Reentry Shock

It has been one week since I hugged Melina goodbye in the middle of Grattan Street, buried my face into my UCC sweatshirt, and let the tears roll intermittently through my 11 hours of travel.

Maryland is warmer than I left it, greener too, and I seem to have settled so seamlessly into life at home that I wonder (I, in fact, began to wonder on the plane) if I had ever been to Ireland, ever spent the last five months in a dirty student apartment on Cork City, ever flew to Germany, ever saw Rome, ever gone to the Quad or been a café regular. It all seems so distant from this here, now, my wide desk in my muggy room, screen windows and a bottle of Yuengling. Perhaps my high alcohol tolerance is that last remnant of that life.

I do miss it. I miss waking up to text messages asking for coffee or lunch. I miss the smell of the Lee and the availability of everything; the city on one side, the school on the other, and I miss walking. I have already done the two hour drive to dear Chestertown and the automobile is no longer a thrill, but a depressant, alone in a cell cut off from the air and the people and the noise. It is a kind solitude, but it is no longer what I want.

And so when it comes down to it I miss Cork. Home has not changed a bit, I can tell. Rather, it is me who has changed, and I know this. I do enjoy the sun and the feel of warm air and bare feet. All the books I have to devour (most of which are dear gifts from Ireland) sit in a milkcrate in the corner of my room and I simply operate in a place between what has ended in May and what will begin in September, and even more what will end next May and what path I will be lead on then. Someplace new again, I hope. I think it will be time again for new faces, although I already miss the ones I have met.

I think I may always miss Ireland, that someplace old and someplace new.

Cork in Photo

The Mariquita in Dingle

I received a message from Maria about two days ago asking if I’d like to go to an aquarium today. “Of course!” I replied via ecstatic text message, “Where is the aquarium?” Dingle, apparently.

So we set off on a rain-soaked bus at about 9.30 this morning for a lovely day on the peninsula. It in fact cleared up significantly, with patches of blue finally becoming patches of cloud as the bus pulled over at Inch Strand, a stretch of beach along the Dingle Peninsula. By this time the rain had receded, leaving only a strangely benevolent sun for us to abandon our shoes and socks to and play in the water. It was a cold Atlantic, but it could have been much worse, and the beach itself a wide and gentle slope. Maria did cartwheels and spins and butterfly kicks and Melnia took pictures and I marveled at the look of my toes in the surf and we ran and laughed and I found myself in the sun for the first time in days.


Melina (left) and Maria (right) enjoying the sun.

From there we wound up the coast, green and blue all the way, passing sights I in turn came to recognize having already been to Dingle with Barbara and David. So I wasn’t much surprised by the route of our tour around Sleg Head, including a trip past the Beehive Forts and the Blasket Centre, where we stopped to spend time sunbathing on the stone of their back face and making daisy chain wreaths and giving ourselves names like “Rainbow” and “Mariquita” (my favorite Spanish word- ladybug.)

It was a beautiful trip, even as we stopped at Dunbeg Fort where I finally got pictures and once again fed wildflowers to the donkey. The day was warm and comfortable and everything was so vibrant, the islands seems to glow and even the elusive Skellig Michael was visible.


The entranceway to the inner circle of Dunbeg Fort.

Our final stop took us in the Dingle Town where we finally toured their tiny but vibrant aquarium, with a multitude of tropical and native species, small sharks, sea turtles, goldfish the size of my head and even a petting tank with a ray that appeared to do spinning tricks in the water. We ran around like kids in wonder, taking pictures with the decorations and marveling at the way light moves through water.


A vibrant little seahorse.

It was the first time I’ve been on a trip with Maria and Melina and I enjoyed the leisure of it. There was no need to do much of anything except enjoy the sun. Perhaps it was the fact that I done it before, or perhaps it’s some kind of Spanish mentality, but there is a refreshing wholeness to being able to travel Ireland without having to learn something, or do something, simply to sit in the sun, in the green, and hear the sheep and remember this is where I am right now.

It’s been little over a month without travel and it was a much needed break from Cork, a reminder that the trip’s not quite over yet. I’m still here, I’m still here.

Feet

Walking to the gym this morning in the early afternoon, before the inevitable afternoon downpour and after the mid-morning chill, I felt as if I could walk forever. It is not a new feeling, but it seems more poignant now that I have faith in my own two feet.

I have always been slightly self-conscious about my feet, and on the whole I do not trust them much. I like the way they look, with their high arches, proportioned toes and pink nail polish, but they tend to flop when I walk like silly appendages, the left ankle rolling grossly as I trudge down the street. I am only truly comfortable when walking in bare feet, and that is a rare thing here.

But in the last five months I have learned to walk like I have never walked before. I have taken the walk to school as a normality, down damp paths in the morning or to the café in the afternoon. The walk back from the pub has become a mere trifle, tapping the stone in heels. I have gotten used to carrying my weekly groceries back from Tesco and the Market, familiar brass plaques lying under my Converse. But more than this, I learned that I can walk. That when all else fails, I am never stuck anywhere. Distance is relative, (and the distances I have walked have been long indeed) but I have learned to walk the kilometers without fail, to continue with no thought to how far, simply knowing that I will get there. I can walk. My mobility is never compromised.

In the states I am reliant on a car, my feet placed safely on the gas and brake, never forced to move much in order to go far, but to walk is a whole new discovery. This movement is a whole body experience, a sense of complete self, independent and integrated. No frame separates you from the world and no machine leaves you to be let down. Most mornings I feel I could walk forever, around the country and back to this wonderful city, and that I need nothing but my feet and my legs going on at my own pace; an off-centered gait that may not be economical, but it gets me there all the same.

The night outside Kerry airport I took to my feet in the same way I found my way through the streets of Dublin and Edinburgh and Rome. To walk, to walk to the bus station with a pack of all your possessions on your back, or simply to the gym with a towel, it is a state of perfect independence. You are walking on your own two feet! The world cannot stop you!

And I have come to love it. The days I do not walk are marked by restlessness, a supreme feeling of waste and dissatisfaction. I have even come to love my trod; slow, but more observant. There is more time to take in the birds on the Lee or the purple flowers that cling to stone fences along College Avenue. I see the world when I walk, I see it in its own time, coming and going as it does, as I do. To walk is a feeling of freedom nothing can match. I can walk the world if I wish.

Early Examination

It is May already. I wonder when that happened. The days here are rather nice right now, a bit chill, with always the threat of a shower, but of late I’ve found it easy to walk myself to the gym at 10 each morning without becoming hypothermic.

Along the Lee small, white flowers bloom and the leaves give a beautiful green canopy and at low tide I can smell the ocean in the dredges of the riverbed. Two white swans have taken up residence in a length of the river between my apartment and the Mardyke Bridge, their white plumage standing out against the swampy brown of the water.

There are no classes anymore, just exams. A month of stressed students and packed study areas. I have never seen such a collective body of silence as I find crammed into the Q+3 of the library on the rare days when I can grab myself a window seat there. The exams are fairly straightforward; only two essays, 90-minuets, and with a choice of topics so varied I cannot imagine what it would take to fail. My own exams are spaced rather nicely; one tomorrow, one the 20th and one the 27th. After that, well, I don’t like to think about after that. After that I will be leaving this place, but I’m not ready to think about that yet.

Most afternoons are spent in the O’Rahlly Building café with a crowd of now all-too-familiar faces; Maria and Melina, (the Spanish girls), Shane, Niall and Martin (the English lit boys), Debbie and Anne, Heather, Alba, Frank, Ian, and many people who I greet, but with names I can’t remember. Pub crawls still happen at regular intervals, and sometimes just old-fashioned house parties. My free evenings are mostly occupied with reading literary criticisms and tapping away at my keyboard.

