Life by the Liffey

It Certainly Took Me Long Enough...

2009-01-13T14:53:00.002Z

Greetings from America!

I'm sorry this took me so long --- I couldn't really bear to conclude the blog while I was still in Dublin. Even if I had, it would have been difficult to make clear everything that I've recognized during the fall semester abroad.

The last week was insanity (both good and bad chaos, but just that). Somehow, we all got onto our separate flights and made our way back across the ocean. It was wonderful to get home, to see the low gas prices and to be able to drive on the right side of the road, and to have as many pillows and as few potatoes as I wanted. But it didn't really seem as if we had been gone.

Christmas came in a flash --- a sweet, humble, quiet one at that --- and suddenly it was 2009. Writing the family Christmas letter, it certainly seems as if a lot got done during 2008. There's a lot to be proud of, and a lot to remember, and I'm surprised we managed it all in one year.

I'm writing now from my little dorm room in Manhattan. Classes don't start for another week, and I haven't said a word out loud for hours now...it's quiet and cold, but I'm hoping all of my good habits from Dublin and from home came with me to the city. Please cross your fingers for me that this spring semester goes as well as the fall semester away did. And even if it doesn't, I'm going to keep an open and determined mind to get as much as I can out of it.

Thank you all so much for reading this. It was such a comfort to me to be able to update you all on the goings-on in Dublin. But we're (pretty much) all in the same time zone now, aren't we? So let's keep in touch.

Slan go foil and goodbye for now,
Monica

One More Week!

2008-12-06T23:32:00.008Z

A few weeks ago I took a little field trip to the National Museum of Ireland --- it's just down the road on Kildare Street, and it makes a nice free afternoon-filler. I'm sure for some people it would be really amazing, room after room of old stone bowls and iron spears. Don't get me wrong, it was all fascinating, but I was there for one reason: bog bodies.

I'm telling you about this not to give you the willies, but to give you all an idea about what we might look like when we come back from Dublin. I feel like a bog body, anyway. All tired and leathery and my hair a disaster. One week left, and then my parents will pick me up at Dulles Airport and not recognize me.

That being said, don't worry! I'm doing my part to keep holiday spirit in my heart --- Nia and I are watching Dukes of Hazzards with a tray of homemade cinnamon buns between us. It's all part of getting ready to come home. We're in the cleaning-out-the-fridge phase. The two things we have to use up: butter and brown sugar. What else are we supposed to do?

Eat Your Heart Out, Martha Stewart.

2008-12-04T00:57:00.000Z

Look at that bird.

"Is My iPhone Communicating With the Dead?" and other FAQ

2008-11-30T18:51:00.005Z

Tonight, rather than work on our screenplays and music videos...

....we photocopied our faces.
....we summoned spirits with a Ouija board.
....we had a competition to see who could hold their breath the longest.

Q: When do you come home, Monica?
A: December 14th!

Q: That's only two weeks away! Are you excited to come back?
A: OH MY GOODNESS, yes.

Q: Are you getting lots done in Dublin?
A: Normally, yes. This morning was obscenely productive. Right now, not so much.

Q: Do you miss us?
A: Are you KIDDING?

I Get Top Bunk!!

2008-11-29T14:14:00.003Z

Thanksgiving came at the perfect time for all of us here in Dublin. The twelve kids in the music video program and the twelve screenwriters have been working feverishly (with all of the delirium and hilarity that comes with any fever), and it all came to a head this past week. Pretty much everyone has been working on the music video shoots this week, running around Dublin with camera equipment and giant dice and knitted trees and paint-filled water balloons.

In case you were worried, the bear heads came out just fine. And the last-minute bear paws look great. If I never see another bear again I will be a happy, happy person.

Here's my theory on sets, though, and I think it'll help everyone not familiar with film shoots understand what it's like: being on a shoot is like going to summer camp. Except you're both the counselor and the camper.

You've got to be mature enough to keep chaos at bay, but irresponsible enough to throw any dignity in the garbage and make a fool of yourself. You hardly ever sleep, you get weird rashes, you eat nothing but peanut butter and chips for weeks at a time, and everyone smells funny. If you aren't keeping the campers from drowning in the lake, you're earning badges in bridge-painting or knot-tying or stiff upper-lip-keeping. There are rival cabins, and homesick bunkmates, and lots of secrets and gossip. After the week, you have a whole host of new memories and scars and friends. Sometimes you say never again, you'll never spend another summer locked away with such nutjobs, but then you remember about the time Joe got his sleeve stuck in the electric saw or Ellen accidentally knocked over the whole set trying to get apple slices to the actor, and you know you'll beg your parents to send you back. That's my two cents, anyway.

Also, if you're ever in Ireland and wondering what flavor of Disco Chips to buy: BBQ Beef Flava makes everything smell like cat food. Keep the morale up, and stick to Salt n' Vinegar.

Happy Tanksgiving!

2008-11-27T19:15:00.004Z

Okay, okay, Dublin, you did it again...enough with the holiday magic.

It's just too perfect that when we're rushing around the apartment cooking Thanksgiving dinner with a turkey that barely fits in the oven and rolls that won't rise, you've thrown a Christmas party outside our window. We're getting teary and sentimental and so happy to be cooking together and there's a brass band literally below our balcony playing "Adeste Fidelis" and "Hark the Herald Angels Sing" while people are flocking around the Temple Bar Christmas tree. Free mince pies and cups of mulled wine? You're killing me.

What are you trying to do? We're poor Americans making the best pies we can, all of us calling home in terror because the jelly won't gel, and Irish breadcrumbs are beyond our comprehension, and only mothers can calm us and tell us how to wash the turkey cavity properly. And you're outside, being beautiful and putting holiday cheer back in our hearts.

Ack! Now "Jingle Bells!" You've got the mayor outside, schoolchildren with French horns and trumpets, and everyone making merry. It's too much, you guys. What's next? Sending elves to hang mistletoe over my bed while I'm sleeping? Putting gingerbread in my pockets when I'm cold and stomping my way through the wind?

Fine, I'm thankful for you, and I'm so sorry to be leaving you in two weeks. But enough is enough! This is too nice for kids like us --- we're getting coal in our stockings, and you're convincing us otherwise.

Fixing the Mean Reds, Dublin-Style

2008-11-24T21:24:00.006Z

“ ‘Listen. You know those days when you’ve got the mean reds?’

‘Same as the blues?’

‘No,’ she said slowly. ‘No, the blues are because you’re getting fat or maybe it’s been raining too long. You’re sad, that’s all. But the mean reds are horrible. You’re afraid and you sweat like hell, bu you don’t know what you’re afraid of. Except something bad is going to happen, only you don’t know what it is. You’ve had that feeling?’

‘Quite often. Some people call it angst.’

‘All right. Angst. But what do you do about it?’ ”

Not ten minutes after I posted that last gloomy entry (thank you for putting up with me), the other sweet barista here brought by a hot chocolate with mounds of whipped cream and caramel and nutmeg and cinnamon. She leaned over and put the mug on my table, saying with her cute Polish accent the three best words a broke American student abroad can hear: "it's for free!" I nearly cried again. It was wonderful hot chocolate and healed pretty much everything that was troubling me.

Wrote more, sipped more, bought some Diet Coke and went back to my apartment. Then Dublin did something wonderful. It sent the good yellow-vested workers of the City Council (or fairies, or elves) out to put this outside my window:

A Christmas tree of my own. Perfect.

And that's my window where I am right now, warmish and drinking my tea. It's not necessarily Holly Golightly's answer to fixing the mean reds, and I don't know if there's even a Tiffany's to have breakfast at in Dublin, but I'm pretty happy with it all.

Nineteen days left! Ready for me to come back?

Bon Voyage, Lucila!

2008-11-22T15:11:00.003Z

Ugh, I cried today while Skyping my mom. If I told you what I were stressed about, you would laugh and think I'm living the stupidest, most childish life in the world.

I have to sew four fuzzy brown bear heads for people to wear in a music video, and I can't get the noses and snouts on straight.

My clothes and bag are stained green and blue from a few paint-filled balloons that exploded.

I can't find cranberries, and I don't want it to be Thanksgiving without cranberry jelly.

I have too many movies to watch for class.

Every time I blink, little pieces of the bear fur fuzz drift in front of my eyes.

My screenplay is sad (and crummy), my history papers are about sad and crummy injustices, and my favorite girl at West Coast Coffee just came over with my mocha and a hug, because she's leaving to go home to Argentina. After three months, finally we know each other's names.

It makes me realize that manner-wise, Ireland is really pretty separate from the rest of Europe --- nobody gives little bisous when they meet or part. Normally it's a good strong handshake. As soon as I'm back in America, I'm going to hug everybody. Perhaps while wearing one of the four fuzzy bear heads I'm sewing.

For the Love of an English Major!

2008-11-20T22:19:00.006Z

I've come to the terrible realization that not every entry can be about the postal service.

So here! Let's go back to Rome for a second.

