, they seem embarrassed by having to ask, and only once did I catch a muttered comment when I didn’t drop money in the cup. I wonder if it’s an after-effect of colonialism, that the entire population of the Republic wants very much to be independent and productive, to show not only their nation but their people can survive without outside interference. If this is the case, it could explain the deferential attitude of panhandlers that I saw, as they are forced into a position of needing the kind of outside aid they so desperately want to be free of.
Cultural Journal 8 - Common Sense
I’ve been amazed by how many sites I have visited in Ireland lack extensive warning signs and guard rails. At Kilmainhem Gaol, we could (with rare exception) walk up to, into, and touch the cells where prisoners famous and mundane were once kept. We could reach out and touch, or even hug, the standing stone on the Hill of Tara, the Celtic crosses at Kells, and much of the artwork in St. Patricks. Most staggeringly, at Dun Aengus on the Aran Islands, we were able to walk right up to the edge of a 300 foot sheer cliff, leaning out to take pictures and tempt fate on the damp stones. A few scattered signs warned of the risk of climbing on the monument, a park ranger or two was present, and I assume there must have been a high wind warning sign somewhere, but by and large the site was all but unguarded as tourists of all ages hiked, ran, and gaped at the sea far below.
It’s unreal to me that this is possible – in the USA, if you look at a cliff funny, someone screams that a warning sign, fence, patrol and video surveillance system should be installed, and a waiver signed before getting within a mile of the place. Massive stone crosses would be covered in protective chicken wire, or fenced off completely with a replica installed nearby to get the full postmodern experience. As an American, I can’t help but wonder at the risk the government is taking, not only the risk to the bodies of the citizens, but the financial risk of the lawsuit that would inevitably result if someone fell off the cliff.
But maybe it isn’t so inevitable here. I’ve already noticed a more relaxed attitude towards children; maybe that extends to a relaxed attitude towards others, in the sense that common sense is still acknowledged and believed in here. A quick Google search turned up no mention of deaths at Dun Aengus, so I can’t do a statistical analysis to back this up, but the Irish seem to be a very practical and self-sufficient people; I can easily see them shrugging their collective shoulders and acknowledging that any such death was a shame, but that it could have been avoided far more effectively and aesthetically with a dose of common sense and careful footing than it ever could have been with a fence and a guard.
It’s unreal to me that this is possible – in the USA, if you look at a cliff funny, someone screams that a warning sign, fence, patrol and video surveillance system should be installed, and a waiver signed before getting within a mile of the place. Massive stone crosses would be covered in protective chicken wire, or fenced off completely with a replica installed nearby to get the full postmodern experience. As an American, I can’t help but wonder at the risk the government is taking, not only the risk to the bodies of the citizens, but the financial risk of the lawsuit that would inevitably result if someone fell off the cliff.
But maybe it isn’t so inevitable here. I’ve already noticed a more relaxed attitude towards children; maybe that extends to a relaxed attitude towards others, in the sense that common sense is still acknowledged and believed in here. A quick Google search turned up no mention of deaths at Dun Aengus, so I can’t do a statistical analysis to back this up, but the Irish seem to be a very practical and self-sufficient people; I can easily see them shrugging their collective shoulders and acknowledging that any such death was a shame, but that it could have been avoided far more effectively and aesthetically with a dose of common sense and careful footing than it ever could have been with a fence and a guard.
Cultural Journal 7 - Buskers
Walking through the pedestrian shopping areas of Dublin we passed uncounted buskers and performers, playing instruments and doing magic or similar tricks, all with some sort of receptacle for the generosity of passersby. But most of them seemed content to perform even if no-one was opening their pockets, and when money did come they were quick to thank, smile or at least nod in gratitude, depending on what they were doing. Several times we would be sitting in a pub and a group of musicians would come in, set up quietly in a corner or at a table, and just start playing without any attempt to get money or even sell CDs. In Galway, after taking photos of Diana with a man dressed and mugging as the devil, I was digging for change and having trouble finding any. He smiled and said it was no problem if I didn’t have any, which had the effect of making me want to give him more when I did find my change. I have a hard time picturing a Chicago devil being so relaxed after posing with a tourist.
I think there are two forces working here, the first being the general friendliness of Irish people. After meeting so many of them in so many situations, I find it shocking if they aren’t friendly, or at least civil. The second force is the performance-heavy culture of Ireland. When that devil puts on his makeup and drags his podium out to the street, he’s certainly hoping to make some money, but he’s also putting on a show, and I think that part is equally important to him, if not more so. I saw another busker who had put together a sort of robot statue costume, complete with a massive throne covered in interactive and playful props, like an octopus made from an old umbrella, which he (or she) would activate and manipulate for children. That kind of energy and effort speaks more of a performer hoping to be recognized than a beggar performing for money. A living statue I saw pulled none of the usual tricks, stealing hats or moving surreptitiously. He simply stood, stock still – showing off his skill and hoping for a crowd to gather and watch. If they reward him, it’s a sign of a job well done. Just as actors in a play don’t accost the audience for not applauding loud enough, I got the sense that Irish buskers simply take it in stride if the audience is feeling closed-pocketed.
I think there are two forces working here, the first being the general friendliness of Irish people. After meeting so many of them in so many situations, I find it shocking if they aren’t friendly, or at least civil. The second force is the performance-heavy culture of Ireland. When that devil puts on his makeup and drags his podium out to the street, he’s certainly hoping to make some money, but he’s also putting on a show, and I think that part is equally important to him, if not more so. I saw another busker who had put together a sort of robot statue costume, complete with a massive throne covered in interactive and playful props, like an octopus made from an old umbrella, which he (or she) would activate and manipulate for children. That kind of energy and effort speaks more of a performer hoping to be recognized than a beggar performing for money. A living statue I saw pulled none of the usual tricks, stealing hats or moving surreptitiously. He simply stood, stock still – showing off his skill and hoping for a crowd to gather and watch. If they reward him, it’s a sign of a job well done. Just as actors in a play don’t accost the audience for not applauding loud enough, I got the sense that Irish buskers simply take it in stride if the audience is feeling closed-pocketed.
Cultural Journal 6 - Accessability
The Giant’s Causeway was an amazing site to visit, and I am thoroughly please that I was able to do so. But one thing that troubled me here was the lack of handicap access to the site. It’s something I noticed more than once in Ireland, visiting historic and cultural sites in relatively remote areas; often I would see a sign noting that the area was not accessible. I can see both sides of this issue, and wish that I had been able to get a solid answer as to why accessibility wasn’t present (the answer I got was, essentially, that it would mar the site).
On the one hand, putting in accessibility for wheelchairs (to take the obvious example) would irrevocably alter a landscape that the Irish government has clearly taken great pains to preserve. In order for someone with limited mobility to visit the causeway itself, they would first have to be transported down to the base of the cliffs. This could be accomplished using the trams (in modified form) that already exist to carry visitors from the top to the bottom. Next, they would have to make it across the landscape to the pillars, requiring the installation of some kind of walkway which was not only wide enough to permit simultaneous entrance and egress, but gentle enough of a slope to make it useable. Any such structure would need to be anchored, requiring holes to be bored in the pillars themselves, or at the very least heavy and wide struts to be installed. It would also need to be weatherproof, and given the ocean exposure of the site this would be no mean feat. Many tourists would likely make use of the ramp even if they are perfectly capable of traversing the landscape, putting extra wear on the structure. This would be an expensive endeavor.
