Day Fifteen: A Day At The Races

School was an afterthought today, as we had been informed the previous day that we’d be attending a horse race at Leopardstown Race Track, located not too far outside of Dun Laoghaire. I’ve never been to a honest-to-goodness horse race before, with betting and women in big hats and mint juleps. To be fair, Leopardstown is not the Kentucky Derby (not by a long shot). People dressed up, as did we, but there weren’t any outrageously large hats as I had come to expect from watching some of the Triple Crown races on TV.

Leopardstown races are, however, sponsored by Bulmer’s Cider, something that made them instantly popular with our group. I don’t really know why alcoholic cider isn’t a product easily available in the states, but it’s not. This trip has been a long introduction to exactly how easy it is to drink an alcoholic beverage that is mainly produced from fruit, and retains a very sweet taste. And since they were the sponsors of Leopardstown, there was a large Bulmer’s tent, with the style we all knew (apple) and two flavors we’d never seen (pear and berry). Needless to say, they made money from our group.

On a typical Thursday night, the first race starts at 5:00, with a race every half hour until the last one at 8:30. The races all vary in the number of horses racing one another, but the competition gets better and better as the races go along. You can bet with any number of the bookies that set up posts in front of the grandstand, or you can bet with the Daíl (pronounced “dole”), which is sponsored by the racetrack itself. We were warned about using bookies, as their odds could change seemingly at a whim, while the Daíl never changed the odds on you. I wasn’t brave (or stupid) enough to risk my money with the bookies, so I bet with the Daíl for two races.

After perusing the racing sheet for the evening, two things became abundantly clear. One, I felt like I was in Guys & Dolls, and at any moment Nicely Nicely was going to put his hand on my shoulder and start singing to me about the benefits of his horse right here (there was no horse on the sheet named Paul Revere, unfortunately). Two, I had no idea what I was doing. I’m not a gambling person, but I will occasionally play poker with chips, winning and losing amongst friends. But horse racing is completely different. Unlike card games, you have absolutely no control over the races. It was sort of terrifying to put my money behind a horse that I didn’t know anything about.

The racing sheet did provide some good information, and it was pretty clear which horse I wasn’t going to bet on. I decided that it was in my best interest to pick a horse to place, rather than win, because that increased my chances of getting some dough back. The first horse I picked was named Black Witch Woman, and I put €3 on it at 3 to 1 odds. The racing sheet said he’d been doing well, and it was his time to shine. This race, somewhat to my surprise, was only three-quarters of the whole track, meaning that the starting point was off where we couldn’t really see, but the finish would be right in front of us. That meant that I had a first row view of my horse coming in 6^th out of 7. Not exactly the best way to start my gambling career.

I decided, despite my moment of failure, to try and bet again. I watched a few races, then opted to bet on the last race of the night. 8 horses were racing, and I read the racing sheet in much the same way as before. I decided on Aladdin’s Cave due both to racing sheet’s recommendations and the reference to the Disney film. I put €2 on Aladdin’s Cave to place at 4 to 1 odds. This time the race was a full loop, so I got to watch my horse immediately fall the back of the pack as they surged through the first quarter of the track. I groaned a little, trying to console myself that it was only €5 lost and I would probably never bet on a horse again. But as if sensing my disappointment, Aladdin’s Cave broke into the single greatest moment of horse racing history (Okay, not really, but I was still excited). Working the field like a pro, Aladdin’s Cave and his jockey broke from third to last all the way up to the front of the pack, winning the race by at least two lengths. I, and the other two people in our group who picked Aladdin’s Cave, went nuts the whole way.

That’s when I realized exactly why people get addicted to horse racing. I had put down a mere €2, which became €8 in a matter of minutes. And not only did I come out on top, the horse I picked had an amazing comeback that blew everyone else out of the water. The sheer thrill of victory was incredibly intense, and I could easily see someone fighting to get back to it again and again. But I was just happy to have won. I hindsight, I should have bet on Aladdin’s Cave to win, which had something like 11 to 1 odds, but I’m not that brave (or cocky).

Leopardstown, at least in the summer, is much more of an event than just a horse race. All summer they feature live performances after the races, so we were treated to the musical stylings of Duke Special. Duke Special is an incredibly odd looking man, with dreadlocks that go past his shoulder blades, and a purple crushed velvet suit with yellow shirt. His music was sort of a folky pop (read: boring), but the crowd seemed to enjoy him. I was just mad that Shan McGowan of the Pogues would be performing in mid-August and we wouldn’t get a chance to see him.

We weren’t sure what to do after Duke Special was finished until we learned there was a club on the Leopardstown premises. Club 92, also known as the Club of Love, was open to all Leopardstown attendants, and featured dancing until at least 2:00 in the morning. If someone had told me that I would be dancing to Ram Jam’s “Black Betty” with six other study abroad students at 1:00 in the morning at a racetrack before I had left to come to Ireland, I would have called them a liar. But there I was, and it was the perfect end to a winning night.

Day Fourteen: "Did You Know There Was A Castle In Dublin?"

