For the Love of an English Major!

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.

"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.

"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

The Brazen Head

"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!

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!