But on the other hand, it’s a shame that people with limited mobility are effectively barred from the site, unless they can be helped or even carried by others. The Causeway is such an amazing place that it is a damn shame that some are denied viewing it, and there is a large part of me that feels like it would be worth the expense and relatively slight alteration of the site to enable them to reach it. I suppose that’s the American in me (heaven forbid!) crying out that everyone should have equal access at almost any cost, but I think it’s a valid perspective. Of course, I’m not Irish, and I don’t know the internal decisions and struggles that have surely arisen form this very issue, but my instinct tells me that where there’s a will there’s a way, and that the heritage trust (who I believe oversees all sites in both Northern Ireland and the Republic) would be doing a wonderful thing to find a way to make this and other sites accessible.
On the one hand, putting in accessibility for wheelchairs (to take the obvious example) would irrevocably alter a landscape that the Irish government has clearly taken great pains to preserve. In order for someone with limited mobility to visit the causeway itself, they would first have to be transported down to the base of the cliffs. This could be accomplished using the trams (in modified form) that already exist to carry visitors from the top to the bottom. Next, they would have to make it across the landscape to the pillars, requiring the installation of some kind of walkway which was not only wide enough to permit simultaneous entrance and egress, but gentle enough of a slope to make it useable. Any such structure would need to be anchored, requiring holes to be bored in the pillars themselves, or at the very least heavy and wide struts to be installed. It would also need to be weatherproof, and given the ocean exposure of the site this would be no mean feat. Many tourists would likely make use of the ramp even if they are perfectly capable of traversing the landscape, putting extra wear on the structure. This would be an expensive endeavor.
But on the other hand, it’s a shame that people with limited mobility are effectively barred from the site, unless they can be helped or even carried by others. The Causeway is such an amazing place that it is a damn shame that some are denied viewing it, and there is a large part of me that feels like it would be worth the expense and relatively slight alteration of the site to enable them to reach it. I suppose that’s the American in me (heaven forbid!) crying out that everyone should have equal access at almost any cost, but I think it’s a valid perspective. Of course, I’m not Irish, and I don’t know the internal decisions and struggles that have surely arisen form this very issue, but my instinct tells me that where there’s a will there’s a way, and that the heritage trust (who I believe oversees all sites in both Northern Ireland and the Republic) would be doing a wonderful thing to find a way to make this and other sites accessible.
Cultural Journal 5 - Green!
Why is it that people in Ireland seem to be so much more concerned about conservation and the environment than in the USA? I’ve stayed in hostels that have push-button showers, requiring you to keep hitting the button to keep water flowing, and the shower in our home has its own pump and heater to keep water consumption regulated. Many of the toilets I’ve encountered have two flush buttons – one gives a little water, the other a lot, depending on what exactly you are trying to get rid of. The streets are lined with metal rubbish bins, many with a receptacle of some kind built in for cigarette butts (ostensibly to prevent fires). I’ve seen more motion/occupancy sensors on lights here than I tend to see in the US. Servings are smaller, packaging is more compact, and many stores charge a small fee for a plastic bag (the National Trust does the same thing, at least at the Giant’s Causeway). Most tellingly is how CLEAN it tends to be – the streets, although not devoid of litter, seem far cleaner than in Chicago or DeKalb.
I suppose one explanation could be that Ireland is an island, albeit a big one. Completely surrounded by water, any resources that are unavailable or exhausted here must be brought in by boat or plane, a relatively costly method (in the case of drinking water, costly desalinization would be even more vital if fresh water sources were tainted or destroyed). So it would be in their best interests to place minimal demands on their resources, natural or otherwise, in order to reduce their dependence on importation, and thus their dependence on petroleum, international trade, etc. Added to this is the fact that Ireland is part of Europe, which has been heavily settled for a far longer time than North America. The resources that exist here have been relied on for centuries or even millennia and have on occasion vanished, which might spur a more conservational mindset. In Ireland specifically, it might also be a result of their past as a colonized and exploited nation. Britain harvested wood and other resources for export back home and for centuries, before relinquishing control. This might have ingrained in the Irish people a sense of real ownership of and responsibility for their natural resources, a desire to preserve them for their own present and future use rather than stripping the land of its riches at the British once did.
I suppose one explanation could be that Ireland is an island, albeit a big one. Completely surrounded by water, any resources that are unavailable or exhausted here must be brought in by boat or plane, a relatively costly method (in the case of drinking water, costly desalinization would be even more vital if fresh water sources were tainted or destroyed). So it would be in their best interests to place minimal demands on their resources, natural or otherwise, in order to reduce their dependence on importation, and thus their dependence on petroleum, international trade, etc. Added to this is the fact that Ireland is part of Europe, which has been heavily settled for a far longer time than North America. The resources that exist here have been relied on for centuries or even millennia and have on occasion vanished, which might spur a more conservational mindset. In Ireland specifically, it might also be a result of their past as a colonized and exploited nation. Britain harvested wood and other resources for export back home and for centuries, before relinquishing control. This might have ingrained in the Irish people a sense of real ownership of and responsibility for their natural resources, a desire to preserve them for their own present and future use rather than stripping the land of its riches at the British once did.
Cultural Journal 4 - Caring About Football (Soccer)
I don’t watch sports at home; professional sports weren’t part of my upbringing, so they aren’t part of my life the way they are for some of my friends and relatives. But something about the sports culture here appeals to me. I found myself in Cork on Friday night, hanging on every moment of the end of the match, which had gone to a shootout. I cheered when Ghana made a shot, groaned when Paraguy made one, lamented when Ghana’s players decided to aim for the goalie and gnashed my teeth as Ghana’s goalie consistently dove AWAY from incoming balls. I complained for hours, even arguing with a classmate on the subject. This was a sport and a team I hadn’t given two thoughts to a month ago, yet suddenly I felt like I had a personal investment riding on them. The next day, I cried out in joy as Germany scored early in the game, pumped my fist when I heard they had won 4-0, and sat with a good view of the TV for the match later that night.
What is it about the soccer culture that draws me in? For one thing, 90 minutes is about as long as I’m willing to watch anything on TV. More interestingly, I’ve noticed that although you can easily identify which team various groups in pubs are rooting for, there is tremendous excitement whenever a goal is scored. There’s no heckling or booing, just enjoyment of the game. When I have been in a bar at home during a game, my experience has been that people get really aggressive about supporting their team and denigrating the other. This extends to derision of that teams fans, and in the case of Chicago Sox fans it seems inevitable that Cubs fans will be dragged through the mud, whether their team is playing or not. Sports in America have always seemed like a divisive force to me, pitting city against city in a race to the top slot. Soccer in Europe has that in the form of clubs, but the World Cup gives every country a chance to band together behind a national team, competing against other nations for genuine world dominance of a sport. American athletes remain, for the most part, isolated and insular – the best football team in America has never had to travel to France to prove their dominance in the sport, and the World Series is the worst-named competition in the country. I guess a big part of what I like about soccer over here is that come World Cup time, differences are put aside as a nation backs its team, and if that team is eliminated, everyone picks a new team, or two, or three to support for as long as they last.