This week's excursion was to Dublin Castle, a landmark so significant in Dublin's history that it turned out I had walked past its entrance about four times prior to our visit and I didn't even know it was there. Once you walk through the gate, however, we were treated to a gorgeous building that has incredible significance in Irish history. The bulk of the castle was built in the 18th century, and it's where the British viceroy overseeing Dublin would live. It's built on the remains of a castle built in the Norman era, thus it's much more modern that what we Americans usually imagine castles looking like.

The castle itself is quite interesting, as it housed the British representation in Ireland. It's quite ostentatious, and it was used to throw parties for the visiting dignitaries and other guests of the British empire. The one part of the tour that makes everyone's stomach churn is when we visited the dining room. It was notable that during the mid-1800s, those dining in Dublin castle would often engage in 12-course meals that would last for hours and hours. The mid-1800s were also, of course, the time of the Great Famine in Ireland, where over 1 million people starved to death and over 1.5 million were forced to leave the country to seek better living conditions. So while the wealthy British dined on their massive feasts, peasants who were literally starving to death would be banging on the gates outside, just trying to get someone to throw them a scrap of food. Needless to say, this is a somewhat harrowing image.

But it wasn't all bad! For me, the best part of Dublin Castle was the square at the center, and the historical significance of that site. For it was there, on January 16th, 1922, the British government handed Dublin Castle over to Michael Collins, and officially established the Irish Free State. It is one of the single most important moments in Irish history, and we were all lucky enough to set foot on the same hallowed ground.

Following a light lunch, we continued our excursion to the National History Museum. The museum was designed with the intention of creating a sense of a uniform Irish history, collecting artifacts from as early as the 3rd century BC. That being said, the museum goes to great lengths to ignore the presence of the British in Irish history. All the artifacts and pieces relate to an entirely Gaelic history, and there aren't any objects from the 1600s on, as they would all indicate the presence of the British. It's a typical Irish move: creating a very strong political statement by doing something that, at least on the surface, seems quite passive.

They do, however, have an amazing collection of bog bodies. Bog bodies are people who, for one reason or another (accident, ritual burial, torture, etc.), were dumped into the peat bogs around Ireland upon their death. The way the soil and nutrients collect in the bog allows these bodies to become perfectly preserved as they sat for hundreds of years. When scientists discovered these bodies, they instantly began to decay due to exposure to air for the first time in centuries, but were still incredibly well preserved. The National History Museum features several of these bodies, including one where you can make out the fingerprints, fingernails and pores on the back of the hand. It's utterly creepy, and still very cool. Sort of like mummies, but with much better preservation techniques.

Day Twelve & Day Thirteen: Let’s Take Some Time To Catch Our Collective Breath

In keeping with my grand tradition of Mondays and Tuesdays where I don’t really do anything, these two days were no different. So rather than waste this space with two more paragraph-long updates talking about summer school, I figured I’d expand a little on what this trip has been like so far.

Irish people, specifically those who live in Dublin, are some of the most idiosyncratic people on the planet. Let me explain. They often behave in a way that is completely different from everywhere else in the world, and they are more than content to do it. Case in point: when walking around the sidewalks of most American cities, you find people ambling along, taking their time and “stopping to smell the roses” (so to speak). In Dublin, every single person (with the exclusion of girls aged 14 to 18) walks at a rather swift pace that my history professor/program coordinator Dave Kilroy calls “Dublin Standard Pace.” This means that when you ask someone for directions, they may tell you it takes about 10 minutes, but you could end up walking for 20, especially if you’re looking at a map. Fortunately, I’m someone who enjoys walking very quickly, and so if I know where I’m going, I fit right in.

The other thing that really stands out about the Irish is their propensity to lie. Not lying in a malicious way, but in a joking way that can make it seem like you’re not really having a conversation so much as reciting dialogue in a comedy, and you’re the straight man. People of Ireland, specifically Dubliners, specifically Northsiders (north of the River Liffey) absolutely love to pull each other’s leg, and they love to do it to Americans even more. I’ve seen many people on our trip get a very confused look on their face as they try to figure out why this Irish person has just refused to give them directions. Usually, they see the look of confusion and let up, as they are not sociopaths. But the best way to get around this is to call them out on it. If you join them on the joke, they immediately see that you have your wits about you, and they’re instantly your best friend. Incidentally, that’s a good way to get someone to buy you a pint.

But one of the biggest things that has surprised me since I arrived here on the Emerald Isle is how backwards the American view of the Irish accent really is. Every single American I know thinks they can do an Irish accent. What I’ve realized is that the accent everyone is imitating is used by a very small percentage of the population, and they tend to live in rural areas. Within the city of Dublin, you’ll encounter at least two different accents (Northside and Southside), not to mention all the regional accents. It’s like the US, but compressed into a smaller country. But speaking with some Irish people (namely my film professor, Seamus), you would be hard pressed to figure out what country they were from. You can tell they have an accent, but it would be quite difficult to pin Ireland as the exact source. Lucky (the leprechaun from Lucky Charms cereal) would definitely come from the much more rural west, and thus his accent would stand out like a sore thumb in Dublin. Perhaps the worst instance of an American “doing” an Irish accent is Julia Roberts as Kitty Kiernan in Michael Collins, the story of the figurehead in the Irish War for Independence from Britain. I asked Seamus before watching the clip, “Does she have an Irish accent?” His reply: “She thinks she does.”