For now my only worry is enjoying this last month on the emerald isle without prematurely mourning it. There is time to sit in the warming sun still and hear Shane quip some latin quote, or listen to Melina and Maria chatting away in quick Spanish. To hear more and more about old Irish men in local pubs, jokes about potatoes, or ridicule Joyce.

Or to just listen to the rain.

Updates

There are three (possibly four) massive updates on the way, covering the last three weeks of travel and overall excitement and exertion. Not to fear, I am intact and in Ireland, and working to bring you the very best quality of writing and photos spanning three countries.

I sound like a money back-guarantee. Good thing you don't pay me anything to read this.

Senatus Populousque Romanus

The plane left me off at Ciampino Airport, where it first hit me that I was (relatively) alone in a city where not only did I not know the language, I knew nothing about knowing the language. No small words of “please” or “thank you” even, and Deutsch was still constantly dogging my vocabulary to the point that whole sentences would be thought in German before I realized that I was not cognicient in my native language.

So from the small little airport I found the bus to Termini Station where Erica, Erik and Karissa were to meet me. Termini, however, is more than a little station and after an hour and a half of waiting, walking, trying to call on my dying cell phone, and loosing euro after euro to the pay phones, I decided my best course of action at midnight in Rome was to line up for a cab and show them the hostel address. From there I could call Erica and tell them I was safe and sound.

Apparently I greatly underestimated the tiny backstreets and confusion of buildings that is Rome, as well as its unlabeled avenues and lack of reliable road names, house numbers, or any grid-like street pattern. After being left at the top of a soaping dark street and pointed in the right direction, I was forced to seek aid at a nearby restaurant. The doorman showed me to a large wooden entranceway in a wall up the street, rang a buzzer, and pointed me inside. With thanks I entered a large, dark hallway of yellow stucco walls that led to an open courtyard of uneven mosaic tile and the entrance to an unmarked five story building. The stone stairs inside wound up into darkness and no where could I find any link to my hostel.

Without any options, but at least off the street, I decided to stay put in the hallway and wait for Erica and Erik to return, supposing I must be somewhere near the right spot. A few minuets of waiting and the large wooden doors creaked open again and a group of about seven men, speaking in German, entered. My mind still thinking in Deutsch, I decided to ask for help, and while none of them were familiar with the hostel, one lent me his cell phone so I could finally contact Erica who told me to stay put, that I was in the right spot, and they would come back to meet me.

In the end I found the hostel a fine accommodation, our room being on the top floor of the five-story building and the offices being to the right and up the stairs of the initial hallway. We had a kitchen to cook in and that first night spent tired and sweaty I was gracious for the lack of screen or glass in the window. Only parted wooden shutters and the warm, Roman air.

Through the window shutters.

All things were in walking distance for us, especially the Colosseum in the blue sky and sun, high, fluffy clouds- weather I forgot could be real. While I found the ruins of the Forum intriguing, and the flora and stone of the Palatine Hill beautiful, the Colosseum was something less than it had been in my mind. Obviously crumbled, its majesty lessened by my own familiarity with contemporary stadiums, it was still the base of all things I had seen. In fact, the entire city was to me a large archeo-historical marvel, where sites of excavation ran through city squares and arches over streets were simply treated like any other structure, while in fact they were older than my very country.

The Arch of Constantine sits next to the Colosseum and as we ate lunch by it- a cheap Italian pizza, not more than cheese and tomato paste in a pita- the thought that I was in Rome began to come through my shocked mind. From there we wandered to the Circus Maximus, a long depressed field beside the Palatine Hill where broken bottles are prevalent and the city moves around above you.

The Roman Pantheon was an intriguing building which, like most churches of Rome, looks more than dilapidated from the outside. Nothing but a drab brick, brown rotunda, but coming through the columns of the entrance you find the most spectacular display of colored stone and marble floorwork. A beautiful circle, where on one side Raphael lay and on the other Vittorio Emanuele II, the first king of Unified Rome, whose monument we encountered at least once a day on our way to the sights of the city.

The ceiling of the Pantheon is done is the receding square pattern of most domes, just as it is painted on St.Paul’s in London, but here all things were real. So was the stone, magnificent and looming overhead, meeting in a wide open circle to the sky that is supposedly spectacular in the rain, the water pouring a cylindrical column to the cool floor.

The Dome of the Pantheon.

But still the Pantheon could not compare to St.Peter’s Basilica, which is a church obviously meant for something greater. Our day at the Vatican was another superb sunny morning, with clouds that did not appear real, floating lithely over the plaza. I was surprised at how quickly we walked into it, almost on accident suddenly we were emerging from a group of pillars to the crowds of St. Peter’s Square, the Basilica before us and the sun overhead.

Inside, however, it took my breath away. The size of all things was greater, the statues and the ceiling, the thickness of the columns and the sturdiness of the floor, things built by man, but not for them. My only thought, standing gaping in the center isle as people moved and parted about me, was that no other church, chapel, cathedral or dome would ever compare to the grandeur of the color and size before me now. The center isle culminated at the nave with the baldacchino by Bernini, a structure of four dark woods posts inlayed with gold and crowned with the figures of angels, under which lay the remains of St. Peter. The closest I have ever been to something so religiously important.

Behind this the grandeur of the actual alter lurked in gold, blazing like a sun ray, another work by Bernini, and appropriate, but striking me as something strange and altogether too gaudy, seemingly too contemporary for the center of the Catholic Church resting here before me. Still all the niches and chapels and the height of the walls, the way the light filtered in was more than enough to convey the feeling of being a visitor to something not designed for me. Not deigned for any of us.

Statue inside St.Peter's.

The rest of our day was spent touring the labyrinth of the Vatican Museums, a long series of hallways stretching on forever, containing what might very well be the basis of all Western Civilization, art, culture, things whose pale reflections we see in the sight of our own capital. In Rome they appear authentic, new, never before though of, designed, built, fresh for the human eyes. Past walls of maps and murals and finally coming to a crossroads, we followed the arrows through a small door and into the crowd of the Sistine Chapel.

It was smaller than I imagined, and while pictures of it always seem too busy for the eyes, it wasn’t so in person. We moved through the bodies of people, all standing steady, necks craned up to take in the full view of intricacy and color. I wanted to stand there for hours, I could have really, while around bubbled up the well of conversation only to be “shussshed” and moments later, well up again.

We exited in a final push towards the rear door and found yet more museum hallways taking us back out of the museums, and eventually into Rome again, to the market stands which grabbed Vatican tourists on their way to the metro- all too like the vendors in the temple- but still intriguing to browse.

On our third day in the city we decided on a day trip to Hadiran’s Villa, a monumental site of excavation, a 45-minuet bus ride outside of the city in the tiny town of Tivoli. Here we leapt off the bus in a flurry, hoping for the right stop, and backtracked our way through back alleys until we found the road to the Villa, encountering along the way the most typical of Italian sights; the cypress-lined gravel road.

The Villa itself was a massive complex of crumbled stone where once the Emperor Hadrian spent his leisure. It rests at the base of a complex of small hills and mountains, into which stretched the buildings of Tivoli. It was sunny and warm again as we walked through open ruins, climbed on some, posed with others. Baths and pools, some full, some drained, were evident. Rotundas whose ceilings were simply now patchwork with sky and half-fallen columns. It was the perfect day trip as we sat in a grove of trees and ate our lunch, protected from the slight drizzle that had snuck up on us. Everywhere, in between stone walls and complexes, grew a vast array of wildflowers which inexorably ended up in my hair as the day progressed. Small lilies and bright poppies, buttercups, daises, some I could not name at all, giving color to everything around them.

A bouquet of Italian wildflowers.

I was glad to get a day out of the city, whose maze of streets were becoming strangely familiar at this point, and see more of the country. All my life the idea of Rome has never been associated with any nationality. Rome in my mind simply was only the city, without ties, and to remember that I was in Italy was hard, even while encountering the language almost constantly.