Having narrowly escaped the Swiss Guards at the Vatican, we made our way to Piramide, where the Non-Catholic Foreigners' Cemetery is. It was quiet and green, and populated by more than a few stray cats --- I have to say that the cats roaming around made me more nervous than wandering the graveyard did!

"It might make one in love with death, to think that one should be buried in so sweet a place," said Shelley. Lucky for him, he drowned and was cremated and buried here.

Lexi and I went on a mission, though --- to see the grave of Keats:

Chalk that one up as a success, I think!

In case you don't want to strain your eyes, it reads "this grave contains all that was mortal, of a YOUNG ENGLISH POET, Who on his Death Bed, in the Bitterness of his Heart, at the Malicious Power of his Enemies, Desired these Words to be engraven on his Tomb Stone: Here lies One Whose Name was writ in Water."

It wasn't the first time I'd sat and spent an afternoon with the remains of a great writer. Having gone to high school directly across the street from F. Scott Fitzgerald's grave, it felt very comfortable sitting on the grass and resting our sore feet next to Mr. Keats -- some morbid kind of deja vu. I know they say familiarity breeds contempt, but it was actually one of the nicest moments of our trip, those few minutes with Keats and his friend Joseph Severn and the horrible yowling cats.

Later that afternoon we ended up at Keats' apartment next to the Spanish Steps, happily shown by a sweet docent who insisted we take in the museum at our leisure, even encouraging us to sit on the period furniture next to her dog, who was equally as content in the library armchairs as he was trotting up and down the stairs. Another reason why dogs trump cats in every possible situation.

Wait Wait There's More!

2008-11-17T10:52:00.004Z

In case you were ever curious about how mail gets from Ireland to anyplace else...Jac was kind enough to demonstrate proper mailbox technique. Look and learn, kids!

Another Bonus Post!

2008-11-17T00:22:00.002Z

Here, Pops! For your enjoyment, an honest-to-goodness Irish post office. Though the one I send you postcards from is not nearly as official-looking, it's probably just as efficient.

Live, from West Coast Coffee, It's Thursday Afternoon!

2008-11-13T13:40:00.005Z

Greetings from West Coast Coffee, and from the very few minutes of my weekend! I don’t mind telling you that I think I’ve earned this weekend --- our first fifty pages of our screenplay were due this week, and my mind’s a little melted after all that writing. Not that I don’t enjoy it! I know how rare it is to have a semester (or even a major) that allows you to earn credit and take time to do exactly what it is you love to do, no questions asked. But, you guys, for ten nights now I’ve dreamed about typing. I’ve just spent too much time in front of the laptop! Not even interesting dreams, just six hours of pushing space bar and backspace and a couple letters every so often. You wake up more tired than you went to bed.

So of course, what am I doing now? Updating the blog. What can I tell you….it’s another grey day, of course, but it’s getting really tolerable. In fact, I’ll tell you this --- ready for this admission? I really like the weather here. Isn’t that gross? It’s never sunny, but when it is you make the most of it. And otherwise, you just bustle around, dodging rain, always thinking of the next warm place you can go to get out of the chill. I like that kind of single-mindedness.

This past Sunday they threw the switch on Dublin’s huge Christmas tree on O’Connell Street, officially starting the holiday season here. We were disgusted with the premature enthusiasm everyone had until we realized that with no Thanksgiving to celebrate here, there really isn’t anything to stop Christmas from beginning as soon as Halloween’s over. So I’m a Yuletide fool already, and it’s Dublin’s fault. I’m always over the moon when it gets close to Christmas, but with everything in full thrall here, I’m a disaster. The streets are all decorated with “Nollaig Shona Duit” signs and “Happy Christmas,” and I drink gingerbread lattes and look at the advent wreath that’s already set up in my coffeeshop.

So no, I don’t think there is a problem with having my X-mas Xtreme playlist all made. I’m exercising some self-restraint, at least. Be proud of that! And anyways, I wouldn’t be so excited about Christmas if I didn’t know that it meant coming home.

Here, to prove it, transcribed directly from my class notebook:

“Things to Look Forward to: the Homecoming Edition!
- seeing my family!!!
- being in the same time zone as everybody!
- driving!
- Target!
- Christmas parties!
- Having at least two pillows to sleep on!
- Trader Joe’s!
- Hugs!
- the possibility of snow!
- More sunshine than rain!
- Clementines! Tortilla chips! Root beer!
- my ukulele!
- Christmas lights! Gingerbread!
- Diversity!”

Obviously, I’m excited, and my capitalization is inconsistent.

One of the nice girls who works here, who knows to get down a mug and start making a mocha when she sees me cross the Liffey, is going home to Argentina in two weeks. And I’ll be leaving in four weeks. It’s still a while, but I know it’s going to fly by. I am a little scared.

In any case, West Coast Coffee’s still here, and I’ve still got my little routines, and even though I wish you were here, I hope you’re as excited by whatever’s creeping around the corner in your lives as I am.

The Italians Love the Irish

2008-11-10T23:53:00.002Z

Red light....

....green light!!!

Vatican City, or Where is Monica's ID?

2008-11-09T01:08:00.006Z

Our first (and only) morning in Rome was spent not actually in Italy, but instead in Vatican City.

Let's talk for a second about the Roman metro system. I know there are a cornucopia of ancient ruins that can't be disturbed by a subway system running underneath them, but something's got to be done! For those of you who haven't had the joy of taking the metro while in Rome, it's pretty easy, and cheap. Not hugely efficient, though --- there are two lines, A and B, and they intersect at only one station, Termini. Thank goodness our hostel was just two blocks from Termini, but really, Rome! There's got to be a better way. There's never not rush hour at Termini Station. It's like somebody combined a snowglobe and an ant farm. Lots of frantic scurrying, lots of shaking and looking around to see where the herd's going, zero elbow room. Needless to say, it made me miss New York quite a bit!

We beat the crowd to the Vatican, patting ourselves on the back. By this time, our merry group of travellers had split --- Carmen, Jac, Sarah and Will were off to Paris, while Nia went to London. Lexi and I wanted more time in Italy, so we swallowed all our doubts and language insecurites (there weren't many, actually, we figured our smiles and good intentions needed no translation) and headed off to Rome alone.

Something about this morning was very stressful. I'd heard that from other travellers we'd met along the way, that Saint Peter's and the Vatican Museums were the most hair-raising experiences you could have in Italy. It's overwhelming in every sense. Beautiful, absolutely, but nearly too much to take in. It was especially a mental shock for me to wander around the piazza and see the Church as an establishment, having spent the entire semester in Ireland, one of the most Catholic countries in the world. At the same time, how much of Irish history has been exhausted on the persecution of Catholics, or the war between the Catholics and Protestants? To step inside lavish Saint Peter's, to kneel and pray in the gilded and marble chapels, it was too much. How strange, to think about the young men and women who died because of their association with Catholicism. I doubt the religion they suffered for had much to do with the glory and extravagance in Saint Peter's.

Anyway! Though troubled by my thoughts, I was still able to appreciate the Vatican immensely. Easily two-thirds of my time there was spent with my jaw hanging open. Lexi, with her passion for audioguides, convinced me to pay five Euro and get one to show us around. The narration was pretty heavy-handed, what with the narrator calling me "pilgrim," but I learned a lot.

After we emerged bleary-eyed into the sunny noon, Lex and I went over to the Vatican Museum to see the Sistine Chapel. I hope I'm not offending anyone's artistic sensibilities if I say that I'm not sure the Sistine Chapel should get top billing there. Out of all the treasures and beautiful rooms there, I don't necessarily think the Sistine Chapel is a worthy centerpiece. All the tourists rushed from room to room, holding their breath until they reached the Chapel. Is it awful to say it's a little underwhelming? It's jammed full of people, with guards yelling "SILENCE PLEASE" in a half-dozen languages. It is anything but restful or reflective.

Feeling a little betrayed by Michaelangelo, Lexi and I trudged back to Saint Peter's to return our audioguides. By this time, the piazza was chockablock full of sweating pilgrims downing water and snapping photos. Knowing we had just a few more hours of daylight in Rome left, we were ready bid farewell to the Swiss Guards, handsome as they were, and to get out of the Vatican. Clutching our receipts, we arrived at the office to return our guides --- only to be instructed to go back out to the piazza and stand in the TWO AND A HALF HOUR line to get back in. "But, but," we stammered...No luck, just a stern Vatican grimace.

There was no way we were giving up two and a half hours to wait in line to return a piece of plastic. So, cringing at our dubious morality, we left.

Ahh! I'm still so guilty about it. Please don't think I'm proud of this! I'm mailing back the guide tomorrow. It's my very own telltale heart now, sitting in my bag under my bed. I know that if I want to, I can lean over and be told in eight different languages about the cupolas of the Basilica. I'm sick thinking about it.

In any case, it's not like I didn't make a sacrifice. The audioguide office required a deposit: a passport, a credit card, a student ID, or 100 Euro. So that's where my ID is. In the Vatican. I'm amazed --- if we had left any of those others as collateral, you're darn right we'd wait in line another two and a half hours to retrieve them. But our flimsy purple NYU IDs? Completely dispensible.