Day Eleven: “Feckin’ Jaysus!” And Other Things You Hear At A Hurling Match

Happy 4th of July! What better way to spend our nation’s birthday than going to a sporting event that is about as far away from American traditions as possible. Actually, that’s not true. Hurling embodies the classic American values of screaming profanities, regional pride, beer drinking and borderline humiliation of the losers. What a game!

In order to explain exactly what was going on, I have to explain a little Irish geography and some history of GAA hurling. Ireland is divided into four provinces (Connaught, Leinster, Munster and Ulster) and there are a total of 32 counties that make up these provinces. 31 of those 32 counties have hurling teams, and all of them are trying to win the All-Ireland Championship in September. In order to get there, each county’s team must play other teams in their province, first accumulating points, then playing each other in knockout rounds (like the World Cup). Each province then has their own final, establishing four of the teams that will compete in the All-Ireland. However, the losing teams still play some more, thus finding the four other teams to compete for the championship. Winning your province is a guaranteed trip to the final stages, but losing doesn’t mean you’re permanently out.

Whew. Moving on, then.

We happened to luck out and choose the weekend that was the Leinster province final, between Co. Galway and Co. Kilkenny. Leinster is widely recognized as the dominant province in hurling, especially since Kilkenny has won the All-Ireland for the past four years in a row. But before we got to the big match, we were treated to a minor league game between Co. Dublin and Co. Kilkenny (even their young teams are good). It was quite exciting to watch guys younger than me play a sport I barely understood with some pretty observable skill. Of course, Kilkenny won, much to the dismay of the many Dublin fans (it was practically a home game for them). We then observed an odd ritual, where the losing team had to stand on the field and watch as the winning team was presented with the Leinster Cup. Kilkenny was, obviously, quite happy, but the Dublin players looked pretty downtrodden, and had to do so in front of all the fans. Ah, humiliation!

After a brief intermission, the senior game kicked off. Unlike the minor’s game, this match began with a procession around the pitch, led by a bagpipe band and followed by both teams marching in two single file lines behind them. Then, everyone rose and sang the Irish national anthem. It’s quite odd to be in a stadium where everyone knows the words to a song except you, but I guess that’s exactly what it’s like to be Irish at a baseball game. I tried to fake it, but guess what? You can’t read Gaelic words off the giant screen like you’re reading English and get away with it. The song is, however, quite short, and, amidst cheers, we were off.

After a few minutes, it becomes pretty easy to follow a hurling game. Players want to get a baseball-sized sliotar either into a goal or through the uprights that extend above the goal. Each time the ball goes through the uprights, the team gets a point. In the net (a goal) is worth three points. Scores are written, for example, like “Kilkenny 1-19, Galway 1-12,” with goals listed first, then points. You can’t run with the ball for more than four steps, you can’t throw the ball (you have to toss it in the air and hit it with your open palm) and you can’t hit a person with your stick. Other than that, it’s pretty no-holds-barred. There’s a lot of physical contact, about as much as a hockey game, but the players wear helmets as their only padding. Anything else and you’re seen as a wimp.

Kilkenny are basically the Yankees of hurling. They’ve won the All-Ireland more than anybody else, and it’s always a safe bet that they’re going to go far. Because of this, our group decided to cheer for the underdogs, Galway. Galway, however, are comparable the team that repeatedly beats the Yankees about the face and neck. I’m not to familiar with the intricacies of all the counties’ hurling histories, but it became quickly apparent that Galway was big on the strategy of beating their opponents into submission. This is all well and good (and makes for an exciting and physical game), but it doesn’t necessarily put points on the board. Kilkenny proved victorious, and once again we got to watch them hoist the cup while the Galway players looked on in a gloomy state.

There’s one more thing I should say about hurling, and all GAA sports for that matter. What I find most impressive about the whole venture is that every single GAA athlete is an amateur. They cannot get paid for playing their respective sports, although winning the All-Ireland does come with a reasonable purse for the county. This means that all the players have regular day jobs. Many of them are teachers, as the hurling season is over the summer, and they can dedicate their time completely to the game. Also, you play for the county you live in for your entire life. From when you first pick up a hurling stick to when you play your last senior match, you are dedicated completely to your home county. In a world where American athletes get traded on a seemingly yearly basis and get paid boatloads of cash, it’s nice to know that there is a part of the world where they truly are dedicated to the purity of the game.

FOOTNOTE: I should mention that Co. Galway is not actually in the Leinster province. They’re actually located in the west (in Connaught) but were deemed too good for the area, and so now play in the Leinster division. The match we attended was actually quite historic, as it was the first time a non-provincial team has made it to the final of the province they play in. So well done Galway. Hopefully they’ll make it to the All-Ireland the more circuitous route.

Day Ten: Malahide Mayhem

Dublin, despite what some locals may tell you, has a pretty darn good public transportation system. There’s a whole spiderweb of bus routes to take you all over the area, and the DART is reasonably inexpensive and pretty fast. And because DART serves Dublin and its environs, it becomes just a short jaunt to the end of its route, Malahide.