On our fourth day the weather took a turn for the worst and came in a plunking downpour, thankfully still warmer than the Irish version, but unpleasant nonetheless. We set off through the neighborhood of the Villa Borghese, upscale and lush with greenery, in search of the Galleria Borghese, only to read in our tourbook as we huddled around a heater on the veranda of a nearby restaurant, that it was closed without a reservation. Disheartened, we turned to head back into the city, tramping wet streets in our drenched clothes- none of us prepared for the rain- to the Santa Maria della Vittoria, where housed is the famous sculpture the Ecstasy of St. Theresa. Unfortunately this was closed for lunch. Tired, we decided to dry out in the hostel, get some food, and come back in the afternoon. Tracing the same route we took that morning, we stopped for dinner at a small pizza place we had had breakfast, where the cook recognized us four wet Americans with a grin a euro slice of pizza.

Farther down the Quattro Fontane we found ourselves in the spot we had stood that morning, now in the warm evening sun. In fact we were standing at the top of the Spanish Steps, a sight we had missed in the rain of the Piazza Trinità dei Monti. Beautiful and in bloom, with flower pots in patterns on the stone, it was gorgeous crowded (as everything is) between buildings of deep dry yellow and red.

Nights in Rome, after we cooked our pasta dinners, we treated ourselves to the wonders of Italian gelato, frequenting the same stand each night. From there we would tour the Colosseum or the Trevi Fountain while it was lit at night, Erica and I vying for the “artsy-ist photo” we could take. To culminate our trips we even splurged our college-age budgets for a nice dinner out, complete with wine and dessert, at a small bistro with street-side seating and fairy lights for the long-falling dark.

My "artsy" photo attempt.

Our final day was spent trekking the city one last time, from the Pyramid of Cestius back to the National Museum of Rome (which we discovered was closed on Mondays) to a final attempt to catch an Italian movie, and finally ending up at the Piazza del Popolo, after passing the Roman LUSH Store (a discovery I found most exciting)! Be also finally stepped inside the Basilica di Santa Maria degli Angeli e dei Martiri, another drab, brick construction we passed each day in the Piazza della Reppublica on our way to or from Termini station. Inside we found a large open space, the church being more like a squat cross than having an extended isle, where works of art and pendulum demonstrations ticked in the corners. In ayed into the floor, however, was one of the most intriguing gold lines, cutting diagonal from the corner of the right wing, up past the alter, and surrounded with stone cuts of astrological animals and marks for seasons. Called the Meridiana, on sunny days a pin-prick hole in the ceiling lets in a dot of light that, depending on the season, lines up with certain spots on the golden line, telling dates and times on the floor of the church.

All the more because I come from such a young place, culturally speaking, Rome blew a gasket in my head. Something so old, existing, in front of my eyes, touching this stone that was carved and placed here before any man West of the Atlantic had even stepped foot in a boat for the Americas. Before anything I have ever know. But more than that, you get the feeling that any reference to classical culture you have ever encountered was only a shadow, and here is the real, monumental thing.



A girl offering flowers to Mary at the Basilica di Santa Maria degli Angeli e dei Martiri.

Deutschland, the Homeland

I took off at 9.15am from a po-dunk little airport called Kerry, situated in the background of Killarney, for an hour-long flight to Frankfurt-Hahn, a slightly bigger po-dunk airport in the background of Frankfurt am Main, where I finally met Vanessa Schöps and her daughter Amy. My ‘cousins’ in Germany.

It was a long day as we drove down the Autobahn, a two-hour ride to Cologne (Köln), where we met Vanessa’s friend Tanya at her home and she treated us to a relaxing evening the exquisitely warm weather of the German springtime. That evening, as we sat in the backyard and soaked in the long-setting sun and Vanessa introduced me to the taste of Jagermeister, I felt like I could be anywhere in America, in the country summer sun and the vegetation, if I hadn’t been talking in my fractured German and trying to catch clips of conversation as they flew overhead.

We woke the next morning to the traditional breakfast of Brötchen- rolls with jam and honey, cheese, meats, butter, all the usual- and headed out to see the highlight of Cologne, the Kölner Dom, Cologne’s resident cathedral. At a whopping 509 stairs, we took to the task of climbing the monolith. The view from the top was partially blocked by mesh webbing and tagged by a thousand different languages and names from the bell tower on up. The outside is a traditional gothic structure highly reminiscent of the Scott Monument in Edinburgh, and by far one of my favorite architectural styles.

At the base of the Kölner Dom.

The rest of the day was spent waltzing around Cologne and down to the edge of the Rhine, which runs through the city, where half the population seemed crowded onto the promenade to take in the sun. We relaxed there as Tanya’s boyfriend and company tried to find an open grocery store to buy ‘fleisch’ and host a cookout, which took place that afternoon before we took off for Vanessa’s home in Siegen.

The next few days were spent in the company of Vanessa and Amy in their beautiful and bright apartment overlooking a quiet cemetery and part of the seven hills of Siegen. Here I was introduced to a few of Vanessa’s neighbors and their children. Two of the girls, both around Amy’s age, thought it was terrific that I spoke English and spent a good amount of time asking me questions in the language as I tried to speak back in my rusty German. Afternoons were spent either walking through Siegen’s Obere Schloss (Obere Castle and Park) or lounging on backyard balconies while a thunderstorm (my first in months) poured overheard.

Siegen itself reminds me very much of Pittsburgh, a hilly town with a decidedly industrial feel of railroad tracks and low metal buildings. The main historical attractions include the Schlosspark, a centuries-old castle turned public park, with a small venue for children’s plays and many, many flowers. There we took Mogli, Vanessa and Amy’s 10-year-old hound, to run for a bit in the sun and air.

The other main attraction is the Krönchen, or “little crown,” the town’s main cathedral church, which is capped with a gold crown circling the cross overhead. In our attempt to see the inside we found it closed, so we sat of the steps for a while, taking the small downhill streets and decidedly Germany architecture of the surrounding city buildings.

Siegen from the steps of the Krönchen.

Around Siegen it fades into green pines and dark forests, interspersed by hills, lakes, and the very well designed highway infrastructure of the country. Easter morning was spent sunning by one of these lakes as people in fine sweaters and shoes took walks with the family or paddled around the water in kayaks and canoes. The amount of people on bicycle in Germany is intriguing. All around Siegen, and even Koblenz and Cologne, people on pedals made up a good portion of the moving population.

One evening Vanessa told me the story of her discovery of her ‘American cousins,’ while studying English at age 16. It was her mother who informed Vanessa of her grandfather’s brother, Henry, who left for America, and Vanessa’s own search for the two sons who now lived there. Vanessa’s own grandfather, Otto Fischbach, stayed in Germany and married, living out his life in a small town near Siegen called Wenden. It was a teenage Vanessa who took it on herself to call America, dialing my own Woodbine house. She admits she had no idea what my father was saying on the phone and was forced to seek the aid of a neighbor in translation. You can see in her face how much she wants to see the States, and in that I can understand, albeit reversely. The want to seek one’s own family; in my case, my roots, in her case, long-lost relations. Both of her parents have passed away now, one buried in the cemetery behind her apartment complex, the other in a cemetery across town.

It felt good, releasing almost, and infinitely interesting to think of the genealogical ties I share with these two people. The granddaughters of two men, meeting again almost a century gone, and the paths that brought me there, to that tiny German town, standing on a back-balcony as afternoon became lost in dusk, somewhere close to where my own great-grandparents walked.

Amy's chucks (pink) and my chucks (green.) Sehr bunt, nein?

My final dinner in Germany was spent at a fine little Italian place called Mona Lisa’s, situated in what appears to be a back alley near the Siegen town center. The fine little outdoor seating area situated Vanessa, Amy, myself, and two German men, friends of Vanessa I had met the day before.