I'm awful, I know. But it makes a pretty good story!

Florence, or There's Something in the Arno!

2008-11-06T16:37:00.011Z

I'm going to hammer out these last fall break posts so that I can get back to telling you about Dublin and everything that's happened these past few days --- boy, there's a lot!

The second half of our break was spent Italy-hopping. Two nights and a day in Florence, two nights and a day in Rome, two nights and a day in Venice. I don't know if these lightning-fast visits qualify me to really talk at length about Italy, but I can show you what I saw, tell you about the people we met, and of course describe the food we ate!

First up, Florence! It was a perfect introduction to Italy --- and home to the most comfortable hostel beds we'd ever encountered.

Not only did our room have a tiny little patio for sipping coffee on, it brought us together with two young guys who had just graduated from college and were spending eight months traveling around the world. They were wonderful companions for the day, having already gotten their Florentine bearings. With their entertaining accompaniment, we wandered the city.

"I went first to the cathedral, the centerpiece of the town," writes Bill Bryson in Neither Here Nor There. "I defy anyone to turn the corner into the Piazza del Duomo and not have his little heart leap. It is one of Europe's great sights." My little heart leapt, don't you worry.

My first cup of Italian gelato in hand (it was lemon, and it was perfect), we took in the streets. It was disconcerting, hearing virtually no Italian spoken during our first day in the country. About 85% of the people we came into contact with were English-speakers. It was a little soothing, after the frantic days spent miming our Spanish interactions, but it did not at all seem like we were in the real Florence.

Figuring we had seen the really crucial bits of Florence, the Duomo, the Baptistry, and David, we took the evening off --- clambering over a stone wall to go sit next to the Arno and talk, enjoying local red wine. The sun set over the river, making us feel like we were back in Dublin, debating next to the Liffey. Strange --- it seemed finally at that moment that we were really on vacation. It felt very much like that typical "college kids backpacking through Europe" moment that we had all imagined. And it only took us until Day 5 of fall break to realize it!

We spent the rest of the evening there, watching people walk their dogs and fisherman float over the stagnant water. I don't know what they were hoping to catch. The only wildlife we saw was a contented little otter swimming around, bobbing up and down as he made his way towards us on the bank. Somehow that was a real comfort --- he wasn't there for the tourists' entertainment. He had never known anything else but his muddy Italian river. And that was fine by him. And it was fine by us. We hurled ourselves back up the incline, boosting each other up over the wall as we tumbled back into the streets, delighted with the piece of Florence we'd carved out for ourselves.

Dear America,

2008-11-05T04:31:00.003Z

My heart exploded a couple minutes ago. I don't know how many miles away I am from you right now, but I have never felt closer or more proud to be American.

I can't wait to come back to you.

Love,
Monica

Special Guest Blogger: Let's Have a Warm Round of Applause for Will Hopper!

2008-11-03T10:05:00.003Z

Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome the first of (hopefully) several guest bloggers. You guys deserve better than my same-old same-old, and of course I'm studying with the creme de la creme in terms of hilarious writers. So let me introduce Will, who I asked to put together a little entry about...anything! This being the halfway point of the semester, we're all feeling pretty reflective. Will especially. Please enjoy!

Dublin. Dublin? Dublin.
Can’t wait to get the hell Dubl-out. I hate to say it, but it’s no wonder Ireland is known for its immigration. Duh-blin-there, done that.

Yet, no regrets coming here, at all. I don’t believe in regrets.

Wait. Yes I do. Allow me to elucidate.

Yesterday morning, I woke up bright and early to get my haircut. I noticed last week while in Barcelona that the humidity turned my hair into something that Diana Ross would be jealous of. I found cowlicks that needed some serious mowing, so I popped into the hair salon below my apartment to get the situation under control. Made an appointment. It was good. Awesome. I’m going to get my haircut. Trim. That’s all I want. Just a trim. Simple. Easy. In-and-out.

It was very professional, or so it seemed. They offered me magazines and coffee while I was getting cut. All seemed to be going smoothly. And when they are done dancing around your chair for about 20 minutes, they say ‘look good?’ and, after struggling with painful hairdressing small talk, I say ‘looks fine,’ just so I can get the hell out of there, go home, and go back to bed. The lady said ‘You were the first haircut of the day. Cheers!’
Cheers to you too, sweetheart.

When I get out of the shower about half an hour later, I wonder if I misunderstood what she had said. Did she say ‘I was the first haircut of the day?’ or was it ‘I was the first haircut… EVER?’

I look in the mirror. I start to sweat.

I look like a friar. I look like Thomas Aquinas. Lord in heaven.

Apparently, that Irish lassie’s idea of ‘trim’ meant ‘cut around my ears.’ Perfect. Friar Will. That’s what my friends are going to call me. Tomorrow I’m going to the hair salon and I’m going to nail some pissed off theses to the front door. Take that.

I’m not going to back to have it reshaped. I’m afraid if I tell her to reshape it I’ll end up looking worse.

My regret: I’d rather look like Diana Ross than a Dominican Monk. There is no moral to this story. Just don’t get your haircut in Europe…ever. If you don’t walk out with a bowl but, you’ll walk out with a Euromullet. Even worse, some might say.

On the brighter side, I do appreciate Europe for other things. There are some things here I’ll miss. Queen of Tarts. The parks. The Laser-gun noise the crosswalks make when the light turns green. Oops. I’ve run out.

After seeing other parts of Europe last week, I realize I may have come to the wrong city. Barcelona was heaps of fun. Great food. Sangria. Beautiful people. Hookers on the corner of KFC. The works. Florence was picturesque and warm. Rich in history and beautiful art. Cheaper than Dublin. Paris reminded me the most of New York, which made me happy but also sad. Sad because I miss NY so intensely. Paris may have been plus cher, but it was worth it. Great shopping. Delectable food. Fashion forward. I loved it.

But now I’m back in Dublin. Crap shopping. Crap food. And zero sense of style. Pasty white will never be in. I just need to get back to New York, and fast. I miss the shock and jolt of the culture there. My friends are there. My old haunts are there. My life is there. It’s the best city in the world. Not to step on any European toes, but let’s face it; NY is the center of the universe. Dublin is nice to visit. There’s no diversity here. Can’t even buy tortilla chips here. What the hell?

I plan on going back to New York, getting a plate of all-American ribs at Virgil’s Steakhouse, tossing back a Long Island Iced Tea, and fixing my friar-do.

Thanks, Mon. Was that an appropriate blog entry? Was that good craic?

Sayonara.

Bonus Post!!!

2008-11-01T21:37:00.004Z

Here you go, Dad! A genuine Spanish mail truck.

More Gaudi, More Sun

2008-11-01T21:17:00.011Z

Our last day in Barcelona, we went to Park Guell, another one of Gaudi's contributions to Barcelona's art and architecture scene.

We had unbelievable luck with the weather --- by now, we were freckled all over and adoring the sun!

Park Guell is hugely difference from Sagrada Familia, but you can tell it's Gaudi's work. Lots of seashell-inspired twists on conventions of his time.

These guys played "Fly Me to the Moon" and the Godfather theme while we squinted and applauded.

The whole park is lined with these tiled benches --- they're the perfect place to take a rest, leaning your back against the warm ceramic mosaic pieces.

A farewell view of the city we'd soon be leaving!

A very happy camper.

Sagrada Familia

2008-10-31T12:00:00.006Z

Antoni Gaudi's kind of the golden maniac of Barcelona --- he's equal parts hometown hero and mad scientist to the Spanish, and his architecture is hugely celebrated in the city. We spent a morning visiting Sagrada Familia, the massive church that became his passion project. It's got an unbelievable story behind it. Construction on the church started in 1882. It's still not finished.

Gaudi was run over by a tram in June 1926 and killed. Fortunately, his proteges and collaborators continued work on Sagrada Familia --- that was, up until Gaudi's drafts and blueprints were destroyed by anarchists during the Spanish Civil War in 1938. So nobody really knows how Gaudi intended for the Sagrada Familia to be finished.

Completion is projected for 2026 --- 144 years after the first bricks were laid. But even this is a disputed date!

The entire thing is just astounding. To see the brute strength and literal years of labor it takes to make something so grand and so sacred makes your jaw hang open. After seeing St. Peter's in the Vatican, I was even more impressed. The whole of Sagrada Familia looks as if someone hauled up an old shipwreck after letting it mold for years under the sea. You wouldn't be surprised to see little crabs scuttling out of corners, barnacles on the foreheads of the sculptures.

Barcelona 2.0

2008-10-30T09:09:00.007Z

So! The javelinas have made their grand entrance. If that were the most exciting thing that happened to us in Barcelona, it would still make a great story. However! We still had four more jam-packed days in the city.