I don’t really know much about the town of Malahide, other than it features a quaint little downtown that boasts an alarmingly large number of pubs. The central area of town is only about three square blocks, but we passed by at least eight different establishments for grabbing a pint. It also was home to the most temperamental weather I’ve seen since leaving Oregon. In traditional Pacific Northwest fashion, it rained intensely for about five minutes before breaking into brilliant sunshine, which eventually settled into a partly cloudy sky. I’m home!

To get to Malahide Castle (the only real reason for this trip), you have to traverse a very large park that has been formed from what used to be the castle grounds. The park is massive, and on the way to the castle we passed a cricket game in progress, two full size hurling/Gaelic football fields (not in use), a very large children’s playground and a series of soccer fields. Apparently the Malahide Castle grounds have over 500 different types of tree, but all I know is that it was the first time Ireland has lived up to the reputation for greenery that I had heard so much about.

Walking through all of this almost made me forget about the actual castle, which made it all the more surprising when we turned a corner and were suddenly faced with a large medieval castle. Malahide Castle is not the oldest castle in Ireland (it was built in 1108), nor is it the biggest (I have no idea which one is), but it was the first honest-to-God castle I think I’ve ever been in. And for that, it was pretty incredible. People actually lived in the castle from when it was built until it was sold to the Dublin City Council in the 1970s, so the interior has some far more modern touches than the exterior belies. Still, most of the rooms have been preserved to their mid-1800s incarnations, and it really is quite neat. They didn’t allow us to take pictures, presumably to prevent us from sharing detailed information on how to bust through the Irish castle defense system that is currently in place. Regardless, we saw a peacock when we left, so it put a nice cap on the whole experience.

Day Nine: Temple Braü, Brain Blasta And Wrasslers XXXX

The benefit of the AHA International style of running a study abroad program is their weekly schedule. We only have classes on Mondays, Tuesdays and Thursdays, allowing for day trips on Wednesdays and three-day weekends for sightseeing, etc. We decided to spend this weekend around the Dublin area, exploring places we’d yet to see.

This, of course, led to one of the most popular destinations in Dublin: Temple Bar and its environs. There are all sorts of shops and restaurants to look into, and no one really bats an eye if you’re not Irish. In fact, Temple Bar is one of the few places in Dublin where there seem to be more foreigners than actual Irish people. It has a very international vibe that makes it a very nice experience, especially for those of the college age.

But all that walking requires sustenance, so naturally we began looking for the most interesting food options. We landed on a place called the Porterhouse Brewing Co., largely because the rule in the US is that breweries usually make good food and they often have sampler options for their beers. We were correct on both counts. For a mere €5, you got three 1/3 pints of any of their nine house beers. I opted for a lager called Temple Braü, an ale called Brain Blasta and a stout called Wrasslers XXXX.

Temple Braü is described as “the lager beer of Temple Bar,” which seems unlikely due to the sheer number of pubs in Temple Bar, and the fact that only one of them actually serves Temple Braü. Regardless, it was delicious, and quite easy to drink. Brain Blasta is described as “a deep copper tinged brew for the true aficionado,” and is exactly that. It was a bit too bitter for my liking, and its 7% alcohol content was somewhat unexpected. But that’s why you get a sampler, right? Wrasslers XXXX is, apparently, the best beer they serve at the Porterhouse Brewing Co., and they say it’s “a stout like your grandfather used to drink.” As one member of our party observed, “It looks like oil in a glass.” That it did, but it’s taste was about as far away from oil as possible. I hate to admit it, but it might be better than Guinness, and I’ve had it at the source.

Walking around Temple Bar after our samplers made things far more interesting. The weather in Ireland has been incredibly nice, which just about every Irish person has been quick to point out to us Yanks. I’ve tried to explain that Oregon has very similar weather most of the year, but it largely falls on deaf ears. Anyway, we wandered around Temple Bar for another two hours or so in glorious sunshine, then took the DART home. After yet another full dinner, we went for a long walk around Dun Laoghaire, watching the sunset over the ocean.

I think I could live here.

Day Eight: Not Much To Say

There really is nothing to report about today. I went to my classes, did some homework in the afternoon, then spent the evening chatting with the other people in our house. But what I’ve realized is that this is all okay. I’m in Ireland for five weeks, so I’m entitled to the occasional day of semi-relaxation. It doesn’t make for an interesting blog entry, but I can only give so much. Don’t worry, I’m sure it will all get more interesting.

Day Seven: 83,000 Hurling Fans Can't Be Wrong

Every Wednesday, our program has scheduled day trips. Over the course of five weeks, we’ll go to several exotic locales in and around Dublin, presumably to learn more about the culture. As this was the first week anyone was in the country, we started with a brief walking tour of the city. We met at the front gates of Trinity College, and we were told to be there by “10 am sharp.” Needless to say, we’re college students, so we still had people straggling in as late as 10:20. After some obligatory group photos in front of Ireland’s oldest college, we split into our tour groups.

My tour was led by my film professor, Seamus. Seamus is a Trinity College grad himself, and delighted us all with tales of his school days, and explained exactly what the differences are between college in America and in Ireland. Not much, as it turns out, although public universities like Trinity College and University College Dublin (Also known as UCD. Go Ags.) are free. Yes, the top two colleges in all of Ireland are free if you pass their entrance exams. The only money you have to pay is a registration fee, to the tune of €1200. Let’s all move to Ireland!