When one pictures these two, it is remarkable that such characters exist. Gunter, an old friend of Vanessa’s, is an older man, grey-haired and edging into his mid-sixties I would guess. A larger man, he wore the quintessential German garb of suspenders and hosted a mustache, the round, approachable face in which I could see hints of my own father’s, and a most apparent cross-eye. He had worked on an American base in Germany for a number of years as a young man, and even gone to the States, as far as California and Washington. He knew a good amount of English and our conversations were filled with his thoughts on American food (most notably the poor quality of bread and sour cream) as well as the way in which the US Armed Forces operate (an opinionated subject, I assure you.) He was most intrigued at the idea of student loans, and asked a good number of questions about my ability to study abroad in Ireland; was I funded? How often did American students come overseas?

His companion was a tall, skinny fellow with high socks and pants that ended at about the mid-calf, a tie-die shirt and brown vest, a face with long features and even longer hair. Eki spoke little English, but seemed to serve mainly to aid Gunter, who was in poor health. I was unable to get a picture of either of them, but in my mind they exist well. It was the most interesting experience to talk to these men who by appearance were the most quintessentially German-looking fellows I had ever seen and full of the most interesting and enlightening conversation I had on my journey.

The following day we set out after breakfast to Koblenz, to die Deutches Eck- “The Corner of Germany”- where the Moselle River meets the Rhine. It was another warm, sunny day as we pulled up outside the apartment of another of Vanessa’s friends, an older woman who invited us in for a drink while Amy ran off with the other children that were inexorably present.

Vanessa, myself, and a friend who came to Koblenz with us- a girl of about 26 who was studying in Siegen- walked across the Mosel and through the city to the Eck, a pointed corner lined with provincial flags and commemorated with a bronze statue of Wilhelm the I. Koblenz itself was a fine city full of yet more architectural wonders, where small streets opened up to fountains an plazas, dipped into small garden seats and riverside palisades. After lunch we lounged barefoot by the Mosel as the angle of the sun slowly dipped, until at about 6 we decided to get going so that I could catch my flight.

As Vanessa said goodbye and I dropped by bag by the check-in she handed me a small flat package of thanks and along with a hug, said wiedersehen. I sat by the gate for my plane and turned the package over in my hands, finally pulling back the paper to reveal a green hardback children’s book entitled “Was ist Glück?” My rusty, but improved German revealed the story of two small pigs looking for luck. A kind, beautiful little German gift for the Irish in me.

Monument to Wilhelm I at die Deutches Eck.

As my flight was called I piled the book into my bag and hopped up, ready for my next stop in the ancient metropolis of Rome.

I Corcaigh in éineacht le Muintir

I received a phone call around 2.00pm, which in itself was strange since I usually get text messages rather than actual calls, to find that my parents were already lost in Cork, standing outside the Waterstone’s on Patrick Street borrowing someone’s cell phone in order to contact me. I lugged on my shoes and headed out to greet them for the first time in three months. Really, not much had changed, but I had forgotten mom’s penchant for wearing fleece jackets and dad’s grey beard.

It had been a long drive from Dublin airport that morning and hard time finding me, much less their B&B, so we found the car parked over Tesco and went in search of the small, but comfortable B&B by the train station where my parents had a room. After a much needed nap (on all sides) we finally received a call from Barbara and David who had arrived in Cork as well, after an extra night in Dingle.

We met for dinner at a place called Bully’s by the Tesco- an area ripe with small café’s and restaurants that I have to admit I have rarely explored. It was a pleasant meal as we planned the next day, repeat with Cork’s most famous sights.

In truth, Cork’s not a very touristy city, and I like this about it. Whereas in Dublin tourist busses and people with cameras are a common sight, in Cork there’s not much more than the Beamish & Crawford Brewery (which was not open for tours yet) or the Butter Museum (yes, it does exist.) So we went up to see the UCC campus, fresh and green in the coming spring, and all the things contained therein; the Honan Chapel’s famous mosaic floors and the Gluckman Gallery’s newest exhibition, the quad and the seal and the Ogham Stones that line the hall of the Alus Maximus.

Afterwards we drove back into the city to see the English Market and buy loaves of fresh bread and scones and eat lunch at the FarmGate, a café situated over on a terrace, overlooking the market fountain. It was a good meal, but to top it off I decided to show then O’Conaill Chocolatier- famous around Cork for their supurb melted hot chocolate (my favorite being the dark chocolate) complete with little chocolate-pieces and enough to fill you up even if you haven’t just eaten a full lunch. Gourmet dessert in a glass.

After an afternoon nap around the apartment, and a though cleaning of the kitchen by mom, we ate that evening at the Boqureia, a trendy little tapas place over the north river. While the seating was minimal, the wine was good, as was the food, salmon tartar and all. After dinner we took to find a pub where we could continue the evening, eventually wandering into a place a bit down the road for a final drink before we parted to get some sleep, ready for tomorrow’s journey.

While Barbara and David’s trip was over, mom and dad’s had just begun. The journey up to Galway took me back past the Cliffs of Moher and Poulnabrone on the Burren, this time the day being warm and sunny. From there we wound up to Galway where we stopped at our next B&B before heading out to dinner. It was amazing how much of the city I remembered after merely a weekend there three months before, but at the same time I had walked much of the city, again and again, and in the coming spring it was brighter, but still very much the same.

Flowers blooming at the Cliffs of Moher.

We took time in Galway to tour the Connemara, stopping at Kylemore Abbey along the way. The country was greener in the spring, although still holding on to visages of brown grass on the hillsides. At the abbey the gardens were now open, and while the plants weren’t yet at peak, it still had spots of color, the brick walls enclosing the perfectly planned grounds while beyond the mountains rose to the sky, overcast but not raining. I love the Victorian atmosphere of Kylemore, and while the glass houses are no longer standing the gardens retain much of that style. Grandiose and styled.

Purple lantern flowers at Kylemore Gardens.

We wound back around the Connemara, seeing the country, around the Twelve Bens, and back to Galway. It’s really an all-day trip, but when we returned we took a drive around the city square and went for dinner at a pub/restaurant near the shopping corner, where the same pedal-cars were available for hire as in February, and minimal crowds hung around the doors to pubs in the usual haze of cigarette-smoke and conversation. It is things like this that I will miss most about Ireland.

The next day was spent cutting across the Irish interior on the way to Dublin. New highways are a fine addition to the Irish infrastructure, but they are few and far-between, so small roads showed us the way, with minor stops to see if any of a number of minor Irish castles were open since mom had never been in one before. We stopped at two, but were out of luck thanks once again to the unopened tourist season, and while seeing them from outside was beautiful, it was not the full castle experience.

Around 2.00 we rolled into Dublin, which is quite frankly a small city all things considered- smaller even than Baltimore- but still the largest in Ireland and full of traffic. Passing the Guinness Brewery, we pulled up to the bus station I remembered so well from my previous weekend there. Managing to catch the 2.00 bus, I said goodbye to my parents and wished them well on their final two days in the country, touring Dublin city, while I took the four-hour ride back to Cork to prepare for my upcoming journey to the Continent.

Of Seascapes and Stationary Stones

Three months living an ocean away from anyone you knew is a long time when it comes down to it, and seeing family again after so long is both a relief and a shock. So it was with the last two weeks, starting with a wonderful visit from my Aunt Barbara and Uncle David who took the long flight overseas and met me as I hopped off the bus in the little town of Doolin on the edge of Galway Bay in Co. Clare. The town was like most Irish towns, in that it wasn’t much more than a few B&Bs and a couple pubs on a little string of road between rocky pastures and surf.

We stayed at a lovely little B&B called Cullinan’s while we toured the sights of the Burren. I had never visited the Burren before, and my only real sight of it was from the other side of Galway Bay, it appearing as nothing but a series of grey, rock hills on the edge of the water; terraced and barren. But upon closer inspection the crags of rock hide a million little flowers and green leaves sprouting in the cold and wet that plagued much of the Burren during our time there. Along the drive we took time to examine a number of ancient stone forts including Cather Conell and the Poulnabrone Dolmen, a prehistoric portal tomb whose rocky makeup blends it into the background of the Burren seamlessly, as if it has been there forever.