We moved on to our second hostel, perfectly located on the Paseig de Gracia, Barcelona’s answer to the Champs-Elysees. And we were just a short walk from Placa Catalunya, just like Union Square in Greenwich Village. Below Placa Catalunya stretches Las Ramblas, the main drag of Barcelona. Along Las Ramblas there are cozy cafes, Hemingway's favorite absinthe haunts, and quite a few merchants selling plants and animals of all sorts.
Believe you me, it took every ounce of willpower I had not to buy a chipmunk as a little companion. Only 15 Euro!

About six more NYU kids met up with us there --- although somehow I was put in a different room from them, which was not altogether unpleasant, since my Brazilian roommates all looked like disciples or fishers of men and had strong penchants for playing “Dear Prudence” on their guitars at all hours of the day. That’s half the fun of budget hostelling, isn’t it?

Our Barcelona days were spent trying to get as much sunshine and culture into our lives as we possibly could. We took in the Museu Picasso (a mind-blowing collection of his early exercises and artwork, so humbling to look at what he produced at only 15 years old!) and a Alphonse Mucha exhibit at the CaixaForum (beautiful, feminine posters in the style of Toulouse-Lautrec) and blew dozens of Euros on postcards and prints. We walked kilometer after kilometer, taking in the strong Spanish faces. There’s something about the “Old World” countries, I’ve found. It’s effortless to look at the man sitting across from you on the subway and imagine his face in a 17th century court. Something about the eyebrows and the nose --- they’re just timeless, compared to all of our muddled American features.

That’s something else --- in Ireland, we blend in fairly well. With our pale film-school faces and big eyes, we’re actually considered kind of beautiful here! Not so in Barcelona. While here in Dublin we can get away with messy Rapunzel hair and pasty arms, in Spain we looked like short albino mushrooms, all moist and mutant. It was humbling, and a little mortifying.

You can imagine our new priority was to soak in as much sun as possible. Carmen and I started a feeding frenzy in the harbor, coaxing fish two feet long to fight over cookie crumbs. All the beaches in Barcelona itself are manmade, but that only means that the sand is dark and trucked in monthly, and falls like cornstarch under our feet. It was such a welcome rest from the gloomy seashores of Ireland --- the Mediterranean, how exotic!
Pasty Irish moonface and all, I was really, really happy there.

Benvinguts a Barcelona!

2008-10-28T14:34:00.005Z

I feel bad starting out writing about Barcelona. Chronologically, we visited it first. But I loved it so much and was so sad to leave that I'm afraid any entry not about Barcelona will be a letdown. Not that Italy was a letdown at all! But all of my enthusiasm and all of my exclamation points have to go to Barcelona. It's phenomenal.

Our introduction to Spain was a really pleasant one, and pretty indicative of the five days we spent there. Immediately, we knew we weren't in Dublin. The air was warm and moist, and everything smelled like orange juice and wet trees. We shouldered our bags and, amused, followed the directions to our first hostel, a place out in the hilly suburbs --- "walk 500 paces up the mountain." Something had been lost in translation, we assumed. It couldn't have been a mountain we needed to march up!

It was, though, and it took much more than 500 paces to reach the summit. But what a reward, once we got there! Our bunks were really comfortable and actually kind of good-looking, a far cry from the sleepaway camp aesthetic we’d seen in so many hostels.

We threw our bags down and found a sweet Spanish senyora who handed us trays and plates and bowls of food --- our first meal in Barcelona, a real feast! Tomato soup ladled over rice and peas, fish sticks, good bread, salad with unbelievable olives, and a poached apple. The fish sticks I fed to a cat that was creeping around my ankles, but everything --- the food, the company, the view --- was wonderful.

We spent our first day exploring Barcelona, wandering up and down Las Ramblas, the main drag in the city center. La Boqueria, a giant marketplace, provided our entertainment. Stacks and stacks of fruits we’d never seen before, crates of eels and crabs and seashells meant to have their innards scraped out and eaten with broth. And of course, new and foreign words yelled at us.

Catalan is not at all an angular language, so no matter what volume it’s being spoken at, it sounds nice. Lots of eus, and xos, not many zs. It’s similar to French and Portuguese to my ear, at least. And Barcelona being bilingual is really something amazing. In galleries and museums where there are no English translations of texts, reading both panels of Castillian Spanish and Catalan will clue you in on most of the big ideas, in terms of the English cognates and similarities to other Romance languages.

And if all of this weren't enough for our first impressions, we had the absolute terror and delight of climbing the 500-plus paces back up the mountain to our hostel in the pitch black, clutching each other and hoping we didn't trip and fall off a cliff. Imagine the three of us, tiptoeing and clutching our keys between our knuckles to stab anyone who might try to emerge from the bushes and abduct us. Instead, we came across these little javelinas rummaging for food between the yucca plants and the morning glory.
If they had had tusks, we mightn't have gotten so close to take pictures. Hindsight's 20-20!

Don't Take My Word For It!

2008-10-28T14:07:00.002Z

In case all of this seems too good to be true and you'd like another traveller's account of our vacation, I invite you all to go to the fabulous Carmen Angelica's blog --- www.whereintheworldiscarmenangelica.blogspot.com

It's one of the links on the right hand side of the page. She's got some fabulous photos and exclusive videos you will see nowhere else. I guarantee!

Ryanair, and the Beginning of the End

2008-10-27T18:49:00.007Z

After the past ten days of roaming around Spain and Italy, I am over the moon to be curled up on the couch in my apartment with tea and my journal, going back over all of our adventures. There's hot water in the kettle, clothes in the wash, and socks in the trash. There was no way of resurrecting them after the abuse they'd been through these past few days. So I tossed 'em.

Where to begin? Last Friday morning, I caught a cab at 4:30 with Carmen and Lexi, my companions for the first leg of the journey. Drowsy but excited, we headed out to Dublin Airport to catch our flight to Barcelona.
We flew Ryanair this fall break, which was an absolute experience in itself. Dirt cheap flights --- I don't think we paid more than 35 Euro, or about $50, for any of our three flights. In fact, going from Barcelona to Pisa was 11 Euro, taxes included. But here's the thing about Ryanair. It's awful. In a really entertaining way, of course, when you're a student backpacking on a budget, but it's just terrible. The plane's decorated in banana yellow and navy blue, the flight attendants are grumpy, and you have to pay for your own barf bags. But hey! If the plane can get on and off the ground when necessary, I'm a happy camper. The flights make for great blog fodder, at least.

Every Ryanair trip's a mixture of a gypsy caravan and a Tupperware party. There's complete anarchy as you board the plane, because there are no assigned seats, no first class or business class. Everyone scrambles for a seat, they strap you in, and we're off. No fuss. Until the official Ryanair jingle comes on! This is when things get exciting. You didn't think you paid 11 Euro to sleep on the flight, did you? Not a chance. The flight attendants, wan and smelling like Lysol, troll up and down the aisles for the entirety of the journey, hawking wares. Not the cool gadgetry you sometimes see in the catalogues on American Airlines planes. Ryanair sells discount makeup, phone cards, scratch-off tickets, generic corn-based snack products. It's like an infomercial without the charm, Chinatown in a culture vacuum. It is appalling and amazing, and you should try it at least once.

Home Again, Jiggety Jig!

2008-10-20T18:28:00.002+01:00

Hello, everyone! I'm just arrived back in Dublin -- an afternoon with the sun shining, no less! The city must have known we missed it. Fall break was really wonderful, and I have SO much to write about. So be patient, please, and stay tuned!

We're Getting Off the Island!

2008-10-16T21:13:00.003+01:00

It's officially fall break! In six hours, I'll be hopping in a cab to Dublin Airport and heading over to Barcelona for the first leg of our journey. We'll be trekking around until the 27th --- then it's back to the grindstone! While I hope to stop in a few internet cafes whilst in Barcelona, Florence, Rome, and Venice, please don't be upset if I don't post any new entries. Just think of all the stories and photos I'll have you for when I get back!

Slan go foil, Dublin! I'll be back soon.

Pulp Fiction

2008-10-16T19:46:00.002+01:00

Bits. They do a body good.

Listen Up, Boys and Girls!

2008-10-14T22:06:00.016+01:00

Ireland's kind of all over the place when it comes to gender. The Celtic pagan religion was structured around the idea of a sacred feminine, but Irish women didn't get the vote until 1928. Despite countless speeches and poems dedicated to "Mother Ireland," the streets here are all named after her great sons --- Daniel O'Connell, Padraig Pearse, Arthur Guinness, James Connolly. Along the River Liffey, there's Bachelor's Walk. No Spinster Street, though. But Ireland's got a female president and deputy prime minister! The place is full of contradictions.

This is a popular chocolate bar around here. I keep meaning to buy one, but...apparently, I can't. Who would tell a girl she can't have chocolate? Talk about reverse psychology. This is not a recent sensation, though. Nor is it a sensation at all. Yorkie bars can be bought anywhere, anytime!

And then there's the new Burger King campaign going around here advertising the "Meat Beast Whopper." 100% Irish beef, bacon, and pepperoni, in case your arteries were getting bored. Anyway, buses and posters everywhere are urging Dubliners to buy one --- well, maybe not every Dubliner. The campaign's slogan is "A Man Has a Right to More than One Meat."