After Trinity College, Seamus took us to the Bank of Ireland, which used to house the Irish parliament until they voted themselves out of existence in 1800, creating the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland. Now, the building is home to Ireland’s largest bank, and while the building was once secure enough to fend off angry Catholics, it is currently quite susceptible to frequent bank heists. Recently, some thieves were able to make off with over €8 million from the bank. We, being Americans, were instantly impressed, and I’m sure more than one of us started imagining what the Irish Danny Ocean would be like.

From there, we went into the hip new part of Dublin called Temple Bar (where Seamus once met Bono) and then to O’Connell Street (where Seamus once met Bill Clinton). The end of our tour was the General Post Office, the site of the 1916 Rising, where Irish nationalists started their 1916 revolt for independence from Britain. Apparently, you can still see bullet holes in the side of the building, but I was unable to find any upon closer examination. I think it’s another Irish trick, so they can make fun of gullible Americans staring intently at a concrete wall.

After a quick lunch break, we were whisked away to the Gaelic Athletic Association (GAA) Museum, located not far from the city center. The GAA Museum is located in the shadow of the national GAA stadium, Croke Park, which is a mecca for fans of sports like hurling, rounders, handball, and Gaelic football. If you don’t understand what those sports are, I highly suggest clicking around on their names above, as they will give you a clear sense of how far the Irish are willing to go to distinguish themselves from the English. All four sports (Gaelic football and hurling are also played by women) slightly resemble something from England, but have been blended with a large dose of good old-fashioned insanity. Gaelic football is basically Calvinball, and hurling is Gaelic football with sticks. And yet the Irish are so proud of these sports that they’ve always had a sold-out crowd for the All Ireland Championships, even when Croke Park expanded to 83,000 seats in 2007.

We got to see the interior of Croke Park, even walking down of field level (although not on the field, as no one is allowed on the pitch besides players and groundskeepers). I’ve been in some pretty big stadiums, some bigger than Croke Park, but its scale and design makes it feel much larger than anywhere else I’ve been. It’s an amazing place, with some pretty expansive history. One of the sections of the stadium is named for a player who was shot and killed by British troops when they stormed the stadium following Michael Collins’ organized assassinations of some British leadership. I defy you to find any football stadium with any back story that intense.

The actual GAA Museum is quite small, but extremely informative. Did you know, for instance, that it is damn near impossible to hit a ball with a hurling stick? I only know this because part of the museum involves actually trying to do so. The grip on the stick is supposed to be the opposite of baseball, with the dominant hand below the non-dominant hand. While this may sound like madness, it turns out that hurling is the fastest field sport in the world, with balls speeds of almost 160 kph. The key feature of the GAA Museum, and the crown jewel of the collection, is the Sam Maguire Cup. It’s presented in a small case, sort of nondescript, but this is the very trophy that was presented to winners of the All-Ireland Championship winners in Gaelic football from the 1890s to the mid 1980s. It’s like the Stanley Cup, but with even more history. And I got to stand in its glory.

Day Six: Boo Homework

I chose today to be a responsible study abroad student, and do the week’s homework that was required of me today. I knew that the next day was going to be our day trip into Dublin, and I was well aware how much a day of walking around could snatch away your energy. So I dutifully went to my classes today, enjoyed another of Ena’s fine dinners and read an overview of the experience Ireland and America shared from the mid-1800s to the present. Thrilling, to be sure.

As with school, doing homework in another country is full of more distractions than you can shake a stick at. But I was proud of myself of resisting offers to go to the pub and instead hitting the books. I was ultimately proven to have sound reasoning, as everyone else was quite tired during the next day’s excursion. Wow. I sound like a Goofus and Gallant cartoon from Highlights Magazine. Well, I don’t really expect to keep this trend. I’m sure by the end of five weeks I’ll have gone native, and I won't be able to speak in any language other than Gaelic let alone an article debating the role the Great Famine should play in the American education system.

Day Five: School? During The Summer? Unheard Of!

After four days of bumming around Ireland, all the fun just had to come crashing down with a swift dose of reality, as 25 American students were reminded why they were there in the first place. Not surprisingly, school in Ireland is a lot like school in America (especially when it’s run by an American organization). You’re still sitting in the requisite uncomfortable seat, staring at the professor in the front of the room, desperately trying to maintain your focus. It does help that the professors are all Irish, giving their lectures a bit of a twist. It does not help, however, that you’re in a foreign country that you’ve never visited, and there’s a big, wide world to explore out there, and instead you’re talking about immigration patterns from Ireland to America.

As was explained to us, Irish students don’t really do summer school, so the IADT campus was largely empty save for our program. All the classes operate out of the same small lecture hall, and the structure of classes ensures that everybody has at least one class with everybody else. The classes I chose (one on Irish film and one on the historical relationship between Ireland and America) are the first two of the day, which means I have a solid block of classes from 9:30 am to 1:45 pm. Fortunately, the campus canteen is still open, and for 5€ you can ­­­­­­­get a full on meal.