What is it about the soccer culture that draws me in? For one thing, 90 minutes is about as long as I’m willing to watch anything on TV. More interestingly, I’ve noticed that although you can easily identify which team various groups in pubs are rooting for, there is tremendous excitement whenever a goal is scored. There’s no heckling or booing, just enjoyment of the game. When I have been in a bar at home during a game, my experience has been that people get really aggressive about supporting their team and denigrating the other. This extends to derision of that teams fans, and in the case of Chicago Sox fans it seems inevitable that Cubs fans will be dragged through the mud, whether their team is playing or not. Sports in America have always seemed like a divisive force to me, pitting city against city in a race to the top slot. Soccer in Europe has that in the form of clubs, but the World Cup gives every country a chance to band together behind a national team, competing against other nations for genuine world dominance of a sport. American athletes remain, for the most part, isolated and insular – the best football team in America has never had to travel to France to prove their dominance in the sport, and the World Series is the worst-named competition in the country. I guess a big part of what I like about soccer over here is that come World Cup time, differences are put aside as a nation backs its team, and if that team is eliminated, everyone picks a new team, or two, or three to support for as long as they last.
Cultural Journal 3 - Beer Beer Beer, Tiddly Beer Beer Beer
When I told people I was going to Ireland, some of the most common responses were suggestions on what, and how much of it, I should drink. After all, Americans love St. Patricks Day, when “everyone is Irish” (and thus drinks a lot, apparently). In my mind, I suppose I had visions of wild nights, crazy partying, and raucous singing in every pub on every night. This has, quite reasonably, not turned out to be the case. In fact, I was shocked by a number of elements of drinking culture here, beginning with the fact that a pint is so expensive – generally around €5 (over $6) for a Guinness. Even during the Celtic Tiger, I suspect that most people would be hard pressed to drink more than 2-3 on a given night. The size of a pint slows one down a bit versus a 12oz bottle, but it is still easy to find yourself ploughing through money in a hurry on drinks. My second surprise was how early things seem to wind down around Ireland. In Dublin, the buses stop running around 23:30, so anyone out drinking who doesn’t live in walking distance of city centre has to either leave before then, be okay to drive, or catch a cab, a far more expensive prospect (even worse combined with the expense of drinking in the first place). Of course, people still do it, but we tend to think of Ireland as a land of pubs crammed with revellers until the wee hours, pounding back pint after pint. The reality doesn’t match up; while a Super Bowl in the states might see individuals putting away a 6- or 12-pack of beer all to themselves, watching the final games of the world cup in pubs here consisted of 1-2 pints for the viewers, a far cry from what is expected. It’s been an adjustement for me –as a night person, I’m used to being out at odd hours, getting a beer at midnight, a burger at 1am or breakfast at 3. I’d half expected to be at Temple Bar with my classmates three nights a week, stumbling home at 2am and dragging my carcass to class in the mornings, but instead I often find myself comfortably home at 10pm, waiting for the sun to set so I can go to sleep. Not what I expected, but frankly I think we’re all better off.
Cultural Journal 2 - Helpfulness
We’d been told before going to Belfast that people in Northern Ireland were even more friendly than their Republican counterparts. We saw this a few times during our stay, but nowhere more so than the “ATM Incident.”
Haney and I were in search of a cash machine so that we could get some lunch before our bus back to Dublin. We asked at a stall near the entrance to the market, and were told by the woman that she didn’t know the area well enough. We left the market and walked up one block, asked at a pub and were told there was one the other way, on the other side of the market block. We walked to that block and saw nothing, so we asked at another pub and were told it was further up. Finding nothing, we asked at Subway and were told there weren’t any in that area, and would have to walk back closer to City Center to find any. We did eventually find one in a SPAR store, but stumbling across it we had a surprising experience.
We saw a woman and her daughter (I assume) leave the market and walk towards us. As they passed, Hany asked if she knew where we could find a cash station. She stopped to think, then said that she didn’t know much about that area; the only one she knew of was towards her home, and further than she thought was worth walking. She then asked us if we would like a ride to the ATM and back, as her car was just up the road. She offered a ride to two complete strangers with luggage, both male foreigners, and she with her daughter and shopping in hand. I was blown away. We turned her down, and her daughter suggested the train station might have one, and we parted ways, but the incident stuck with me. I can’t even conceive of offering a ride in that situation, and I’m a pretty nice guy. The idea that an average American asked the same question would make that kind of an offer is pretty much laughable – it would be a huge drain on our time and, in our minds, outright dangerous. This wasn’t the only example of the people of Ulster being extra-helpful, but it was the most surprising. It’s hard to believe, with their violent history and neighbor-on-neighbor conflicts, that they would be so eager and willing to help out a local, much less an outsider. Maybe it’s a desire to prove that they’ve grown out of the violence, putting a smiling face on an area once considered dangerous to visit. There seems to be something in the Irish character that lends itself to trust and helpfulness, and Ulsterites (?) seem to have an extra 10% of whatever that is.
Haney and I were in search of a cash machine so that we could get some lunch before our bus back to Dublin. We asked at a stall near the entrance to the market, and were told by the woman that she didn’t know the area well enough. We left the market and walked up one block, asked at a pub and were told there was one the other way, on the other side of the market block. We walked to that block and saw nothing, so we asked at another pub and were told it was further up. Finding nothing, we asked at Subway and were told there weren’t any in that area, and would have to walk back closer to City Center to find any. We did eventually find one in a SPAR store, but stumbling across it we had a surprising experience.
We saw a woman and her daughter (I assume) leave the market and walk towards us. As they passed, Hany asked if she knew where we could find a cash station. She stopped to think, then said that she didn’t know much about that area; the only one she knew of was towards her home, and further than she thought was worth walking. She then asked us if we would like a ride to the ATM and back, as her car was just up the road. She offered a ride to two complete strangers with luggage, both male foreigners, and she with her daughter and shopping in hand. I was blown away. We turned her down, and her daughter suggested the train station might have one, and we parted ways, but the incident stuck with me. I can’t even conceive of offering a ride in that situation, and I’m a pretty nice guy. The idea that an average American asked the same question would make that kind of an offer is pretty much laughable – it would be a huge drain on our time and, in our minds, outright dangerous. This wasn’t the only example of the people of Ulster being extra-helpful, but it was the most surprising. It’s hard to believe, with their violent history and neighbor-on-neighbor conflicts, that they would be so eager and willing to help out a local, much less an outsider. Maybe it’s a desire to prove that they’ve grown out of the violence, putting a smiling face on an area once considered dangerous to visit. There seems to be something in the Irish character that lends itself to trust and helpfulness, and Ulsterites (?) seem to have an extra 10% of whatever that is.
Cultural Journal 1 - Children
As a child I was exposed to many horror films which many parents might not have found appropriate for their kids. In addition to classic horror film, my nephew has been watching South Park since he was 6, and although his parents are careful to contextualize it and make sure he knows not to go repeating some of what he hears, it would be easy for some to criticize their choice of viewing material. Likewise, my nephew has been exposed to casual profanity from an early age, but again has been taught that though it may be DONE, it isn’t necessarily ALLOWED.
Our house mother is a child minder, and the house is often full of children. One of them belongs to the girlfriend of one of her sons, and during our first dinner I was able to watch the interaction between the child, two of the sons, the mother, and our house mom. I hadn’t really thought much about it, but I suppose I expected something akin to what I see of American childrearing, perhaps a bit more conservative as we’re in a Catholic nation. The first chink in this notion was one of the sons smacking the child on the head, not very hard, but harder than I would have expected. This wasn’t done in anger, or as a punishment, it was a friendly and joking gesture which the child responded to be laughing and swinging his own tiny hands at his assailant. The child was given the middle finger, and returned it in kind. The word “fuck” was used conversationally (not by the child), and nobody thought twice about it. One of the sons pretended that he was going to pour water on the kid, and when the child noticed he was most insistent that it be done. So it was. Twice.