Here's one of the TV spots they've had on recently:

Burger King Polygame..
Watch the ad...

I'm not really sure how to feel about this. It's kind of funny? Nobody really thinks of it as controversial.

At the same time, this being Europe, there's also a certain level of flamboyancy that's tolerated --- and even encouraged --- in men, regardless of orientation. Primetime television is interrupted not only by the typical glamour ads featuring Penelope Cruz wearing mascara and loving it, but also by cute young guys playing soccer, hair frozen in trendy peaks with the aid of Garnier Sculpting Gel! Never is a man here emasculated by the fit of the pants he wears, or the moisturizer he uses.

Next blog entry will be lighter, I promise. I guess we're all getting pretty fired up for the election here, and it's been making me think about why Palin's so-called "success" and Clinton's apparent "failure." Even here in Ireland, where there's such a contradiction in terms of the social expectations of gender, they had a female president elected in 1990. That was Mary Robinson, whose excellent quote I will leave you with as I go to fill out my absentee ballot:

"I was elected by the women of Ireland, who instead of rocking the cradle, rocked the system."

Now that's what I'm talking about!

Transatlanticism Much?

2008-10-12T23:38:00.000+01:00

You know how sometimes you wake up in a bed and you're disoriented for a few seconds, trying to remember which side the wall is on and what day it is?

Wouldn't you think you were in D.C. if you saw that? No such luck. It's Phoenix Park, in northwest Dublin.

Being in D.C. sounds pretty good right about now. Anywhere but on this island, really. We're all getting cabin fever, I think --- but if we can survive midterm week, we'll be set for fall break, finally! It should be amazing. We're flying early Friday morning from Dublin to Barcelona, then spending five days there, then off to Florence, Rome, and Venice. I'm open and enthusiastic about any suggestions you have for me --- where must I eat? what can't I miss? what should I bring you back?

2008-10-12T19:01:00.007+01:00

"O the bricks they will bleed and the rain it will weep,
And the damp Lagan fog lull the city to sleep,
It’s to hell with the future and live on the past,
May the Lord in his mercy be kind to Belfast."
-Maurice James Craig

Just got back from our second NYU-sponsored field trip --- this one was a whirlwind tour around Belfast. I don’t really like calling it a “tour,” since that makes it sound like a destination with novelty hats and theme parks and things like that. More like it was 26 hours in which to experience what we’ve been learning in our History, Politics, and Artistic Expression in Ireland class. And…yow.

I have to admit I was extremely nervous about heading up to Northern Ireland for the weekend. Whenever we mentioned to someone here in Dublin that we were planning a trip to Belfast, they grimaced as politely as they could, then wished us luck. Luck?!

It’s been ten years since the Belfast Agreement was signed, and I’m sure things are much better than they were during the Troubles, but it was shocking. For a few moments, I wanted to move to Belfast. It's lovely. The city center is honestly beautiful --- think of the nicest parts of Boston and add in the strong financial backing of British government, but the residential areas can hardly be explained. There’s literally a wall separating the predominantly Catholic Nationalists from the Protestant Unionists. What’s scary is that this is a hatred and prejudice that’s entirely self-policed. There’s no law that requires the two groups to live in separate neighborhood, or to eat at different restaurants. If somebody wanted to move into the Unionist side of Belfast, they legally would have every right to do so, if they were Catholic or Protestant. That doesn’t mean that they wouldn’t be harassed and their house vandalized. Remember, this is a place where Beechmount Avenue is known more commonly as R.P.G. Avenue --- as in “rocket-propelled grenade.”

We went through both the Unionist and the Nationalist neighborhoods looking at the murals painted on the sides of houses and local buildings. These weren’t faded and peeling, either. Bright, recently painted colors and strong messages --- many anti-American, although one in the Catholic neighborhood featured my fellow Marylander Frederick Douglass's quote: "Perhaps no class has carried prejudice against colour to a point more dangerous than have the Irish and yet no people have been more relentlessly oppressed on account of race and religions."

What was the most startling part of the entire experience was how the city just functioned. I'm not sure what I was imagining, some kind of war-torn wasteland with fires burning in trashcans and long lines outside the welfare office. But what I found was just the opposite: Belfast still runs smoothly, and is, dare I say it, kind of booming. There are two Ferris wheels within the city center, for gosh sakes! And I've never been waved at so much in my life. Standing on the sidewalk, looking at the murals along Falls Road and Shankill Road, cars of people drove by and honked pleasantly, waving --- like we were wandering around Des Moines or River City looking for an ice cream parlor recommendation.

Belfast's people are cheery, get up in the morning and enjoy their coffee, head out to work. They eat in front of the television, drop their kids at school and walk their dogs. They do all this, however, hating their neighbors to such an extent that streets are barricaded off from each other. Kids grow up not knowing half of the city, except for the fact that the other half is to be despised. I'm sure some people are optimistic, and some are hopeful, but most are probably resigned.

Love you guys.

Gach La, Olaim Caife no Tae

2008-10-10T19:43:00.001+01:00

In New York, it’s essential to have some kind of a routine. There are just so many people and so many places that if you don’t go somewhere with some regularity, it’s absolutely possible that nobody would register you’re living there. You could fall into the East River one night and nobody would know you were even gone ---- the guy at the deli wouldn’t miss you coming in for a pickle and a diet Coke, the trainer at the gym wouldn’t miss you running your daily mile on the treadmill, the farmer at the market wouldn’t realize you hadn’t stopped by for your eggs and rhubarb. But start heading out to a restaurant or taking the same train every day, and you feel established in Manhattan life. Maybe nobody will know you by name, but you’ll have carved out a little pattern for yourself in a place that runs on chaos and distraction.

Dublin’s exponentially smaller than New York City (the whole of Dublin is about the size of the Greenwich Village neighborhood), but the same principle holds true. I had a few goals coming here ---- to write a great screenplay, to FINALLY finish reading Ulysses, to make friends with some true blue Dubliners, and to become a local at a café. Mission accomplished!

It’s been just about a month since I’ve started going to West Coast Coffee, a five-minute walk from my apartment on the north side of the Liffey. Initally, I needed a place to hide out when I got caught in the rain without an umbrella. After my first visit, I knew that I had found the coffeeshop I’d be frequenting this semester. It’s part of a small chain here in Ireland (the “West Coast” in its name refers to San Francisco --- I get such a kick out seeing the Golden Gate Bridge on my cups!). It’s an “American style espresso bar,” according to the literature on the wall, but I’m not sure what else besides the logo has anything to do with America. The one I go to on Ormonde Quay is managed by a sweet young guy from Prague who’s hilariously inconsistent about prices. He’s daily trying to promote a great new deal --- “bagel wit orange juice and Philadelphia cheese and some streaky bacon for four Euro. Maybe four-thirty. But if you come between 10 and 10:25, you get some coffee but no cream for five Euro. Only on Wednesdays, though.”

There are two girls who work there, probably just a little older than me. Both are startlingly pretty --- their tip jar overfloeth, I’m sure. One’s from Argentina, and there’s a guy who comes in every time I’m there, waiting for her to go on break so he can chat her up in halting Spanish. She’s very tolerant of his advances, and doesn’t mind topping up his espresso every half hour. The other girl hasn’t been there the last few times I’ve stopped by, but she’s just as lovely, and the first one to start making me feel like a regular. “Hello again!” she yelps in her accent. “Mocha for here?” I knew I had become a true patron when she started drawing with chocolate syrup on my foamy milk. Sometimes I’d get a star, sometimes I’d get a spiderweb or a leaf.

And I get so much done there --- if you’ve ever received a postcard or letter from me, more likely than not it was written at my own little table by the window at West Coast Coffee, waiting for my warm mug to be brought over with a “hope it’s okay today!” Most of my writing assignments are done there, too ---- although I do plenty of people-watching when I need a break. There’s a couple who comes in sometimes to plan their wedding! I love sneaking peaks at their guest lists, to see who’s gotten the axe and who’s welcome to bring a plus one. I’ve seen a guy get stood up for a coffee date, only to return with a lady who I have to assume was his mother. Just last week, the three business men who normally take their lunches while I’m getting writing done beat me to the café and took my regular table. Boy, and they knew it! Gave me sheepish looks as soon as I walked in clutching my notebook in shock. They vamoosed, obviously, ASAP, with the redheaded spectacled guy shuffling off under the force of my glowering. That’ll learn him.

2008-10-07T17:38:00.006+01:00

"New York is my Lourdes, where I go for spiritual refreshment...a place where you're least likely to be bitten by a wild goat."

- Brendan Behan

But Seriously, Guys...

2008-10-05T23:08:00.008+01:00

...I'm kind of having a crisis.

That's Jean Butler. She is all I ever wanted to be when I was growing up. I still remember the night my parents got me out of bed to come look at the television in their bedroom, back in our old house in Wheaton. It was during the PBS pledge drive, and they were showing Riverdance. Instant adoration!

