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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.