School’s early start and somewhat long day contributes completely to a pretty strong feeling of fatigue at the end of the day. The two hours between when my housemates and I return home and dinnertime is usually filled with an attempt at reading that results in a solid nap. Ireland is experiencing an unusually warm summer this year, meaning the afternoons are the perfect temperature to sap all your energy and put you in the napping mood. So nap we do, but we always seem to make sure to be awake in time for Ena’s excellent dinners.

Some members of the program had caught wind of a neat local pub known as The Graduate, and invited my housemates and me to join them. Andrew and Carolyn decided to turn in early, so Shelly and I set out with the vague instructions “It’s just up the road.” Our journey “just up the road” resulted in getting lost twice, having taken a wrong turn at two different crucial intersections. This, along with the drizzle that had unexpectedly decided to rear its ugly head 10 minutes into the journey, made for quite an adventure. We were both ecstatic that the gas station attendant we asked for directions told us we were only 5 minutes away. We arrived, damp but still cheery, an hour after we left. Thankfully, our friends were still there, and we enjoyed some quality conversation while imbibing some Irish beer (Smithwick’s for me, this time). For the return trip, Shelly and I had found a bus stop, which resulted in a 5-minute ride. Needless to say, the bus system is definitely the way to travel around Dublin’s suburbs.

Day Four: "I'm Sure This Bus Goes Back To Dun Laoghaire"

Ah, the first full day with our host family. The tone was set somewhat immediately by the breakfast. I had grown used to Brendan and Catherine's Cavalcade of Food, and I presumed that every morning would be the same. However, it became immediately clear that Neil and Ena ran things a little differently. Breakfast consisted of our choice of cereal and either scones or toast, with an array of jams and other spreads. Coffee or tea. That's it. And you know what? It's still amazing. Breakfast was simple as heck (and has yet to change) but it was exactly what you need to start the day.

Ireland, being the very Catholic nation that it is, keeps most shops closed until noon on a Sunday, so the other Americans and I found ourselves at the only thing that was open: Tesco. Tesco is basically Wal-Mart, but not quite as big, and it looks like someone ran through it and replaced all the products with joke labels. Pickled onion chips? No one would eat that! Tesco provided about as much entertainment as one would expect from a grocery store, and we quickly found ourselves back on the streets. Which was fortunate.

Unbeknownst to us, Dun Laoghaire features a wonderful little farmer's market on Sundays, open to the public. People come from the area to sell all sorts of cheeses, breads, pastries and produce. Food vendors offered cuisine from Italy, Lebanon, France, other parts unknown. I, of course, went for the more traditional Irish lunch, and was treated to a pork skewer that was otherworldly. The day was beautiful, and the market seemed to be the best place for people to bring their small dogs or small children. Both were, of course, completely silent and still the entire time, creating a nice, tranquil atmosphere.

Following lunch, we took the advice of our program coordinator and attempted to figure out the best route to the IADT so that we wouldn't get confused on the way to school the next day. We found the correct bus with some ease, and the ride to the college was relatively brief. We did not, however, know which stop was the best until we had passed it. And, rather than simply get off at the next stop, we decided to ride the bus until it returned until it picked us up. Needless to say, we found ourselves 40 minutes later in the heart of Dublin, about as far away from where we started as possible. But fear not! This allowed for another stroll down Grafton Street, and a discovery of the DART (Dublin Area Rapid Transit). DART only follows one route, but that route happens to go right past the end of our host family's street. So we merrily hopped back on the DART and returned home.

Day Three: Jetlagged Americans

Today was the day where I finally got to meet up with other people in my study abroad program as well as my host family. I said goodbye to Brendan and Catherine and caught the number 16 bus back to the airport, where the rest of my group was meeting. It was there that I met Dave Kilroy, our program coordinator, who made sure everyone in our group met one another. Having been in Dublin for two days, I was basically adjusted to the time difference, so it was funny to meet so many people who were completely thrown by it. Still, everyone was in high spirits as we all gathered together and boarded the bus that would take us to our college.

At the IADT (our college, and no, I don’t know what it stands for), we were picked up by our host families. Everyone kept referring to the experience as being back in kindergarten, where our mom’s were waiting to pick us up. Some also compared it to being “chosen” like an orphan in an orphanage. Regardless, we were all matched up with our host families, and whisked away to our respective home stays.

One of the most surprising things about the whole home stay experience is that is has completely blown the doors of what I thought an Irish home would be like. Neil and Ena (my host parents) have a house that would rival most American homes, and a yard that puts most I’ve seen to shame. Not only that, but they took on four Americans from my program (including me), a German student studying English at another school (Brenda), and Russian student on a 12 week program (Julia). The six of us, along with Neil and Ena and their two kids who live at home, means 11 people under one roof. With plenty of room to spare.

So the other three Americans (Andrew, Carolyn and Shelly) napped, while I chatted with Ena while she cooked, talking about America and my experience the past two days. Soon, though, everyone was up, and we all took turns telling stories about where we’re from and what it had taken to get to Dublin, including flight delays and long hours driving to the airport. Ena’s dinner, it turned out, was a beef stew with rice and mashed potatoes. The six non-Irish people at the table fought valiantly, but the meal defeated us. But Ena had made chocolate cake (of course), and we simply had to have a slice.