I started taking Irish dance classes at the Spanish Ballroom in Glen Echo (I remember that pockmarked wood floor like the back of my hand), and the rest is history. Eight years of my life spent with my arms at my sides. Putting duct tape on shoes, on blisters, on socks. Over this past summer I went through my filing cabinets, tossing out old notebooks. Out came my third grade papers --- I had practiced my cursive Js with writing "jig" over and over, my Rs with "reel" and "Riverdance." Sheaves and sheaves of drawings of Jean Butler dancing, and me dancing alongside her. Never mind that she's all legs and sleek grace and I was not, am not, won't ever be.

But after those years of dancing, of driving all over to competitions and coming in fourth place! no place! third place! no place! no place! first place! fourth place! first place! no place! no place! duct tape! I finally stopped at the end of my sophomore year of high school. Theatre was keeping me busy, I couldn't give over the hours to practice and study and perform --- and my joints were just destroyed. Even so, it was really, really hard to give up dance.

Here's the thing, though --- I found my passion for film because of it. With my weekends back in my hands, I started learning about production and cinema. I doubt I would have ever fallen into this if I had continued with dance. So now I'm here in Ireland, somewhere I've desperately wanted to be since I was six. In those dreams, though, I was in Ireland to compete in the World Championships, the Oireachtas. I'd have Jean Butler's beautiful hair and long legs and I'd be the champion of the world.

But I'm here, finally, on such a different track --- on the couch, now, watching YouTube videos of Riverdance, realizing that this all started thirteen years ago. Thirteen years ago!! When did I get old? Why do my knees still ache? Honestly, I'm past my prime, dancing-wise. And it makes me so sad to think that at 19, I'm already put out to pasture. But I wonder what would have happened if I had stuck with dance, really thrown myself into it. I wouldn't be here now, writing films. Can two things you love actually cancel each other out, one eclipsing the other without you ever knowing?

Walking down Grafton Street today, a street musician started a slipjig, heaving his accordion to and fro, and I had competition flashbacks. Flashbacks! Like, twisting my head around to make sure my mom wasn't behind me, holding my shoes and waiting to get my scores. It's been years, years, since I've curled up the couch watching the shows we taped off of PBS pledge drives onto VHS tapes, and even longer since Christian and I would dance for company in front of the television. I've still got goosebumps seeing this, though. And I still wish more than anything I could be Jean Butler. Maybe I could have been a contendah.

At least I got some phenomenal posture out of those eight years of dance. That'll stay with me!

Lazy Sunday

2008-10-05T22:29:00.007+01:00

Today I saw this bird:trip on this grass:That's how dense and thick the grass is here! His little foot got all caught in the roots --- stepping and bobbing, munching on a crisp, stepping and bobbing...then WHAM! He's down for the count.

Can't you read, mister? They've got signs for a reason!

P.S. Yes, that's a Calder sculpture behind the sign. Such a eirephile am I that I completely forget to take pictures of it. Ta bron orm! Apologies!

The Brazen Head

2008-10-04T21:56:00.007+01:00

"Other people have a nationality. The Irish and the Jews have a psychosis."

This weltanschauung comes to you courtesy of Mr. Brendan Behan, Irish novelist, playwright, and poet. We've recently found a home in one of Behan's preferred pubs, the Brazen Head --- but on second thought, this was a man who referred to himself as a "drinker with a writing problem," so I wonder if there was a Dublin pub that Behan DIDN'T frequent. After all, he drank "on two occasions --- when I'm thirsty and when I'm not."

Luckily, the Brazen Head's got much more to offer than pints and whiskies. It's the oldest pub in Ireland, actually established in 1198. For more than 800 years, it's stood just on the south side of the River Liffey at Bridge Street, luring locals and tourists alike with traditional music and cozy wood-panelled rooms. Seven nights a week, local musicians tramp in to the main hall of the pub, bringing their accordions and guitars and settling onto stools to sing traditional songs --- although a few weeks ago, one of the groups had a strong penchant for Simon and Garfunkel covers. While they didn't play "The Only Living Boy in New York," I have to admit that it was the first moment since I've been here in Dublin that I was actually homesick.

Only a few minutes walk along the river from my apartment here, the Brazen Head's out of the touristy Temple Bar neighborhood. No bachelorette parties disrupting the evenings spent here! It's really refreshing to be able to leave behind the scribblings of any day and stroll down to hear a few hours of music with some of the girls here. We've never been hasseled, never been bullied, and already we've become regulars to the bartender! We've been there a grand total of four times in three weeks, but he recognizes us enough to give us advice and ask about class. Wednesday night, we had a lesson in pouring cream over the backside of a spoon so that it floats on top of a cup of coffee. Slowly, delicately...and it's done!

Equally attentive are the patrons. Most are international, some tourists and some expatriates. We've shared terrific conversations with a family from Norway, debated politics with fellows from Australia and England. Within the three rooms of the pubs, there are benches and chairs, tables with candles --- all full of people happy to tell you how their days were, when their mother's coming to town, how much they love Manhattan and can't wait to visit again. Of course, while I'm always glad to have a chat, there come moments when you just have to be quiet --- "Whist, whist," they say here --- and listen to the band.

And at the end of the night, after the singer's encouraged you to clap until your hands are swollen and bang spoons in time to the music, you walk home with your friends and watch the bridges over the Liffey and the cars driving home. You understand then what Joyce was thinking when he wrote:

"The space of sky above us was the colour of ever-changing violet and towards it the lamps of the street lifted their feeble lanterns. The cold air stung us and we played till our bodies glowed. Our shouts echoed in the silent street. The career of our play brought us through the dark muddy lanes behind the houses where we ran the gantlet of the rough tribes from the cottages, to the back doors of the dark dripping gardens where odours arose from the ashpits...a summons to all my foolish blood."

As always, wish you were here!

Field Trip to Kilmainham Gaol

2008-10-02T17:00:00.010+01:00

After public executions were banned, this became the hanghouse. Seven men were killed here.

Kilmainham was established as a dungeon and corrective jail in 1796.

The jail was abandoned in 1924 after Eamon de Valera was freed. It's considered the Irish Bastille.

This is some inmate grafitti. It's a quote from "The Rebel" by Patrick Pearse, a famous political prisoner at Kilmainham. In full, it reads "Beware of the Risen People, Ye That Have Harried and Held, Ye That Have Bullied and Bribed."

The East Wing of the jail was built in 1864 and held both men and women, political dissidents and petty thieves. Two seven-year-old boys were jailed for stealing a rabbit from the Dublin Zoo.

Constructed during a period of Victorian prison reform, the East Wing was modeled after the Eastern State Penitentiary in Philadelphia.

It's a tall, open space with high skylights --- the architects concluded that exposing the prisoners to the redemptive "Light of God" could only be a good thing.

The leaders of the 1916 Rising were executed against this wall. The cross marks the place where James Connolly was tied to a chair and shot --- he was so badly injured from the fighting that he could not stand and face the firing squad.

One Month!

2008-10-01T00:04:00.006+01:00

Happy anniversary to us --- time flies when you're living under constantly grey skies and watching movies!

What has one month of living in Dublin taught me?

- Always, always carry an umbrella, no matter the forecast. But never wear galoshes unless you want to stand out like the greenhorn American you are. Real Dubliners get their feet wet, and they learn to live with it. Love it, even.

- When in doubt, ask for help. Someone will likely know the way! And if they don't, they'll give you the names and phone numbers of four of their best friends who can help you.

- Some things you just have to leave to chance and spontaneity. Things like bus schedules, train destinations, postal fees, menu selections --- who needs a structure? Just go with the flow. It'll either work out, or you'll have a great story to tell about the time you ended up in Limerick instead of Dublin.

- Speaking of travel, cab drivers DO NOT need to be tipped. I don't know why I tipped 10 Euro. This is why I'm poor!

- The reason people abroad think Americans are idiots? What would you think, after feeding on a steady diet of Hulk Hogan, "The Hills," "Pimp My Ride," and "America's Got Talent"? I propose that the American television shows that have flooded the European market were chosen specifically to portray the worst of American culture. It's appalling.

- Condiments here are disturbingly vague. I wholeheartedly admit that I am Little Miss Ketchup --- but trips to the grocery store here leave me with goosebumps.

(Photo by Carmen Angelica, comedienne extraordinaire)

Salad Cream?! You know what it really is? Mayonnaise. If that's not your thing, you could always opt for some good old-fashioned HP Sauce. It comes in two flavors - HP Original or HP Fruity. Both are considered to be standard European condiments. When asking a grocery store employee what exactly HP Sauce is, you're met with a blank stare. "It's brown sauce." I should have guessed! In restaurants, you're given the choice of two major condiments: brown sauce, or red sauce. That's as much as you get. Both are elusive and disappointing in their nothingness. Sometimes you get lucky, and are offered white sauce for an extra Euro. But why bother, when you've got Salad Cream?