It was odd, but in a way very refreshing. We’re so lawsuit happy in America, I can’t imagine what a parent would think to see their child engaged in these kinds of behaviors, but the child’s mother was laughing as hard as anyone. The child was enjoying himself, and never once cried or protested about any of it, just took it in stride. It seems to me that when his contemporaries in America are threatening to sue their bullies in middle school, this kid will be taking it in stride and standing up for himself without relying on the legal system. I like that.
Our house mother is a child minder, and the house is often full of children. One of them belongs to the girlfriend of one of her sons, and during our first dinner I was able to watch the interaction between the child, two of the sons, the mother, and our house mom. I hadn’t really thought much about it, but I suppose I expected something akin to what I see of American childrearing, perhaps a bit more conservative as we’re in a Catholic nation. The first chink in this notion was one of the sons smacking the child on the head, not very hard, but harder than I would have expected. This wasn’t done in anger, or as a punishment, it was a friendly and joking gesture which the child responded to be laughing and swinging his own tiny hands at his assailant. The child was given the middle finger, and returned it in kind. The word “fuck” was used conversationally (not by the child), and nobody thought twice about it. One of the sons pretended that he was going to pour water on the kid, and when the child noticed he was most insistent that it be done. So it was. Twice.
It was odd, but in a way very refreshing. We’re so lawsuit happy in America, I can’t imagine what a parent would think to see their child engaged in these kinds of behaviors, but the child’s mother was laughing as hard as anyone. The child was enjoying himself, and never once cried or protested about any of it, just took it in stride. It seems to me that when his contemporaries in America are threatening to sue their bullies in middle school, this kid will be taking it in stride and standing up for himself without relying on the legal system. I like that.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Academic Journal 15 - Quiet Reflection
I began watching ‘The Quiet Man’ before going to Dublin, but I turned it off. It just felt too schlocky – all of my research had made it clear that while vast portions of Ireland were very rural, it was in many ways as cosmopolitan (especially in Dublin) as anywhere in the USA or mainland Europe. ‘The Quiet Man’ just sat poorly with me, and while in Ireland, I wondered at times why the program asked us to watch the film; I couldn’t figure it out, so when I got back I decided to knuckle down and watch the damn thing. Having done so, I have a few ideas on why it was on our films list.
Obviously, the film is set (and was filmed) in Ireland, and has some fantastic views of the landscape. Passing through rural Ireland on train and bus rides, it’s easy to see that much of the country does still look that way. Perhaps part of the goal was to remind us of that fact, since we were spending the majority of our time in cities and towns rather than the countryside and it would be easy to forget the agrarian roots of the country. It could also have been a subversive move by the faculty to see I we would fall into the trap of thinking that 1950’s Ireland was what we should expect.
Hand in hand with that, the film presents a number of common stereotypes about the Irish. Mary and Red certainly have the famed Irish temper, and even Sean as an ex-boxer (fulfilling another stereotype about Irish athletes, I suspect) embodies this tendency towards violence. The importance of drinking, though not entirely a stereotype, is also featured in the film as Sean and Red become friends over a fight and a pint. Dragging Mary back to town from the train, followed by cheering townsfolk (one of whom provides him with a stick to hit her with) sends an interesting message about the role of women in Irish culture, and quite frankly about the perception of women in America at that time as well; perhaps we’re meant to reflect on that, and to compare that to more recent Irish films featuring strong female characters. The film also features scenes of wealthy people congregating, as contrast to the more “simple” lives of the villagers, which is a theme we returned to often when discussing imperialism.
After thinking on it for a while, there seem to be many potential reasons to watch ‘The Quiet Man’ before, during, or after a trip to Ireland, but I don’t feel that it would have been integral to my visit, or that I somehow missed out by not watching it before going. In fact, I’m glad I watched it after returning home, so that I had an actual context of Ireland to compare it to, instead of vice-versa.
Obviously, the film is set (and was filmed) in Ireland, and has some fantastic views of the landscape. Passing through rural Ireland on train and bus rides, it’s easy to see that much of the country does still look that way. Perhaps part of the goal was to remind us of that fact, since we were spending the majority of our time in cities and towns rather than the countryside and it would be easy to forget the agrarian roots of the country. It could also have been a subversive move by the faculty to see I we would fall into the trap of thinking that 1950’s Ireland was what we should expect.
Hand in hand with that, the film presents a number of common stereotypes about the Irish. Mary and Red certainly have the famed Irish temper, and even Sean as an ex-boxer (fulfilling another stereotype about Irish athletes, I suspect) embodies this tendency towards violence. The importance of drinking, though not entirely a stereotype, is also featured in the film as Sean and Red become friends over a fight and a pint. Dragging Mary back to town from the train, followed by cheering townsfolk (one of whom provides him with a stick to hit her with) sends an interesting message about the role of women in Irish culture, and quite frankly about the perception of women in America at that time as well; perhaps we’re meant to reflect on that, and to compare that to more recent Irish films featuring strong female characters. The film also features scenes of wealthy people congregating, as contrast to the more “simple” lives of the villagers, which is a theme we returned to often when discussing imperialism.
After thinking on it for a while, there seem to be many potential reasons to watch ‘The Quiet Man’ before, during, or after a trip to Ireland, but I don’t feel that it would have been integral to my visit, or that I somehow missed out by not watching it before going. In fact, I’m glad I watched it after returning home, so that I had an actual context of Ireland to compare it to, instead of vice-versa.
Academic Journal 14 - Once Ending (Twice Shy)
I really enjoyed ‘Once;’ in fact, I went out and bought the soundtrack/score from Amazon.com as soon as I got home from Ireland. The timing to watch it was right, as we recognized many of the areas of Dublin where filming occurred, which I think helped us to identify with and relate to the film in a different way than we would have at the beginning of the trip. One thing that really stuck with me about the film was the ending. I was pretty sure that I had the ending predicted early on; their awkwardness would melt away as they worked together, leading to a stolen kiss, a lingering embrace, and at long last they would “find” each other. Even signals that seemed to belie this expectation fed my belief – he called his ex girlfriend and said he was coming to find her, but of course at the last minute he would have a change of heart. After standing him up, the Girl would catch him at the airport, or fly to London to find him. When he left the airport towards the end, I just knew he was running to her arms, and when the piano arrived, I just knew she would be on the next plane.
But it didn’t happen, which some of my classmates disliked. They felt that these two characters had been built up as a romantic couple over the course of the film, and were somehow robbed of that by the end. I disagreed, but at the same time I see their reasoning, and expect that many people (at least, Americans) might feel the same way. It’s a difficult ending in many ways. It isn’t a tragic ending, where they secretly pine for each other as they stumble through the lives they chose. It’s a happy ending in that he is off to pursue a career and she has her husband with her, but it’s not happy in the sense of the Boy and Girl ending up together. Why did the writer and director choose to end the film this way, with him leaving to be with his ex and yet buying the Girl a piano even after she stood him up the night before?
I don’t know for sure, but I have a theory: the romantic plot is there to serve the main plot of musicians coming into their own talent, rather than the other way around. I assumed from the start that this was the story of two people who fall in love, and that the musical subplot was a vehicle to tell the story of their relationship; that’s the way many romance films seem to be structure – whatever the main characters do is just a part of how they get together, which serves the story of a budding romance. But the screenwriter didn’t want to tell a love story, s/he wanted to tell a music story. How do we get these two musicians to work together? He’s broken hearted, and she’s a lonely foreigner. Hey, a romantic interest between them! I think that might be what threw off my classmates – like me, they expected a love story carried by a musical arc. But I love films that feel different, and ‘Once’ was surely that.