Poulnabrone Dolmen in the rain of the Burren.

Evenings in Doolin consisted of dinner at a pub called O’Connel’s, where live music was in the plenty and I was persuaded to try a Smithwick’s, an Irish ale, and the first Irish beer I have had that wasn’t a stout (I am apparently not a stout-drinking gal). It was like most pubs in the way it catered to nooks and crannies, booths and side-tables, with paraphernalia on the walls and an atmosphere of talk and community. Actually, rather different from the scene I encounter in Cork pubs, but not at all bad.

Two nights in Doolin found us once again on the road around Co. Clare and across the Shannon to the town of Dingle in Co.Kerry. To the south of Doolin, whence we traveled, sit the famous Cliffs of Moher, a series of sheer and rocky precipices that jut out to the Atlantic at staggering heights. Our visit saw a foggy and grey day as we approached the walk along the tops, where sometimes the mist would lift for a bit and you could make out the shadow of rock before it disappeared again into wet and wind. It was as if the ever-changing clouds of Ireland had descended to make the already impressive sight even more intriguing, substantially more dynamic.

After awhile cliff-walking in the mist we headed back onto the road, stopping once again a bit down the road to see St. Bridget’s Well, St. Bridget being one of the three patron saints of Ireland (the other two are St. Columba and, of course, St. Patrick). It was little more than a ceramic statue and a small, underground passage to the cool, running well. The passage was littered with what appeared to be years of offerings and prayers, papers, pictures, plastic flowers and stuffed animals, ribbons, and rosaries all made the more foreboding by the light peaking into the passage from either end.

Offerings at St.Bridget's Well.

It was here that, after watching a small girl follow her father’s instructions when visiting the well, that Aunt Barbara and I decided to also follow these instructions in genuflecting. Unfortunately my camera was not very securely pocketed and it managed to wriggle it’s way out and leap for the water, where it plummeted to the bottom and stayed as I tried to wriggle out of my coat and retrieve it.

So the camera is gone, but the pictures, stored safely on my card, remain intact, and with the purchase of a new camera all things seem to be amended. But I’m still a little baffled that St. Bridget didn’t think to bless me with a still functioning camera.

Eventually we made it to Dingle, where we stayed at another lovely little B&B that overlooked Dingle Bay, a sight of muted light in the fog and water and cow-pastured earth. it was as if a painting had come to life, to think the light never really looks like that. But it does. It does.

In Dingle we took time to tour the Dingle Peninsula thanks to some help from a Rick Steve’s travel guide found in the B&B. Our first major stop was Dunbeg Fort, a semi-circular Iron-age promontory fort latched onto the side of a cliff. Open completely to the public, we walked down between two sheep pastures, alongside a classic bubbling brook, and through the stone entrance, into the center when people lived before time was measured in years.

It was an intriguing site, matched only by the Beehive Forts we next saw. Just as they sound, the Beehive Forts were a jumble of fallen stone domes, resembling to all other things, a beehive. In and out, some stones were excavated, some were still visibly buried. Some gave cool shadows in the warm sun, and inside the beehive domes it was almost cold.

The tour took us winding along the coast, around Mt. Eagle and Mt. Brandon, to the very tip of Ireland, from which the Great Blasket Islands and the little lump of rock called Skelling Michael are visible. We would have surely visited one of these islands, most probably Skelling Michael, where the ruins of beehive huts that once housed a community of monks now sit deserted on the edge of the sea. But it was still before Easter and most boats don’t start running until after the holiday. Out of luck this time.

We ended the drive at the Gallarus Oratory, a piled stone building that looks like something out of an Andy Goldsworthy installation. Smooth rounded sides coming to a pointed roof, the stones perfectly fit, flat and cool. Dating from the 8th century, it’s one of the oldest churches in Ireland. A small, now quiet and chill building with a dirt floor and marks in the wall where a cover would have been a door, it was a beautifully intriguing thing.

Dinner was had back in Dingle, at a seafood place called “Out of the Blue” where the whole menu (written on a chalkboard at the start of the evening) is composed of whatever is brought into the harbor that day. Fresh as can be. It was a spectacularly delicious meal the likes of which I have not had in a long time, and which left me quite full for a long time as well.

The next morning I departed on the 10.15 bus back to Cork to prepare for the arrival not only of Aunt Barbara and Uncle David in Cork, but also my parents!

Mist at the Cliffs of Moher.

London Calling

Coming into London feels a bit like coming home at this point. I no longer have the urge to see all there is to see, considering I’ve seen most of it before, and also considering I will probably be there again someday. It’s not a place I feel like I might never get back to.

On the Underground.

I forgot how much I love London in the long three years since I was last there. Not much has changed: the Eye is still the Eye and the Tower is still the Tower. I loafed around for three days at the whim of my travel companions, just glad to be back, to be using the Underground and seeing the Thames. We spent time at Westminster Abbey and St.Paul’s Cathedral. I saw Parliament and the House of Commons for the first time, as well as the replica of Shakespeare’s Globe. We wandered outside of the Tate and stumbled across Temple Bar and the Courts of Justice after a quick jot down Fleet Street.

Most of the time in between sights was spent just roaming. Erica and myself had visited the city before, but Erik hadn’t, so it was a nice mix of tourist spots and just things we found. I feel like I’ve gotten to the point here where I am running out of tourist spots there, I just want to see the streets and the buildings and the little shops and restaurants and spend all day on the Underground, hopping stop-to-stop.

But I did see a good few sights I had never visited before. In addition to the Globe and the Tate Modern, we also browsed the Portabello Market, a weekend street-market in Kensington that our roommates recommended to us. I have to admit, it is much better than Camden Lock. Full of antiques dealers and bookseller and nifty little boutiques and specialty stalls, this place was indeed “right up my alley” as I had been told numerous times. I could have easily spent the day there.

A street vendor.

In addition we also saw Cleopatra’s Needle, an actual Egyptian obelisk taken by the British during their imperial occupation of Egypt. It now sits on the side of the Thames, its supposed curse affecting the nation, but we could see no hint of it. Afterwards we walked to Trafalger Square, climbed Nelson’s Column and spent the fading light looking towards the mobs at the National Galleries.

That morning we had alighted first at King’s Cross to visit the fabled Platform 9 ¾ , and finally facing the fact that we were never going to get to Hogwarts, we instead went to the British Museum, which is just as good, really. For the next three hours we parted ways to see the exhibits, the Rosetta Stone and Sutton Hoo and Hadrian’s Bust again. I found an interesting exhibit on the history of museum collection entitled “the Enlightenment” (a pompous name if you ask me, but an interesting exhibit) as well as a modern installation called “Cradle to Grave.” I wandered the eastern exhibits, found a good one on Chinese Jade, and took many, many pictures.

A statue of the Bodhisattva Avalokiteshvara.

But one of the best parts of the trip was the hostel, a funky little place situated over a bar somewhere on the southeastern outskirts of the city. Some nights the music was a fine acoustic open mic, and we came down for a beer and some enjoyment. Other nights it was a thrashing heavy metal and punk set that sent the walls shaking until midnight as we lay upstairs exhausted and unable to sleep. I liked the place and the character and even the weird-smelling bathroom, and especially the two-minuets walk to the tube station. Worth every pence to be in the city again.

St. Patrick's Day

I will not lie, breakfast is when it started. I walked out of my room at 10.30 to find the girls in the midst of preparing food for a “kegs and eggs” hosted by one of the Minnesota boys. Erica and I decided instead on sitting down to a respectable meal of pancakes, home fries, pear-flavored Bulmers and some white zinfandel.