It's weird to think I'm in October, while everyone back home is still blissfully enjoying September. Make the most of it, you guys! I'm living in the future, and I see what this October's bringing. Big surprise: rain.

Droolin' over Doolin

2008-09-27T02:45:00.010+01:00

At last! The final chapter in the story of last weekend's expedition to the west of Ireland.

When last we left our brave explorers, they were on a ferry bound across Galway Bay to Doolin, a tiny seaside town. Rough waves and a chilly breeze did nothing to quench the enthusiasm of the nine travellers --- though the rainstorm that caught them by surprise certainly did.

Doolin's tiny. One road that can't even remotely be called a Main Street winds through, passing the two hostels and three pubs that host and entertain visitors. However, this road passes by golf courses and cow pastures for a whole mile before it actually reaches Doolin. This is the terrible fact we discovered when we stepped off the ferry, umbrella-less and without a dry change of clothes. We trekked, caught between amusement and hysteria, alarming the munching cows with our cursing and complaining about the lack of sidewalks and good Samaritans.

But a hot bowl of Guinness stew with good brown bread cures a whole bunch of ails, and shivers and sniffles are two of them. Plus, we had so much to look forward to the next day --- the Cliffs of Moher. We turned in early in our lovely hostel, with the promise of hot scones in the morning.

And what a morning it was!

Tummies full and bodies rested, we went out to the Cliffs prepared to be astounded.

This is what we saw:

Imagine, the sun rising over this. Now turn over your right shoulder:

Can you picture anything more idyllic? Keep turning:

Ahh, there are the cliffs! And, once more, turn:

There's an Irish saying: "Is glas iad na cnoic i bhfad uainn." It translates to "far away hills are green," a more lyrical way of saying the grass is greener on the other side of the fence. Here's the thing, though. Every hill is green here!

Basking in the Monday morning sunlight.

I cannot get over this.

From the cliffs you can see Inisheer! If you look closely, you can make out a brownish oblong thing on the righthand side of the island just by the water. That's the wreck of the Plassy, the beached ship we played in on Sunday.

I wish you were here on top of the world with me!

We Owe China $500 Billion??

2008-09-27T02:22:00.004+01:00

It's Saturday morning here in Dublin, and we're curled up on the couch watching McCain and Obama speak.

"IT'S ON: THE FIRST PRESIDENTIAL DEBATE" proclaims the bottom of the screen. Instant goosebumps! --- it's all unfurling so quickly from now until November 4th.

What's really interesting is that there's a live feed of the debate on two channels here: Sky News, an English-language news channel, and TG4, the Irish-language TV station. Maybe it's just because it's 2:30 AM here on a Saturday, and there's not much else to broadcast to the sleepy people here, but it really seems like Ireland wants to engage itself in the U.S. presidential campaign. We're not complaining! And, uncannily, McCain just compared America's business tax rate to that of Ireland's. That'll be all over the papers tomorrow!

They call Obama "the Hopemonger" here in magazines and Op-Ed columns. It's absolutely clear that Ireland, and most of Europe that I've heard of, wants to see him succeed. On our first day here, during our orientation program, we were told that Ireland likes to consider itself "closer to Boston than Berlin" in terms of its cultural relevance and political leanings. That becomes more evident by the day.

What an election to be voting in, and what a time to be abroad!

With a Little Help From James Joyce...

2008-09-23T19:51:00.012+01:00

' "There was no row," said Gabriel moodily, "only she wanted me to go for a trip to the west of Ireland and I said I wouldn't."

His wife clasped her hands excitedly and gave a little jump.

"O, do go, Gabriel," she cried. "I'd love to see Galway again."

"You can go if you like," said Gabriel coldly.'

Oh, Gabriel. What you missed out on, you'll never know.

Thankfully, we took a little field trip out to the west of Ireland this weekend, and it was just wonderful. Unlike the trip we'll be taking to Belfast in a couple of weeks, this excursion had nothing to do with any class --- it was pure fun and exploration, courtesy of Tisch. All of us students, plus our program director Susanne and our R.A. Sigita, drove out to Galway on Saturday morning, taking in kilometer after kilometer of green fields and dozy cattle.

Apparently Saturday was the best day of the entire Irish summer this year. It was nearly cloudless, with temperatures hovering in the low 80s. Coming from Washington, where the average summer day feels like the inside of a vacuum cleaner bag, hot and damp and dusty, that's laughable. But boy, did the people we encountered make the most of it! We strolled around Galway, munching on crepes as we took in the weekend farmers' market, packed with olives and leeks and blocks of limestone for sale --- all of it hawked by sunburnt smiley men. It's a sweet and good-natured town, far less industrial than Cork and less self-involved than Dublin. If only we had more time there!

But we hustled on. We had a ferry to catch, you know!

The next leg of our journey took us out to Inisheer, the smallest of the three Aran Islands. It's located between the Atlantic Ocean and the mouth of the Galway Bay. Let's go back to Joyce for an introduction to the Islands...

' "O, Mr. Conroy, will you come for an excursion to the Aran Isles this summer? We're going to stay there a whole month. It will be splendid out in the Atlantic. You ought to come...and haven't you your own language to keep in touch with -- Irish?" asked Miss Ivors.

"Well," said Gabriel, "if it comes to that, you know, Irish is not my language." '

Well, Gabriel, it is the language of Inisheer. All of the Islands are considered part of the Gaeltacht, or Irish-speaking region of contemporary Ireland. For the most part, Gaeltachts are quite traditional, close-knit communities. Inisheer is no exception. About 200 people live on the island, most of them fishermen. There are three pubs, two restaurants, a hostel, a bed and breakfast, and a general store. No police officers, no firemen, no bowling alley.

There are, however, ancient ruins and Napoleonic watchtowers, a rusted shipwreck on the shore, and a half-dozen loyal dogs who followed us over boulders and past blackberry hedges as high as my chest. It's a lonely, lovely place. With so much free time, I walked around the island, hearing at long last actual Irish spoken conversationally! I was so thrilled to finally be able to use what I'd learned from my two semesters of Irish. While everyone knows English, they always were happy to answer my "go raibh maith agat" with a "failte romhat." I wish we could have stayed longer.

Dead seagulls and all, it's an astounding place. But there was one leg left of our adventure: traveling back across Galway Bay to Doolin and the Cliffs of Moher. That's a story for another day. Maybe tomorrow! Stay tuned.

I love and miss you all!

See? The Cliffs of Insanity!

2008-09-22T22:00:00.005+01:00

Remember this?

That's exactly how I spent my weekend:

NYU took us on a field trip this weekend --- Dublin to Galway, then out to the smallest of the Aran Islands, Inisheer, to spend the night. A few of the screenwriters broke off to spend an extra day exploring County Clare and the Cliffs of Moher, where that scene from "The Princess Bride" was filmed.

I'm getting together all of my stories from the past couple of days...stay tuned!

There is a Bee in My Bonnet, and I Will Now Step On It

2008-09-18T19:33:00.011+01:00

Still to be blogged: Ireland's fascination with Elvis, observations on juice, and reviews of some local pubs around Dublin.

However --- something really got to me today. Diablo Cody, who won the Academy Award this past year for Best Original Screenplay for "Juno," just updated her blog. I'm absolutely not her biggest fan, Lord knows, and apparently tons of other people aren't either...her latest posting is a diatribe defending her self-created persona. Why that needs to go all over the internet? Your guess is as good as mine. But something she writes really sticks with me, especially after these first three weeks in Dublin.

So, what was that, Diablo?

""I may have won 19 awards that you don't feel I earned, but it's neither original nor relevant to slag on Juno. Really. And you're not some bold, singular voice of dissent, You are exactly like everyone else in your zeitgeisty-demo-lifestyle pod."

Mhmm. But that's not what really gets to me. She pities me, NYU film student, "shooting your failed opus at Tisch."

For the past twenty days, I have been surrounded with strong, witty, immensely powerful minds. I have the privilege to learn with, play with, fight with, and live with some of the most dazzling, brilliant people I've ever met --- people who do not and will not ever need to rely on name-dropping or pop culture references to tell their amazing stories. We're not just coining catchphrases in our writing. We're changing things. And no, we're not bold, singular voices of dissent, Diablo. There's no dissent here. We've been encouraged by our families, our teachers, and above all, by each other. The support system I've found at Tisch is incomparable. I'm sorry you never got to experience it.

So, homeskillet, enjoy your 19 awards. I'm having the time of my time writing with people who care about me and will stand by me, failed opus or not.

You Say Baloney, I Say Blarney

2008-09-15T11:25:00.011+01:00

So --- Cork was disappointing. That's been said. Do I regret the trip? No way.

Rousing ourselves early Saturday morning, we dashed down to catch a bus to Blarney, about twenty minutes outside of Cork. It's a tiny little village with a beautiful town green, a few cafes, a school, and a post office. It's also home to one of the biggest tourist attractions in Ireland: the Blarney Stone.