But it didn’t happen, which some of my classmates disliked. They felt that these two characters had been built up as a romantic couple over the course of the film, and were somehow robbed of that by the end. I disagreed, but at the same time I see their reasoning, and expect that many people (at least, Americans) might feel the same way. It’s a difficult ending in many ways. It isn’t a tragic ending, where they secretly pine for each other as they stumble through the lives they chose. It’s a happy ending in that he is off to pursue a career and she has her husband with her, but it’s not happy in the sense of the Boy and Girl ending up together. Why did the writer and director choose to end the film this way, with him leaving to be with his ex and yet buying the Girl a piano even after she stood him up the night before?
I don’t know for sure, but I have a theory: the romantic plot is there to serve the main plot of musicians coming into their own talent, rather than the other way around. I assumed from the start that this was the story of two people who fall in love, and that the musical subplot was a vehicle to tell the story of their relationship; that’s the way many romance films seem to be structure – whatever the main characters do is just a part of how they get together, which serves the story of a budding romance. But the screenwriter didn’t want to tell a love story, s/he wanted to tell a music story. How do we get these two musicians to work together? He’s broken hearted, and she’s a lonely foreigner. Hey, a romantic interest between them! I think that might be what threw off my classmates – like me, they expected a love story carried by a musical arc. But I love films that feel different, and ‘Once’ was surely that.
Academic Journal 13 - Some Mothers Son
Some Mothers Son was an excellent and moving film, and I was especially struck by the final exchange between Kathleen Quigley and Annie Higgins. After Kathleen tells Annie that she signed the form to remove her son from the hunger strike, Annie (whose son had just died as a result of the strike) responded that she was glad Kathleen had that option, and that someone had to do it. Annie had been a staunch supporter of the IRA’s actions and of the strike itself up to that point, and I had expected her to be angry and accuse Kathleen of being a traitor, or perhaps the film to end with Kathleen’s car exploding when she next started it, or something similar. Annie’s response was a surprise to me, and I’m still not 100% sure what she meant by it.
At first I thought it might be a little sarcastic. We know that Annie lost a child to the British forces, fueling her IRA sympathies and support of her son as a member, so I understand why she felt that she had no choice but to let her son continue on his strike. Telling Kathleen that she was glad she had the option of ending it could have been a dig at her for subverting the cause, or a reminder that Kathleen hadn’t experienced loss the way Annie had. But then why would Annie say that someone had to end it? The IRA position was that Thatcher had to give in to their demands and end the strike, so I understand the wording, but why would Annie be so accepting of Kathleen’s decision?
What I’ve come to believe is that Annie is acknowledging a deeper strength in Kathleen than she herself possesses. It takes great strength and courage to stand up for what you believe, and arguably even greater courage to starve yourself to death for your beliefs. It seems on the surface that Annie had the greater strength to stand by and let her son kill himself, but in fact I think it was the easier road. By allowing her son’s strike to continue Annie can absolve herself of responsibility by blaming Thatcher; after years of supporting IRA activities, standing up and ending the strike would not only be counterintuitive, but potentially dangerous if the IRA decided that she was a traitor to the cause. Kathleen’s decision to take her son off the strike was not a sign of weakness or giving in to Thatcher, but in fact a standing up to the insanity of the standoff and the waste of life. How could anyone not envy that sort of strength?
At first I thought it might be a little sarcastic. We know that Annie lost a child to the British forces, fueling her IRA sympathies and support of her son as a member, so I understand why she felt that she had no choice but to let her son continue on his strike. Telling Kathleen that she was glad she had the option of ending it could have been a dig at her for subverting the cause, or a reminder that Kathleen hadn’t experienced loss the way Annie had. But then why would Annie say that someone had to end it? The IRA position was that Thatcher had to give in to their demands and end the strike, so I understand the wording, but why would Annie be so accepting of Kathleen’s decision?
What I’ve come to believe is that Annie is acknowledging a deeper strength in Kathleen than she herself possesses. It takes great strength and courage to stand up for what you believe, and arguably even greater courage to starve yourself to death for your beliefs. It seems on the surface that Annie had the greater strength to stand by and let her son kill himself, but in fact I think it was the easier road. By allowing her son’s strike to continue Annie can absolve herself of responsibility by blaming Thatcher; after years of supporting IRA activities, standing up and ending the strike would not only be counterintuitive, but potentially dangerous if the IRA decided that she was a traitor to the cause. Kathleen’s decision to take her son off the strike was not a sign of weakness or giving in to Thatcher, but in fact a standing up to the insanity of the standoff and the waste of life. How could anyone not envy that sort of strength?
Academic Journal 12 - Feminine Power
We’ve discussed in class how females have often been portrayed as “weak” or subjugated in Irish literature, especially with the influence of British and Catholic patriarchal systems. However, I have noticed a surprising number of examples of very strong, even aggressive female characters in more contemporary works. Ms. O’Shea in A Star Called Henry is an excellent example of a woman who is not just independent, but downright dangerous as a soldier. Even after marriage, her activities never become “domestic;” in fact, Henry refers to an incident burning down a barracks as a night out with HER, rather than a night out with him. Trudy in When Brendan Met Trudy follows in this same iconoclastic vein; a professional thief, she brings the mousy Brendan into a world of danger and excitement he could never have expected. At the Galway Film Fleadh, I saw two films with strong Irish female leads who were not only fierce survivors but had some kind of “mystic” power, subverting the withered crone stereotype even as they skewer the weak female one. This empowerment of women can be seen in the public sphere as well; despite the Republic of Ireland’s tendency towards Catholic values, the President of Ireland has been a woman for the past twenty years (Mary Robinson 1990-1997, Mary McAleese 1997-present).
It seems to me that the Irish Republic has been quick to embrace women’s empowerment, and I suspect that their mythic tradition has something to do with this, as Ireland has a number of powerful and important female characters in their mythology, from goddess-like figures such as Macha and The Morrigan, associated with war and sovereignty, to famed queens such as Maeve who ruled as equals with their kings (I’ve read some sources that claim marrying Maeve was the only way to become king in the first place). I believe that a mythic tradition featuring powerful females has enabled the people of Ireland to move more quickly towards equality of the sexes in spite of centuries of patriarchal tradition imposed by invaders.
It seems to me that the Irish Republic has been quick to embrace women’s empowerment, and I suspect that their mythic tradition has something to do with this, as Ireland has a number of powerful and important female characters in their mythology, from goddess-like figures such as Macha and The Morrigan, associated with war and sovereignty, to famed queens such as Maeve who ruled as equals with their kings (I’ve read some sources that claim marrying Maeve was the only way to become king in the first place). I believe that a mythic tradition featuring powerful females has enabled the people of Ireland to move more quickly towards equality of the sexes in spite of centuries of patriarchal tradition imposed by invaders.
Academic Journal 11 - Something About Mary
Several of the films we have watched include depictions of the Virgin Mary in a less than flattering/helpful light; I believe that these depictions are not merely symptoms of iconoclastic filmmaking, but reflect a deeper shift in the Irish attitude towards religion. We learned in lecture that religious sentiment in Ireland had been deeply shaken in recent years by scandals within the Catholic church, and this loss of faith can be seen in the way the Virgin Mary is reacted to and portrayed in Irish cinema.