I had been advised prior to the day by some of my Irish friends that going out on St. Patrick’s was a bad idea, and it would be optimal to stay in and enjoy a proper amount of alcohol away from the crowds. But this being our only time in Cork during St. Patrick’s, the girls and I headed out around 12.30 to the annual Cork parade. It was a much smaller affair that I expected, populated mostly by families and internationals and consisting of community groups and youth organizations. Homemade costumes and floats abounded. It was an enjoyable time as we stood down on Grande Parade and ‘ooohed’ and ‘ahhhed’ at the large dragon float and dance troops.

Girl with a flag at the parade.

The area had a good crowd, but it was by no means packed. I could easily see through the onlookers and I dodged more children than I did drunks. Around 2.00, the festivities over, we went back to Leeside to refresh our drinks and plan for dinner. One of the girls was celebrating her 21st birthday so a good group of us went to the Jade Palace, a nice little sit-down Chinese place off of Patrick Street. The meal was good, and dessert was included. We sang Happy Birthday and played with the table’s giant lazy susan and had the whole place to ourselves.

Parade Dragon.

After dinner we decided to start getting ready for the evening. It was a good time, for the most part. We started at a place ironically called Sober Lane, where the live music was mildly popular and the place not too crowded. From there we hopped to Preacher’s, a little hole-in-the-wall where the sound was a mixture of 80s punk and modern rock and where we spent the next few hours in good conversation and bad dancing. Full of band posters and people with phenomenal colored hair, Preacher’s is a place I might go back to if ever I found myself in that hard mood.

But finally getting tired of the cramped space we decided to try the Brog. I was sure we would never get in, but no one seemed to believe me when I professed the student bar to be loved by most everyone, expect people from Minnesota. The crowd was just as I expected and, unable to get inside, we hopped down to Crane Lane where I enjoyed my final drink of the evening- a straight Jameson whisky- and walked home with one of the girls around 1.30 am.

A national holiday, St. Patrick’s Day is roughly equivalent to the Fourth of July, and that is the best I can describe it. Full festival atmosphere, and while visitors seem to enjoy it to an extreme, the Irish I know tend to take it in stride. Two of the guys I know stayed in their little town outside of Macroom (about a 30 minuet drive from Cork) for the day and enjoyed what the Guinness Book of World Records calls “The Shortest St. Patrick’s Day Parade,” while another did homework until, finally giving up at 9.00, he made it into the Brog. But for the most part there was no more obvious drunkenness than an average Corkian night, but there were many more green hats than I have ever seen before.

Sometimes I Spend Weekends in Cork

It has been a very long time since I’ve spent a weekend in Cork, and I have never spent a weekend here where I have felt completely comfortable, unassailed by the feelings of loneliness and displacement that dog anyone who has to live in a new place. But this weekend was enough to make me feel that I have made my way far enough to be relaxed and at peace with my place in this city where I feared I would never belong.

Friday, after classes, a groups of us caught a viewing of Watchmen, the newest in a long line of superhero/comic book films, and the best I have seen. True to the original book down to the character’s facial features and the frames of the scenes. Although it is a very explicit film, I think it was necessary to convey the true sense of the narrative, the way it felt while reading it. I agree that many times in a story it is up to the individual imagination to interpret the amount of explicit content they perceive, and in many respects this was only the perception of the director, but on the whole I think it was very well done.

You should read it though. More than anything, read it. What a wonderful Friday night to talk with one of the Minnesota girls about it- one who loves Alan Moore and comic books as much as I do- and not have to keep all my thoughts in a bottle! It was a good start to the weekend.

Saturday was spent trying to get some work done, finally buying Kipling’s Kim for my Victorian Literature lecture, and welcoming a new roommate. One of the girl’s from Minnesota has a friend from home visiting us for spring break, so to welcome her we had a party and headed out to the Saturday night pub crawl. I have never been out in Cork on a Saturday, which I suddenly realized as I made my way to the Bailey, a three-floor construct that should be a club considering the music and the general patrons, but which somehow is still only a pub. With everyone trying to chat over the pouring of dance music and drink orders it’s a little like chaos and we felt dancing should ensue, so for about an hour we conversed in a corner while also trying to incite a general “dance revolution” if you will.

Eventually admitting defeat we went to the Brog, my favorite place to dance and chat, and from there headed home at the ripe hour of 2.00 am. I’ve been out with the group before, but I felt less like a lone Marylander than ever. They constantly insist that us WACers are simply one of the group, and now I know that. I know I can count on them and they can count on me; be it on a regular night out or an emergency, as we experienced last week when one of our number had to fly home due to a death in the family. She returns to us tomorrow, when we’re preparing her a family-style welcome back dinner in hopes that she’ll see here she has family too. We’re all in the same boat and we know that we probably won’t see each other again after this, but while it lasts we owe to each other to be the support none of us has.

Today I woke up in hope of getting some serious reading done in the rainy morning when I was invited to coffee by two Spanish girls I met a few weeks ago (and consequently the same that took me salsa dancing.) We met up at the library along with a few fellows from the English Lit Society and went into town, stopping at a shop where they played Skin and Bones in the background, and there we talked until they closed at the ridiculous hour of 5.00. From there we stopped at another restaurant and ordered another drink in order to earn our use of the space. More than anything being with this eclectic group of Irish and Spanish make me certain that I have found a place in this city. I love my flatmates, but with these people I see a side of Cork you can only get from a long-term resident.

As it turned towards twilight the seven of us waltzed down to the Lough- a beautiful lake on the south side of the river that I never even knew existed. Surrounded by grass and trees a walkway also encircles the lough and on the water float swans and a myriad of small, black, duck-like birds with white faces. Here we fed them leftover chips and laughed and noted the way airplanes come in so low over the city. Having never been here before I only hope I can find it again. It’s one of the few places in Cork where I’ve seen benches- or any park-like sitting area- and large swatches of grass. It’s not a large lough by any means, but it is enough to provide an oasis for the girl who misses grass and trees and natural things.

Getting dark by then we dispersed to get some work done. With the end of the term fast approaching we all seem to have things to do (the regular UCC students more so than any of us Americans) and I hope once classes are out we’ll continue to get together for coffee and roam Cork and meet between studying and head out to the pubs. They’re a group I can’t help but like, and a group the likes of which I’ve never been a part of before. New experiences all around and a wonderful Corkian weekend. Now to work.

In the City of the Scots

It would be impossible to write about everything I did over the past five days without making an entry that was much too long and in the end having you, dear blog reader, loose interest completely in the city that I have come to love more than any other, and that is something I do not at all want to do.

So here is first a short but complete list of what I did while in Edinburgh:
• Edinburgh Castle
• The Scotch Whisky Experience
• The Camera Obscura
• The Royal Botanical Gardens
• The National Gallery of Scotland
• Tour of the Highlands including Loch Lomond, Loch Loggin, Loch Ness, and Glen Coe
• St. Giles Cathedral
• Mary King’s Close
• National Museum of Scotland
• Scottish Parliament
• The Royal Palace of Holyroodhouse
• Deep Sea World
• The Fourth Rail Bridge
• Calton Hill Park and Nelson’s Monument

You can browse at your leisure each of the sights and I’ll talk about the ones that really struck me. On our first morning, cloudy but relatively warm, we wandered up from Haymarket to Princes Street where Edinburgh Castle found us completely astounded by the size and strength of the old fortress, rearing itself over the city like a behemoth- the center attraction all things in the old town go around. The walls melt almost seamlessly into the long green rock faces of the ancient volcano on which the castle sits, its cannons still facing out from the battlements like black dots around the crown of the city. It is a sight which pictures do no justice. In fact, this is a common theme throughout all of Scotland. You have to be there to understand the size and the sight of it all.