Stuffed, the Americans and Brenda decided to waddle down to the local pub to watch the US lose to Ghana in the first knockout round of the World Cup. We then walked back in the fading light, returning to Kilfenora* tired and happy, quickly falling asleep.

*Yeah, their house has a name, not a number.

Day Two Photo Supplement

This guy was playing the blues with a guitar made out of an oil can. Insert BP related joke here.

"Pow" indeed!

St. Stephen's Green. That little girl was eaten by those pigeons seconds after I took this.

No, I repeat, no fast dancing!

Door humor! Wonderful!

19th century nationalist leader Daniel O'Connell. Not actual size.

Beamish! Enjoyed in celebration of Spain's victory over Chile.

Day Two: What Do You Do With A Day Off In Dublin?

My first night sleeping in Dublin was an adventure unto itself. Jetlagged beyond belief, I finally couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer, and tucked myself in at 8:30 pm. I awoke later, thinking I had slept, but saw on the clock it was only 10:30 pm. And I was wide-awake, naturally. I decided reading was the best course of action, and started in on Michael Chabon’s The Yiddish Policeman’s Union. No offense to Mr. Chabon, but it took only five minutes of reading before I crashed again, this time not waking up until my alarm went off at 8:00 am.

The only reason I set an alarm was due to Brendan and Catherine’s fair but firm guideline that “breakfast is served from half eight to half nine.” And I was not about to miss out on a full Irish breakfast. For those unaware, an Irish breakfast consists of bacon, sausage, eggs, tomatoes and toast. It simple and hearty, and a testament to the strength of the Irish will, as they are able to fight through the sudden urge to take a nap after finishing this meal.

It was after breakfast that I realized my situation. I had done the two activities I had in mind for Dublin on the first day, completely forgetting that I had another day to fill. So I set out wandering, eventually finding Grafton Street. It’s closed off to cars, and is filled with people, shops, human statues, and buskers (street performers). It creates a very European environment, something you don’t find a lot of in the US. And at the end of Grafton Street is St. Stephen’s Green, a beautiful park. It was a nice stroll, but my feet were still extremely tired from the day before, and my internal clock was still messed up. But I found the solution: a movie!

I can now proudly say that I have seen a movie in another country. The film was not Irish, as the only Irish film at the theater was a documentary about the war in Afghanistan, and I didn’t want to be depressed. So I paid for my ticket to see Bad Lieutenant: Port Of Call New Orleans. The film was a blend of Werner Herzog’s insane direction and Nicholas Cage acting more wild and insane than I have ever seen him do. It was terrific.

I emerged from the theater, refreshed and suddenly quite hungry. I realized that it was the perfect time for this, as the World Cup matches between Spain and Chile and Switzerland and Honduras were about to begin. I walked into the nearest pub, which was reasonably quiet, and treated myself to a chicken and mushroom pie and a Carlsberg (a light beer that is quite easy to drink). I had positioned myself so I could see both games at the same time, but the Spanish game ended up being the far more interesting one, due largely to the presence of two Spaniards. Their unbridled enthusiasm for their team was infectious, and most of the crowd found themselves rooting for Spain, who ultimately proved victorious.

Day One Photo Supplement

When people ask, "What's the first thing you did in Dublin?" I now have an answer.

The library at Trinity College, Dublin. The Book of Kells is in that very building! You can't actually take pictures of the book, otherwise I'd post that too.

Yeah. A lot like UO.

All the doors in Dublin are this big.

Every different style of bottle that Guinness has ever used.

The lease that Arthur Guinness signed that granted him the ownership of the site of the Guinness Storehouse for 9000 years. So watch out for the year 10759 when it will finally be up for sale.

That pint was mine! All mine!

Proof!

That would be Dublin, with Trinity College in the distance.

Just in case you forgot that Dublin was all about old books and drinking.

Day One: 1200 Year Old Books And 250 Year Old Beer

The Marian Guest House (where I am staying for my first two nights in Dublin, until my study abroad program starts) is awesome. Located in a kind of run down part of the city, you really wouldn't know it was there unless you happened to walk right in front of it. Brendan and Catherine, the couple who run it, are the definition of gracious hosts. Every time I've seen them coming in or out of the building, they ask how I am. Catherine calls everyone "sweetie," and told me to "have a nice time today" when I left to go exploring. My room is small and smells like cigarettes, and the bathroom is down the hall in a room small enough for me to stand in the center and touch all the walls. But I don't care. I'm not spending much time there anyway.

I set out not really knowing where I was going, other than knowing more things would be happening the direction I was heading. As it happened, I ended up on Dublin's main drag, O'Connell Street. It's famous for the Millennium Spire, which Brendan described as "a waste of time and space," as it was meant to celebrate the turn of the millennium but wasn't built until 2003. It's really just a big metal spike.

After meandering down O'Connell Street, I headed to Trinity College, which really reminded me of UO, if UO had been built 300 years earlier. Most of the main buildings (the ones tourists visit) all make you feel like you're living in medieval times, even though this is still an active college. Part of the old feeling you get is due to the Book of Kells, a text written sometime in the 9th century. It's done with all sorts of colored dye and gold filigree on calf-skin pages, and documents four Gospels of the New Testament. On display when I saw the book was a random selection of the Gospel of John, and the first page of the Gospel of Luke. I don't think I've ever been in the presence of something quite that old in my life. Really cool.