Yes, it's all very cliche. But if the legends are true, and kissing the Blarney Stone really does impart "the gift of gab," then why not? We're screenwriters here --- we need all the eloquence we can get! The castle itself is just stunning. Few of my preconceived notions about Ireland have been challenged --- it absolutely is a country full of tiny towns, green fields, and random ruins scattered about. The Blarney Castle was built around the 11th century, but it was destroyed in 1446. The King of Munster rebuilt it, placing the legendary Blarney Stone at the top of the castle. And so it stands today!

We clambered up the stairs, holding tight to the stone walls. I'm so amazed by Carmen...completely afraid of heights, she went all the way to the top --- documenting the journey on her video camera! I couldn't be that brave.

So we kissed the stone. Check! Now we join the ranks of thousands of other overfed tourists who lay on their backs and lean over the edge to get a little piece o'luck. Don't cluck your cynical tongues at me, please. I fully embrace the tackiness of my ways. But that wasn't even the highlight of the trip!

I can say without hesitation that the gardens at Blarney Castle are the most beautiful place I have been in years. Perhaps even ever. Six of us girls went wandering through them, just stunned by the peace and the loveliness. The timelessness of the forest is almost supernatural --- it's peppered with these natural rock formations that have been around forever. An old circle of stones where druids used to walk. Deep streams that flow soundlessly between trees and underfoot. You can see perfectly to the bottom, where old willow branches and river weeds drift around. I held my hands underneath a waterfall and drank ancient water. Ancient water!

As quiet as the forest is, you never quite feel alone. It's so easy to understand how many fairy tales originated in Ireland. Something about the light, about the moss and the stone...it's another world. I honestly would not have been surprised to see a unicorn emerge from behind a clump of trees. We all had goosebumps --- realizing that as little girls, we had dreamed of playing princess in a place like this. To find it exists entirely and utterly as we imagined is mindblowing.

Uncorked

2008-09-14T13:06:00.008+01:00

In keeping with the spontaneity of Ireland, a couple of us took a little jaunt to Cork this weekend, catching a bus early Friday. Cork, in the south of the country, is Ireland's second-biggest city after Dublin, and its third most populated after Dublin and Belfast. Historically, it's known as "The Rebel City," due to the role it played in the War for Independence and Ireland's Civil War.

Colloquially, it's known as a bit of a letdown. Cork's a mix of Cumberland's dreariness, Baltimore's unease, and the shopping centers of Queens. While very well-dressed, the people there were far less likely to return smiles. This may not be a reflection on the Corkonians themselves --- we were asked for directions by three different groups of Americans, some Canadian visitors, and a posse of Israeli tourists. Nobody's quite sure of their bearings in Cork, and somehow the atmosphere takes on the feeling of an outdoor warehouse full of strangers.

But even a bleak destination is manageable when you're traveling with friends. And what companions I had! The girls and I had such fun exploring up and down the River Lee while waiting for the others to arrive. A wonderful dinner at an organic place called Nutmeg cheered us all up immensely, and we ended the night in hilarity --- all ten NYU kids in one hostel room, trying to sleep and failing catastrophically.

It's Called the Emerald Isle for a Reason

2008-09-13T22:44:00.003+01:00

For those of you skeptics who've questioned my passion for Ireland's greenery:

What's Duller Than Watching Paint Dry?

2008-09-06T23:10:00.007+01:00

Here in Dublin, the answer is: watching your laundry dry.

Our apartments are outfitted with joint washer-dryer units, and holy mackerel, are they slow. I'm sitting here on the couch listening to the half-hearted whirl of it as it labors over the three pairs of jeans I put in there at 11:30 this morning. Yes, you counted properly, that WAS twelve hours ago. Twelve hours! That can't really be that energy efficient, even though I did put it on the half-load eco-wash setting. There's got to be a better way. So far the record among us students is getting a full load of t-shirts laundered in five hours. We wept to think of the luxury.

I had boatloads of fun on Thursday night, going to a comedy night at the International Bar then out to dance at a fun pub called The Globe. Aside from one hideously unfunny September 11th joke, the Irish comedians certainly upheld their reputation as terrifically witty people. And The Globe was just too great. I'm still not used to the alcohol-saturated nightlife here, but heading up George's Street away from touristy, overpriced Temple Bar was really refreshing. Plus, I discovered the handy fact that if the music is what it should be, it really doesn't matter what's in your glass. Guinness or soda water, if you're grooving, you're fine. As Dave, a fellow patron, said: "If you take anything away from this stupid Irish man, make it this: dance is the true religion." Not bad, Dave!

Today was another big day: the annual River Liffey Swim! A bunch of us went up the river to see the two hundred brave souls who participated in the race --- which has been going on since 1922, when the Liffey was apparently quite a pleasant place for a frolic.

2008-09-05T17:46:00.003+01:00

Here's my window! And beyond that, some of the beautiful things I've seen thus far:

I've Got No Frankincense At All

2008-09-05T14:01:00.003+01:00

Just as when I was in Australia (could that possibly have been seven years ago?), I'm consistently tickled by the flavors of things here. What marketing focus group decided that prune yogurt would be a hit here in Europe but not in America? How come Dubs get to munch on "Prawn Cocktail" Pringles in jolly pink cans, but Bostoners can't?

Case in point! My new toothpaste: Colgate Herbal. Bought at the 2€ Store for, well, two euro, it features a soothing bouquet of chamomile, eucalyptus, sage, and myrrh. Myrrh! I honestly didn't know that was still around. How delicious, though! It's a little bit overwhelming at first brush --- almost as if you've cut open a lawn mower's bag of clippings and shoved your toothbrush inside. Spitting into the sink, I half-expect to see little pieces of grass and clover. Why is this not readily available in D.C.?

Along those lines, I'll say this: grass is INSANE here. I'm trying desperately to figure out just how much of the municipal budget is devoted strictly to maintaining and manicuring the patches of grass in the city. Over by Trinity, it's stunning to see Astroturf-esque expanses of beautiful, soft green grass. Cut low to to ground and perfectly planted, it begs for little lambs to graze upon it. Unfortunately, that's a right given only to those honorable citizens who have received the Freedom of the City. Lucky recipients like Bob Geldof and Bono have the right to graze sheep on common ground within the city boundaries.

Someday....!

A Lidl Disappointed

2008-09-03T13:26:00.003+01:00

I'm about to run off to my very first screenwriting workshop...I'm excited to get back to work on something big!

We're only a few days into the semester here in Ireland, but already the penny-pinching is getting extreme. I walked into another of the student apartments over the weekend to find a group of at least four people standing around a pot of marinara sauce warming on the stove, ladling big warm spoonfuls of sauce into their mouths. That's one way to get your vegetables!

After our first night's meal of grostequely pricey deep-fried fish and chips, we've tried to avoid fast food. Jet lag plus the hangover of too much grease and sodium, combined with the simple knowledge that you've just paid about $15 for a plate of food you could get at any mall food court for under $5, is pretty nauseating.

So with optimistic hearts, we set out on Sunday for Lidl, a cheapo grocery store on the north side of the Liffey. It was kind of a letdown. Some good deals, sure, but not what we poor college kids were hoping for! Plus, not taking credit cards? No good. No good at all.

One thing that I really appreciate about Ireland (and, from what I've heard, a good deal of Europe) is the lack of shopping bags. "Paper or plastic?" just isn't an option here, unless you're willing to cough up a few extra Euro. That being said, having to pay for the use of a grocery cart is pretty startling too. But the fee for shopping bags means everyone brings their own, which thrills a little green piece of my heart. Anyhow, we're surviving on simple fare, which is satisfying in its own way. A piece of seedy brown bread with blackcurrant jam for breakfast. A banana and leftover pizza slice for lunch. A salad with oil and vinegar and some baked chicken thighs for dinner. Little by little, we're finding shortcuts and timesavers for getting through the days!

Time for class --- more later!

2008-09-01T21:58:00.000+01:00

There are a few ways still in which I am very much reckless and impetuous:
- I have never once separated my whites and colors in the wash.
- I squeeze my toothpaste anywhere but from the bottom up.
- I do not make my bed.
- I sleep with my contacts in.
- I blow my nose loudly and often.
- I walk briskly with scissors.

Here's another one to add to the list!

For the next three months, I'll be living here in Dublin, participating in NYU's study abroad program. It's coordinated by the Tisch School of the Arts --- so all twenty-four of us here are film majors, and we're more or less pretty familiar with each other. You can bet that after the next fourteen weeks of working together, crewing together, pubbing together and living together, we're going to be a heck of a lot closer.

I flew into Dublin from Dulles Saturday morning, and I'm only just now unpacking --- so forgive me for all these belated details, especially if you were expecting me to be in Manhattan this semester! After the first two days of settling in, we've finally found a slightly domestic pace to comfort ourselves with. That doesn't mean we'll be laying low, especially if this quote from Sir John Pentland Mahaffy is to be trusted:

"In Ireland the inevitable never happens and the unexpected constantly occurs."

I can only hope. Please stay tuned for more updates! I miss you and love you all!