The whole Old Town side of the city is composed of monuments and strong, old stone architecture with blackened streaks smeared on the sides and the faces of men on horseback, men on their own two bronze feet, bolted to marble, cut into stone staring up at the high Scottish sky. Sir Walter was by far the most prominent, not just because of the high gothic styling of the Scott Monument, but because there were usually at least three statues of him in sight at any time and if you weren’t sure who a statue was of, it was probably Sir Walter.

Walking down Princes Street towards the city center you have the park and castle, green and stony on your right, and the tall precipice of stores and souvenir shops assailing you on the left. There was construction all along Princes Street cutting off access to the park on the right and each morning making us subject to the same Scottish tourist music the shops played day in and day out.

From Edinburgh Castle

But once past Waverly Station and near the Royal Mile the street becomes crooked and steep. First coming across a road rightly called “The Mound” we hiked up to the castle and then down the Royal Mile, so named for the Castle towering to the west, from whose height the entire city was clearly seen even on a cloudy day, and the Palace of Holyroodhouse ending the street to the east. This is the official residence of the Queen in Scotland and a beautiful, kingly estate with a decidedly royal candor from the plaster-molded ceilings to the ancient bed of Mary, Queen of Scots. Directly across the street from Holyroodhouse sits the sleek modern look of the new Scottish Parliament Building, a contemporary and wondrous thing that appears more like an upscale apartment then a government building. We toured each in their time, stopping along the Mile to see St. Giles' fine stained-glass windows and chapelwork and Mary King’s Close, an originally preserved street from the 16th century that now sits under the Scottish judicial headquarters. The tour of this was spectacular, taking us through the dark rooms of the original Edinburgh tenements and imparting the history with a tour guide that was surely above-par. It was one of the best investments of the trip.

But we didn’t stay in the city. On Sunday we hopped on a 12-hour bus tour to get out of Edinburgh and see the Scottish Highlands, famed for such memorable thing as the Loch Ness Monster and the wonderful television series Highlander.

Here was where I fell in love with Scotland, came to realize the way in which this country could be so very different from the one I had just left when often they are confused. The highlands are breathtaking and beautiful. Mounds to mountains of ancient stone chiseled over the millennia by the runoff from their white peaks, making lush forests rest around their feet and bright green grasses crowd on the rocks. Waterfalls and streaming rivulets are around every turn, beautiful in their seclusion and their icy rush. As we got higher and higher the air became chiller and small smatterings of rain occurred, but all this heightened the experience to the point where, stopping at Glen Coe, the sight of the famous McDonald Massacre, I didn’t want to leave. Three great mountains stood across from us, the road falling into a shadowed vale of green while high above rivers streamed and trees clung to the rock and steep meadows flourished already in the late winter. It is exactly the kind of place to get lost, the kind of place people think of, but never think of as real.

The Lochs had the same rough fall into the smooth, glassy water where men built homes on the steep shores and light glistened off the water. At Loch Ness we stopped for a boat tour to Urquhart Castle on the northern shore, the waters of which are dyed black from the peat that makes up a good portion of the hills. As the boat chugged along the churn looked more like thick stout ale than any water, dark and glassy and impassive. Whether there is a monster or no, we saw none, but I like to hold out some kind of belief in that myth. The black water certainly makes it all the more eerie.

Urquhart Caste on Loch Ness

As the sun set we came back down from the Highlands, through small towns as the land flattened before our eyes. I could feel then the missing of it, the wet but clear tang in the air, cold and fresh. The green and the grey mixed into a beautiful palette that seemed even more breathtaking than the lush pastures of Ireland.

During our last few hours spent in Edinburgh we hiked up to the elusive Calton Hill Park, the first public park in Edinburgh, marked by a smattering of monuments that hang over the city from the east and which no tourist pamphlet will tell you about. Curious as to the meaning of these stone statutes we labored our way up the steep streets and stairs, taking a sidetracked route through Old Calton Burial Ground and eventually coming to the crest of Calton Hill where all of Edinburgh, old town and new, spread itself before us. Beyond them the green spread of the Fife over the firth, the north sea, the rock inherit in the landscape was visible all wet and chill under the rolling clouds. It began to smatter rain as we stood on the hill, the wind coming up in cold whirls and whips, but the view stayed just as impressive, if not more so with the second landscape of sky moving in its own way, tangent to the city below. Even in the rain and the wind, I knew I would miss this city more than any other.

The view from Calton Hill.

Dubliner

In my most infinite wisdom I decided that, despite the fact I was obviously coming down with a sore throat, going salsa dancing the night before leaving for Dublin was a good idea and one I could not possibly pass up. This is why, after getting to bed at 2.00 the night before, I stumbled off the 8.00am Cork-Dublin bus to a sunny, crowded city, bewildered, sick, sleepless and somewhat in awe.

Dublin is large, no doubt. After hopping city-to-city, each one smaller than the last, it was a bit of a shock to be somewhere larger than Cork. It was a sunny day, sunny to the point of blinding us as we stood on the street corner unsure of where to go, turning in circles and squinting in the sunlight.

Eventually we made it to O’Connell Street, the double-wide main drag of Dublin, filled with fast food and tourist shops and monuments and people, but the most spectacular sight was the Spire (affectionately called the “Spike”) a 390 foot metal pole officially named An Túr Solais, or “the Pillar of Light,” and it is lit up at night as we learned when using it as a guide us on our drunken stumble back from the Guinness Storehouse later in the day.

After finding our room and catching a bus back out to the city, we decided to try and make the Guinness Storehouse before it closed. Tired from a five hour bus ride from Cork and another 20 minuets city bus to and from our room, as well as the fact that Erica and I were obviously coming down with something, we were determined to salvage the remains of our first day in the city. Unfortunately Dublin is large and the small-scale we are used to in Cork does not apply there. Running along the banks of the Liffey we ended up going the length of the brewery before discovering we had gone too far. In a mad dash we ran the two blocks back up to the street and down around mazes of alleyways to reach the Storehouse before tours stopped at 5 o’clock.

But we made it, and saw all the pint-shaped museum had to offer including our free taste and free pint of Guinness- a drink I do not favor, but since I worked so hard to get there I was going to drink no matter what. So we stood in the rooftop Galaxy Bar above the Storehouse and chugged our pint-glasses in record time in order to get back down to the giftshop before it closed. After what I call my first experience “drunk shopping” we were discharged back into the city by way of what appeared by all accounts to be a back door, myself being sick, tired, and more than a little tipsy. A good first day in Dublin.

Sample at the Guinness Storehouse.

On Saturday we set out to accomplish it all, hitting first the National Museum of Ireland, then the National Gallery, Christ Church Cathedral, Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, Dublin Castle, and somehow even Trinity College, which we stumbled into and could not get out of.

The dome of the National Museum.

By far my favorite was Christ Church. Started in 1038 it’s one of the oldest churches in Ireland, having undergone extensive renovations around the turn of the century resulting in beautifully colored marble inlay and mosaic floors, bright colored windows, and wonderful stonework as well as a bridge over Winetavern Street to the Synod House where an exhibition called Dublinia was being shown, but this part was closed. In the crypt we found displayed the mummified remains of a cat and rat that were found trapped in the church organ, as mentioned in Finnegan’s Wake. As for myself, I found the church quite rat-free.

Mosaic on the flor of Christ Church Cathedral.

St. Patrick’s was at least twice the size of Christ Church, but somehow there was much less to see. These churches are less worship space and more museum now, with gift shops sitting right alongside marble tombs. But this does nothing to lessen the feeling of the long sanctuary and towering ceilings that echo every footstep. I love places like these.

Our tour of Dublin Castle, which is really more of a Georgian Palace, was a guided affair through a number of staterooms and bedrooms, ballrooms and throne rooms, each brightly colored and lit with high chandeliers. Among these rooms were the King’s Bedroom, where Queen Victoria slept, a large parlor room displaying a mirror taken from the Palace of Versailles, and the ballroom where every seven years the new president of Ireland is inaugurated. From here we were guided into the underbelly of the castle where ancient stonework shows the original walls of the castle joined to one of the city gates, long closed off with brick.