In Margo Harkin’s Hush-A-Bye-Baby, after Goretti tells her friend Dinky that she is pregnant, Dinky addresses a nearby statue of the Virgin, admonishing it not to move (visions of Virgin statues moving/crying/etc. were apparently common in many areas of Ireland at the time). Rather than turning to the icon for aid or comfort, the characters shun her and make clear that the grim reality of the situation is something they intend to deal with without praying for divine intervention. Goretti’s dreams, in which she seems to see herself transposed with a statue of the Virgin, her growing belly straining at the glass window, seem to show a horror of motherhood; her shame and fear manifest in a nightmare trapped for all to see.
In Neil Jordan’s The Butcher Boy, the Virgin Mary herself begins appearing to young Francie Brady, giving him messages of hope and comfort which fail utterly to help his situation as he spirals further into nihilistic madness. In addition, her visits begin AFTER he starts claiming to have seen her, hinting that although the viewer is led to believe (by her later manifestations) that Francie does in fact see her, the visions themselves may not in fact be real or divine, but rather a hallucination. Jordan seems to suggest that religion is self-inflicted, brought on not by the will of the divine, but by the desire of the human mind. Additionally, these visions (and by extension those of scripture) aren’t helpful to us, giving vague comfort and advice that proves meaningless in the face of real life dilemmas.
In Margo Harkin’s Hush-A-Bye-Baby, after Goretti tells her friend Dinky that she is pregnant, Dinky addresses a nearby statue of the Virgin, admonishing it not to move (visions of Virgin statues moving/crying/etc. were apparently common in many areas of Ireland at the time). Rather than turning to the icon for aid or comfort, the characters shun her and make clear that the grim reality of the situation is something they intend to deal with without praying for divine intervention. Goretti’s dreams, in which she seems to see herself transposed with a statue of the Virgin, her growing belly straining at the glass window, seem to show a horror of motherhood; her shame and fear manifest in a nightmare trapped for all to see.
In Neil Jordan’s The Butcher Boy, the Virgin Mary herself begins appearing to young Francie Brady, giving him messages of hope and comfort which fail utterly to help his situation as he spirals further into nihilistic madness. In addition, her visits begin AFTER he starts claiming to have seen her, hinting that although the viewer is led to believe (by her later manifestations) that Francie does in fact see her, the visions themselves may not in fact be real or divine, but rather a hallucination. Jordan seems to suggest that religion is self-inflicted, brought on not by the will of the divine, but by the desire of the human mind. Additionally, these visions (and by extension those of scripture) aren’t helpful to us, giving vague comfort and advice that proves meaningless in the face of real life dilemmas.
Academic Journal 10 - Guiness and Kilmainham Gaol
Visiting either of these locations is a postmodern experience, participating in what Peter Lyth called “Heritage Tourism,” visiting sites of historical and cultural significance rather than of natural beauty or splendour. However, the two differ somewhat in how they invite the tourist to encounter the historical materials contained within.
The Guinness Storehouse tour and exhibits are installed in the ‘Hops House,’ not the brewery itself. The building itself is no longer used for any part of the brewing process, so it is unlike visiting the Miller brewery or Jim Beam distillery where work still continues on-site (or did when I was there). Much of the equipment from the days when the building was a working part of the brewery is still there, integrated (or converted) into attractions and exhibits, so you have at least a sense of it being “real,” but the truth is that it is a representation, luring you into the illusion that you are witnessing the actual brewery in some way. Although there is some attempt to educate the visitor as to the history and techniques of the brewery, the emphasis is on an enjoyable and fun experience, as evidenced by the interactive kiosks, pouring lessons, pubs and videos.
Kilmianham Gaol, meanwhile, is the real deal. We tour the actual, brick-and-mortar prison where thousands of criminals and political prisoners were housed and executed. The tour is led by a guide who tells the history and stories of the prison, pointing out cells where the famous resided and relating statistics and numbers that make clear the dark history of the place. It is very low-key, and strives to be educational wherever possible, and yet it is not so different from Guiness. The museum houses interactive exhibits and artefacts, the stories told by the guide are engaging, violent or sad, playing on the emotions of the participants to keep their interest. The intersection of education and entertainment is readily visible, as well as the heritage tourism mindset of peddling a country’s history as an attraction. There are obvious differences in the way they are portrayed and the implied motivation behind the attractions (profit vs. education, profit vs. upkeep, etc.) but in the end it feels like they boil down to the same essential thing. Walking the stones of the prison didn’t seem to put me in the shoes of the revolutionaries any more than the planks of the storehouse made me feel like a brewer (despite my ‘honorary brewers assistant’ online quiz and photocard).
(I hope it doesn't sound like I didn't enjoy these sites, because I did.)
The Guinness Storehouse tour and exhibits are installed in the ‘Hops House,’ not the brewery itself. The building itself is no longer used for any part of the brewing process, so it is unlike visiting the Miller brewery or Jim Beam distillery where work still continues on-site (or did when I was there). Much of the equipment from the days when the building was a working part of the brewery is still there, integrated (or converted) into attractions and exhibits, so you have at least a sense of it being “real,” but the truth is that it is a representation, luring you into the illusion that you are witnessing the actual brewery in some way. Although there is some attempt to educate the visitor as to the history and techniques of the brewery, the emphasis is on an enjoyable and fun experience, as evidenced by the interactive kiosks, pouring lessons, pubs and videos.
Kilmianham Gaol, meanwhile, is the real deal. We tour the actual, brick-and-mortar prison where thousands of criminals and political prisoners were housed and executed. The tour is led by a guide who tells the history and stories of the prison, pointing out cells where the famous resided and relating statistics and numbers that make clear the dark history of the place. It is very low-key, and strives to be educational wherever possible, and yet it is not so different from Guiness. The museum houses interactive exhibits and artefacts, the stories told by the guide are engaging, violent or sad, playing on the emotions of the participants to keep their interest. The intersection of education and entertainment is readily visible, as well as the heritage tourism mindset of peddling a country’s history as an attraction. There are obvious differences in the way they are portrayed and the implied motivation behind the attractions (profit vs. education, profit vs. upkeep, etc.) but in the end it feels like they boil down to the same essential thing. Walking the stones of the prison didn’t seem to put me in the shoes of the revolutionaries any more than the planks of the storehouse made me feel like a brewer (despite my ‘honorary brewers assistant’ online quiz and photocard).
(I hope it doesn't sound like I didn't enjoy these sites, because I did.)
Academic Journal 9 - Ourselves Alone (Malachy)
At the risk of derision by my classmates, I stand by my belief that there is textual evidence that Malachy is beginning to change for the better at the end of the play.
Despite the fact that the unborn child is half-British and the son of Joe, a (suspected) traitor to the Republican movement, Malachy defends it. Liam, the child’s uncle, wants to kill it because it is Joe’s child, but Malachy stops him aggressively, declaring himself the father, saying it is “[his] baby now . . . [his] blood” (79), and making clear that he will protect the child from anyone who would harm it. This is surprising, given Malachy’s pattern of hard-line Republicanism and threatening nature. He is taking his daughter and her child under his protection and back into his home; yes, this gives him power over her, but I don’t believe that this is his ultimate goal. A classmate argued that he is taking the child in so that he can manipulate it, train it to be a good little soldier, but I think this is unsupported. First of all, he already has a grandchild whose father (Liam) was imprisoned, thus effectively fatherless. Why didn’t Malachy take in Donna and her child, which was also his blood, to begin training Catherine as the next generation of messenger/servant? Perhaps it is because it is a granddaughter that he never took them in, taking in this child in hopes of raising a soldier, but for starters we don’t know the gender of the child; it could easily be another girl. In addition, the kid won’t be usable for the IRA for several years, and in the meantime represents a substantial risk to Malachy and his cohorts. An infant will make it harder to move in a hurry if the police come, and will require care, attention and resources that now can’t go to the cause. If Malachy is a cold enough bastard to take in a child just to raise a soldier, he’s cold enough to wait until it’s old enough to be usable.