After Trinity College, I found myself extremely tired. Maybe because I still hadn't slept yet. So I naturally decided to visit the Guinness Storehouse, because nothing would work in this situation besides alcohol! (Except sleep, which didn't sound as tasty.) The Guinness Storehouse is where Guinness was first brewed, and is much farther away from everything than everyone would have you believe. Granted, nothing in Dublin is all that far apart, but this was by far the farthest away.

The best way to describe the experience of the Storehouse is that if you didn't think Guinness was the best beer in the world when you went in, you KNOW it is when you leave. The first floor is dedicated exclusively to a detailed examination of all Guinness' ingredients, including a moving tribute to water. You then move up the building , which, as you realize when you reach the 5th floor, is centered around a giant pint of Guinness. Along the way up, they go to great lengths to explain the painstaking process by which Guinness is made. (At least, it used to be painstaking. Now they have machines to do it all) You even get to taste a roasted grain of barley which was actually quite good. And, of course, included with your admission, is a free pint of Guinness in their Gravity Bar. The Gravity Bar is a circular room that serves as the 7th floor, and provides a 360 degree view of Dublin. Yes, I drank Guinness 7 stories up, staring out over the city. Quite amazing.

Then I got some fish and chips in a tiny little shop, ate them, and then almost fell asleep while walking back to the guest house. Hooray Day 1!

Day Zero, Part 2: Philadelphia To Dublin

I did not sleep at all on this flight. Literally. It takes about 8 hours to fly from Philadelphia to Dublin, and I, for whatever reason, opted to stay awake the whole time. It ended up being okay, as I was far too excited to sleep, and I had too much adrenaline once I got here to fall asleep. Oh well.

This was largely due to the aforementioned GlU.S. Glairways' need to switch planes on us before we left Philadelphia. This plane was smaller, and while I fortunately still had a seat (some others were not so lucky) it was a middle seat rather than the aisle seat I'd reserved. I was far too tired and anxious to go to make a stink, so I decided to roll with it. I ended up being seated between a high school-aged girl who snored the whole time and a woman who looked like a cross between Skeletor and Cruella DeVille. Both were nice enough, but the girl was a loud snorer, and the Villainous Mash-Up wanted to talk the whole time until she fell asleep. GlU.S. Glairways made up for my previous flight's mistake by showing TWO films this time. The first was Invictus, which I've already seen, followed by Percy Jackson & The Olympians: The Lightning Thief, which I have also already seen, except when I saw it, it was called Harry Potter & The Sorcerer's Stone.

The flight was uneventful, and really just consisted of me trying to will myself to sleep or distracting myself from thinking about not sleeping by reading or staring at either movie with the sound off.* All in all, it was just a placeholder until I could get to Dublin and start doing things.

*I must say, Percy Jackson was kind of fun with the sound off, as I imagined all the male characters talking like Tom Waits and the female characters talking like Carol Channing. Someone should make that movie. I'd see it in theaters. Twice.

Day Zero, Part 1: San Francisco To Philadelphia

The best part of my flight to Philadelphia had absolutely nothing to do with flying. I’d listened to the US/Algeria game with my parents in the car on the way over, and found myself wanting absolutely nothing more than to destroy all the members of that former French colony’s soccer team (normal behavior, I think). After saying goodbye to my folks and going through airport security (yeah, yeah, boring stuff) I wandered over to the airport bar, where I stood outside and watched with the assembled crowd. It was around 9 am, so naturally everyone was drunk. And when Landon Donovan jumped on the Algerian keeper’s mistake and pounded the goal into the back of the net in stoppage time, the room exploded. Everyone talks about how much American’s hate soccer, but in the San Francisco airport bar in Terminal B, near gates 20-30, we were all rejoicing.

I was joined on my flight to beautiful Philadelphia by a group of about 14 high school students on a trip to Israel. They were all quite nice, but enjoyed shouting at each other as we got on the plane. That was quite enjoyable, especially as I was trying to fall asleep standing up. Things settled down once airborne, and I (of course) found myself wide-awake. Chosen ways to keep me entertained on the flight: listening to the audio book Do Androids Dream Of Electric Sheep?, reading my Ireland 2010 guidebook, and examining farming patterns from an aerial view. I don’t want to mention my airline by name, so I’ll call them something else. GlU.S. Glairways. There. Identity concealed. Anyway, GlU.S. Glairways has deemed at some point in its past that 5 ½ hour flights across the country don’t need in-flight entertainment, which to me just reeks of contempt for passengers. By not showing a movie (or ANY TV entertainment, for that matter), GlU.S. Glairways has taken the one potentially positive thing an airline can provide and left it back on the ground. Oh well. Hopefully they’ll decide that an overnight flight to Europe is good enough for a 30-minute episode of Two And A Half Men.

Getting Started

Hello everyone!

This is where I'll be writing about my six-week jaunt in Ireland and the British Isles, as well as posting pictures from my stay. You can keep up with every little detail from my trip here, and keep in touch (somewhat) through the comments section at the end of each post.

I'm leaving in just a few days, so I'll start updating (hopefully) daily throughout my trip. Keep checking in to see what's new!