The mirror from Versailles.

The day was waning so we trudged back towards O’Connell Street and decided to take a detour through the gates of Trinity College, with its long greens and stonework buildings. It’s much like I though UCC would be, full of old educational edifices, stern and charming at the same time. It’s like a walled garden of knowledge from the moment you walk through the gate and the traffic fades behind the screen of buildings. Overhead the Irish sky- always churning with clouds, was moving through its evening motions. It was a wonderful end to a long day.

On Sunday, before jumping the bus back to Cork we decided to take a break from the noise of the city and see the Dublin Zoo. Our roommates had spent last Sunday there after discovering that most things in Dublin are closed on Sundays. So we caught the bus to Phoenix Park- a beautiful walking park and lake on the outskirts of the city- nest to which sits the Zoo. Small in comparison to Baltimore or Washington, it was not at all crowded thanks to the cloudy February day. The Zoo is not much more than a large lake where the primates live on islands connected to the shelters by log bridges, primates being unwilling to go into the moving water and being therefore effectively enclosed. There were almost no barriers between the visitors and the animals, to the point where I was sure a child was going to climb over and tumble into the enclosure unwittingly. Luckily many of the traditional animals; lions, tigers and elephants, had more protective barriers in place. It was a lovely time, really.

Our final sight was an exhibit called “Bodies; the Exhibition" a smaller version of the Body Worlds 2 exhibit that was in Baltimore last year. It was one of those exhibits where actual human remains are on display, showing the way in which the many systems of the body work in tandem. It was a very interesting exhibit, but I couldn’t help but get the feeling that I was touring a novelty, something that will be extinct in 30 years except for the mention of it in history books of the “Bizarre and True!” What really got me was the way human muscle looks so much like animal meat, considering meat is muscle. If I wasn’t a vegetarian before, I would be now.

Afterwards we decided to try and catch the 4.00 bus back to Cork and spend our Sunday night in recovery before setting out for our next grand trip: Edinburgh.

The sky over Trinity College.

Valentines In Vadrafjordr

It being a calm weekend around the apartment, we packed up and headed on a day-trip to the port-town of Waterford, about two hours to the east of Cork. It’s the oldest city in Ireland, dating from 914 AD when it was originally the Viking outpost of Vadrafjordr. Back then it sat on a projection of land between the River Suir to the north and swampy marshland to the east, of which the John’s River is all that now remains.

We first toured the Waterford Museum of Treasures where we experienced an encapsulated version of the city’s history given to us by two floors of displays and self-guided informational audio. Any number of historical articles of clothing and jewelry, parchments and furniture pieces were on display for us as well as a quite unexpected turn on a simulated Viking ship.

An illuminated manuscript.

Afterwards we took a stroll down the banks of the Suir where small personal motor and sail boats moored and where across the river we could see a large banner hanging on the side of a factory. Without words or logo, it was simply the large, pale face of a girl of about ten staring at us from across the water. Even though the day was warm and bright, it was a confusing and unsettling picture, and we still don’t know what it means. Strange way to advertise.

Farther down the promenade we found the local bandstand where we broke for lunch before touring Reginald’s Tower. A stout three-story stone construct sitting on the farthest corner of Waterford’s original projection, it served as an easy post from which the river could be watched and the port held. When it was first constructed by the Vikings it acted as part of the original walls surrounding the city, but with the walls all but completely gone, the Tower sits wedged between two modern buildings of comparable height and blends almost unnoticeably into the city line.

At the bandstand.

From here we decided to tour Christ Church Cathedral, which contains the tomb of James Rice (a somehow very important Waterford figure) as well as being host to the allied marriage of the native warrior Strongbow and the anglo-saxon princess Aoife. But unfortunately the Cathedral was closed, so instead we headed over to the People’s Park, a 16-acer plot of green situated by the city court house.

Perhaps just because it we’re still in on the edge of winter, or perhaps because of the park’s actual disrepair, it was a rather poor sight with the browned bushes and strange smell, but we took a turn around it anyway, posing for pictures on the adorning cannons and coming across an exercise platform where we stopped for a quick “workout” (consisting of us trying, and failing, to do chin-ups.)

Afterwards, quickly running out of ideas, we headed to a small gallery found on our map, which turned out to be even smaller than we expected. Just two rooms, the Garter Lane Arts Gallery is just two white rooms in an old townhouse hosting two modern local artists, all of whose works are on sale.

By this time Waterford had given us just about all we could find, the famous Waterford Crystal Factory already being closed due to bankruptcy, so we caught the next bus to Cork, saying goodbye to the suburban sprawl of Waterford.

The sky over People's Park.

A Little Something About the Nightlife

With a drinking age of 18 and at least three universities in the near vicinity, Cork has a nightlife that, while in itself is rather small, is entirely new to me, the girl who goes to school in little old Chestertown with its two (rather pitiful) bars and no clubs to be spoken of.

Here there are pubs at every corner, more than even my little guidebook can count. I’ve only been to a handful so far, but of those I’ve been enough times. There’s the Monday night Franciscan Well, with live music and a selection of specialty brews- the very same place I went my first night here. It’s a nice, warm pub where people can sit and talk and I like that I don’t need to dress up to go there. Also that’s it’s an easy distance from the apartment.

On Tuesday there’s Cavanaugh’s, a younger, more upbeat place with live music every night. But truthfully they cater to a more inebriated crowd, with old pop songs everyone knows and inevitably ends up singing. From there we can usually snag free passes to Club Classic, which is as the name suggests, a classic nightclub; no more, no less, with neon lights and the usual dance beats you see on MTV. It’s not a bad place, but without a pass the cover is much too expensive for what you’re getting.

On Wednesday after English Lit we head over to the Old College Bar, an on-campus pub and venue for sponsored gigs with a big-screen wall usually showing some rugby game. The wooden tables are all marked up and in all, it looks like what you’d think a well-patroned college bar would. It’s usually pretty subdued on Wednesdays, but that’s not bad, it’s a good place to talk.

From there we head down to An Brog, arguably the most popular college hang-out in all of Cork. I like this pub probably more than any of the others. It hosts sometimes live, sometimes DJ’d rock music, a place to dance, and a million nooks and crannies to get away from the bustle. There’s something in the atmosphere that just says, “yes, this place works.” If I’m willing to make it a long evening we’ll head up to Freakscene afterwards, a club situated over the Brog where the music is a bit more diverse, playing everything from 80s classics, to modern rock, to Britney Spears. It’s the oldest running nightclub in Cork and so far my favorite as well. It’s not like the Classic, which to me seems to be trying to hard to be suave. Here there’s music that, while it may not quite be mainstream, you can dance to it. That works for me.

At this point I should probably issue a disclaimer, seeing as I’ve outlined my week by the pubs and clubs I’ve frequented. While a few of my flatmates are very much into dressing up and heading out each night, often I’m just as content to curl up with a glass of wine and a movie. With all the options though, it can be tough to strike a balance. Usually I limit myself to one outing per week, or I’ll hit up a pub with them, but come home before the club as there’s always someone else who forgoes the dance scene as well.

What’s interesting about the Cork nightlife though is that its height is during the weekdays. Even with classes the next morning I have seen the girls out until 2am or later, and most UCC students seem to follow the same pattern. It is true that most local Irish students go home during the weekend, so I suppose it makes sense that the weekdays would be crowded, but it is the opposite of what I expected.

This week is especially lively, as it’s UCCs annual “Raising and Giving Week,” affectionately called RAG. The college, in conjunction with school societies and certain venues, puts on a host of parties and activities, which usually amount to another excuse to go out. All the money goes to selected charities and all the students show up drunk for class- or don’t show up at all. The English Department has even cancelled all lectures for this week in order to host “make-up exams” for last semester, which leaves me with only one class this week and more than enough time to have some fun.