Is Malachy a nice guy? Probably not. Has he had a Joycean Epiphany? Unlikely. Will he continue to terrorize and manipulate his family, up to and including putting them to work in dangerous positions at a young age? Probably – but his reaction to the coming baby at the end of the play leads me to believe that he HAS changed over the course of events, and that those changes are for the better.
Despite the fact that the unborn child is half-British and the son of Joe, a (suspected) traitor to the Republican movement, Malachy defends it. Liam, the child’s uncle, wants to kill it because it is Joe’s child, but Malachy stops him aggressively, declaring himself the father, saying it is “[his] baby now . . . [his] blood” (79), and making clear that he will protect the child from anyone who would harm it. This is surprising, given Malachy’s pattern of hard-line Republicanism and threatening nature. He is taking his daughter and her child under his protection and back into his home; yes, this gives him power over her, but I don’t believe that this is his ultimate goal. A classmate argued that he is taking the child in so that he can manipulate it, train it to be a good little soldier, but I think this is unsupported. First of all, he already has a grandchild whose father (Liam) was imprisoned, thus effectively fatherless. Why didn’t Malachy take in Donna and her child, which was also his blood, to begin training Catherine as the next generation of messenger/servant? Perhaps it is because it is a granddaughter that he never took them in, taking in this child in hopes of raising a soldier, but for starters we don’t know the gender of the child; it could easily be another girl. In addition, the kid won’t be usable for the IRA for several years, and in the meantime represents a substantial risk to Malachy and his cohorts. An infant will make it harder to move in a hurry if the police come, and will require care, attention and resources that now can’t go to the cause. If Malachy is a cold enough bastard to take in a child just to raise a soldier, he’s cold enough to wait until it’s old enough to be usable.
Is Malachy a nice guy? Probably not. Has he had a Joycean Epiphany? Unlikely. Will he continue to terrorize and manipulate his family, up to and including putting them to work in dangerous positions at a young age? Probably – but his reaction to the coming baby at the end of the play leads me to believe that he HAS changed over the course of events, and that those changes are for the better.
Academic Journal 8 - 'Dancing at Lughnasa' (Film)
On our walk home after watching the film adaptation of ‘Dancing at Lughnasa,’ Keith and I got into a discussion about the scene in which Uncle Jack encounters Rose at the back hills fire, and after a bit of unpleasantness with Danny Bradley, escorts her home. Danny coerces Rose to go with him, and is clingy and belligerent throughout, even threatening to follow her when she leaves with Jack. The entire scene is absent from the play, and her time in the hills is only mentioned briefly by Rose without any of the unpleasant overtones of the film sequence. In fact, she and Danny went up to see the “what was left of the Lughnasa fires” (59). She says that she and Danny were the only ones there, and that the experience was peaceful. Of course, she may have been lying (in the film she relates nothing of her negative experience to her sisters), but lacking any evidence from the text we are forced to take her word for it.
At first I found it odd that the director would add this scene at all, and doubly so that he would make it such a dark experience, demonizing Danny and, by extension, his cohorts at the fire and the ceremony itself. In discussion with Keith, he pointed out something that I hadn’t paid much attention to – that when Uncle Jack escorts Rose away from the fire, he appears visibly shaken, recoiling from the revelry he had until then been participating in (ostensibly as it connected with his years in Africa). Although he joined in as a happy participant, he is clearly unsettled and afraid.
Shortly after this sequence, we see Uncle Jack again – trading hats with Gerry. In this sequence, the actor plays him as lucid, completely in command of his faculties, all but recovered from his culture shock. It’s almost as if his rejection of paganism at the Lughnasa fires has led to a miraculous recovery. This doesn’t come across in the play, but with the addition of the fires sequence and the way it is handled by the director and actors, it seems to send the message that Jack’s mental troubles all stem from his fall into paganism. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that the director was trying to make that the “message” of the film, but it is interesting how such a small addition to the adaptation can send a vastly different message.
At first I found it odd that the director would add this scene at all, and doubly so that he would make it such a dark experience, demonizing Danny and, by extension, his cohorts at the fire and the ceremony itself. In discussion with Keith, he pointed out something that I hadn’t paid much attention to – that when Uncle Jack escorts Rose away from the fire, he appears visibly shaken, recoiling from the revelry he had until then been participating in (ostensibly as it connected with his years in Africa). Although he joined in as a happy participant, he is clearly unsettled and afraid.
Shortly after this sequence, we see Uncle Jack again – trading hats with Gerry. In this sequence, the actor plays him as lucid, completely in command of his faculties, all but recovered from his culture shock. It’s almost as if his rejection of paganism at the Lughnasa fires has led to a miraculous recovery. This doesn’t come across in the play, but with the addition of the fires sequence and the way it is handled by the director and actors, it seems to send the message that Jack’s mental troubles all stem from his fall into paganism. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that the director was trying to make that the “message” of the film, but it is interesting how such a small addition to the adaptation can send a vastly different message.
Academic Journal 7 - 'A Star Called Henry'
I’m a member of an organization that maintains a global role-playing game (trust me, this becomes relevant momentarily). Not long ago, word came down that the Irish affiliate had instituted a policy that any character that had spent time in Ireland required written approval from them. The reason that was most widely cited was Irish players coming to games in America and other countries and being offended by people not from Ireland who were portraying characters with IRA histories and ties. We all accepted this decision, but a lot of people felt that it seemed a bit excessive; although I supported their right to have this policy, I sympathized with those who were against it, until I read this book. I’ll admit I never really stopped to think about the bloodshed and destruction that revolution carries with it, and Doyle does an excellent job of working it into the narrative so that although it never feels like he is trying to comment on it, the read can’t help but internalize a real sense of horror.
As Henry’s violence escalates (along with the revolution itself), it becomes subtly oppressive – reading the passage where he and his wife are pouring oil into a roof to burn out the soldiers inside is a great one where I was reading along and suddenly just struck by the sheer insanity of what was happening. The plan was so casually introduced that it wasn’t until I was well into reading about the resulting fire and explosion that what they were doing really hit home for me. The planned “hits” that Henry discusses and engages in also stuck with me, as I think we tend to think of revolutions (those that we approve of somehow) as wars, with soldiers on both sides attacking each other. In the reality of the novel however, it truly comes across more as a gang war, with hits and retribution coming fast and furious, killing soldiers, policemen and civilians alike for sometimes flimsy reasons justified as part of the war effort. The tactic Henry discusses of forcing the British to crack down on innocent Irish families is chilling, as again it isn’t a thought process that we associate with warfare, where the goal is to destroy the enemy outright, or at least to outlast him until he retreats. It’s the mindset of total warfare – everyone is a target.
I think that Americans tend to idealize revolution, which is logical given our history, and the Irish revolution is no exception. We know there was violence and destruction, but somewhere in our minds we get the idea that it was a glorious fight for freedom against an oppressive aggressor. It may have been that, but it was also a bloody, violent conflict that had no qualms about forcing itself on those who wanted no part in it, and I think it’s important to bear that in mind while reading.
As Henry’s violence escalates (along with the revolution itself), it becomes subtly oppressive – reading the passage where he and his wife are pouring oil into a roof to burn out the soldiers inside is a great one where I was reading along and suddenly just struck by the sheer insanity of what was happening. The plan was so casually introduced that it wasn’t until I was well into reading about the resulting fire and explosion that what they were doing really hit home for me. The planned “hits” that Henry discusses and engages in also stuck with me, as I think we tend to think of revolutions (those that we approve of somehow) as wars, with soldiers on both sides attacking each other. In the reality of the novel however, it truly comes across more as a gang war, with hits and retribution coming fast and furious, killing soldiers, policemen and civilians alike for sometimes flimsy reasons justified as part of the war effort. The tactic Henry discusses of forcing the British to crack down on innocent Irish families is chilling, as again it isn’t a thought process that we associate with warfare, where the goal is to destroy the enemy outright, or at least to outlast him until he retreats. It’s the mindset of total warfare – everyone is a target.
I think that Americans tend to idealize revolution, which is logical given our history, and the Irish revolution is no exception. We know there was violence and destruction, but somewhere in our minds we get the idea that it was a glorious fight for freedom against an oppressive aggressor. It may have been that, but it was also a bloody, violent conflict that had no qualms about forcing itself on those who wanted no part in it, and I think it’s important to bear that in mind while reading.
Academic Journal 6 - 'Ourselves Alone'
I’m thrown by act 2, scene 1, where Donna has a monologue about the devil. I don’t quite know what to make of it. It seems like she is drawing a connection between this devil and her asthma, and says that Liam’s imprisonment made the asthma and devil vanish temporarily. So it seems like Liam and the Devil are tied together, but it seems like such an obviously stated connection that I have trouble accepting it. Liam’s behavior towards her in the rest of the scene certainly indicates he is a relentless and negative influence in her life, but why include this devil business?
Since the devil first appeared while she was with her first husband, and vanished when her second was put away, maybe she has trouble really accepting that she can live without a man in her life. Blaming the devil for things we don’t like is not a new trick, and personifying him into an oppressive presence could be a way of blaming the asthma on an unavoidable evil rather than a husband she could leave. The attacks start while unhappily married, and continue until the man in her life is forcibly separated from her, at which point they clear up. When he is released from prison and returns home to her, the attacks resume. She’s clearly deeply devoted to him, as she tells him in the same scene, and so it would presumably be difficult for her to accept that he is the trigger for her attacks.
I’ve tried to come up with some grander connection for the devil, but I’m hard pressed to do so. He seems to be a Donna-specific tool for the author to externalize the character’s conflict over her marriage. Maybe the last bit of the monologue, where Donna tells us that she asked the Devil to leave her alone and he agrees to do so (though not, she suspects, for long) is a way of hinting at growing strength for the character, that her time away from the husband and devil have shown her a better life that she is almost willing to fight for. This isn’t particularly supported by the end of the play where Donna suggests she has lost the ability to be happy, so maybe the fact that she suspects the devil won’t stay away forever is the key, showing that she believes herself trapped no matter what, with only Liam’s periods of absence to look forward to.
Since the devil first appeared while she was with her first husband, and vanished when her second was put away, maybe she has trouble really accepting that she can live without a man in her life. Blaming the devil for things we don’t like is not a new trick, and personifying him into an oppressive presence could be a way of blaming the asthma on an unavoidable evil rather than a husband she could leave. The attacks start while unhappily married, and continue until the man in her life is forcibly separated from her, at which point they clear up. When he is released from prison and returns home to her, the attacks resume. She’s clearly deeply devoted to him, as she tells him in the same scene, and so it would presumably be difficult for her to accept that he is the trigger for her attacks.
I’ve tried to come up with some grander connection for the devil, but I’m hard pressed to do so. He seems to be a Donna-specific tool for the author to externalize the character’s conflict over her marriage. Maybe the last bit of the monologue, where Donna tells us that she asked the Devil to leave her alone and he agrees to do so (though not, she suspects, for long) is a way of hinting at growing strength for the character, that her time away from the husband and devil have shown her a better life that she is almost willing to fight for. This isn’t particularly supported by the end of the play where Donna suggests she has lost the ability to be happy, so maybe the fact that she suspects the devil won’t stay away forever is the key, showing that she believes herself trapped no matter what, with only Liam’s periods of absence to look forward to.
Academic Journal 5 - 'Waking Ned Devine'
I really liked this film, but I can’t help but wonder why more wasn’t done with the priest and his relationship to the townsfolk. He seems to pop in and out of the narrative without being much a part of it. He sees Morris call the seal, and is reassured by him that he has done a good job, agonizes extremely briefly about the plan to defraud the lottery commission, and performs the funeral service for Ned, but considering the length of the film he’s barely in it, as if he serves only to explain why a priest was driving along the road in time to hit the Witch’s phone box at the end of the film (I assume this is the regular priest returning, but it’s never really clarified).
Many of the characters have these fleeting moments, but theirs seem more substantive. The pub owner appears in a few short segments, but is the one who concocts the plan to open a bank account. He, along with the postmistress, help to set up the evilness of Lizzie, and the postmistress is considered an early potential winner of the lottery. Other characters only appear briefly, but the film makes a point of introducing the priest and showing that he has concerns over his performance in the town and whether the regular priest would approve of the plan. Why add this level of depth to the character if he isn’t going to play a substantive role?
I haven’t figured it out yet, but I have some ideas. Maybe he was in fact the easiest way to set up the other priest driving by in time to hit the phone box. Maybe it’s a commentary on the church focusing on morality over worldly matters (eg, the immorality of fraud vs. the benefit the money will do for the townspeople). Since he goes along with it, maybe it’s a pat on the back for religion starting to come around to the practical side of things. Combine that with the seal incident and a vague knowledge of Selkies in Irish folklore, maybe the church is also perceived as being more willing to connect with “pagan” history and life. Maybe we’re supposed to wonder if the priest is Morris' father, since he seems keen to spend time with him, although that seems unlikely since 10 that would indicate he had been the temporary priest there for some years. At the moment, I lean towards him being a useful tool to explain the priest at the end, and also perhaps to offer a bit of moral justification to the audience, point out that the director/screenwriter considered the ethical implications of what the townspeople were doing, and believes it is plausible that the clergy would go along with it.
Many of the characters have these fleeting moments, but theirs seem more substantive. The pub owner appears in a few short segments, but is the one who concocts the plan to open a bank account. He, along with the postmistress, help to set up the evilness of Lizzie, and the postmistress is considered an early potential winner of the lottery. Other characters only appear briefly, but the film makes a point of introducing the priest and showing that he has concerns over his performance in the town and whether the regular priest would approve of the plan. Why add this level of depth to the character if he isn’t going to play a substantive role?
I haven’t figured it out yet, but I have some ideas. Maybe he was in fact the easiest way to set up the other priest driving by in time to hit the phone box. Maybe it’s a commentary on the church focusing on morality over worldly matters (eg, the immorality of fraud vs. the benefit the money will do for the townspeople). Since he goes along with it, maybe it’s a pat on the back for religion starting to come around to the practical side of things. Combine that with the seal incident and a vague knowledge of Selkies in Irish folklore, maybe the church is also perceived as being more willing to connect with “pagan” history and life. Maybe we’re supposed to wonder if the priest is Morris' father, since he seems keen to spend time with him, although that seems unlikely since 10 that would indicate he had been the temporary priest there for some years. At the moment, I lean towards him being a useful tool to explain the priest at the end, and also perhaps to offer a bit of moral justification to the audience, point out that the director/screenwriter considered the ethical implications of what the townspeople were doing, and believes it is plausible that the clergy would go along with it.
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