"Studying" Abroad

Doing the "studying" part with studying abroad has been kind of difficult for me throughout this summer semester. I can't quite seem to focus on what needs to be accomplished. I'm well aware of the fact that I'm here in Ireland for a reason and not just to have fun in a different country, but it's a fact that I'm constantly having to remind myself of. I've never left the country before, and I doubt I ever will again. This being the case, I want to explore the country as much as I can and experience every aspect about Ireland when I have the opportunity.

There's not a single optional outing that I've not signed up for. It cuts into the time I have to work on my final revisions for my portfolios, but I'm willing to get up extra early to work on those if I can get the chance to see some exceptionally beautiful part of the Irish countryside or climb to the top of some mountain. I can always sleep when I get home. I'll be so bored when I get back home, that I'm sure I'll want nothing more than to sleep.

But I do have to work on these revisions for class. I guess it's part of the bargain for getting the chance to come on this trip. And so I set to work on them as I anxiously await the freedom that next week will bring when I'll have turned everything in and have nothing but fun adventures during my last week in Ireland.

Hello, Dublin

This is it. The final city. The last group tour, the last first night out. The group is in Dublin, the grand finale of our trek across Ireland. It feels bittersweet to be here. I think the vast majority of the group has been looking forward to Dublin the most out of everything on this trip. The girls have been looking forward to all the different stores and all the shopping they can get done. The other guys have been really pumped about going to new bars and new clubs. Everyone is excited to see new buildings, statues, landmarks – everything that comes with a city in Europe.

But I can’t help but be sad. In the back of my mind on this entire trip, I’ve known that once we got to Dublin, it would be all over. I can see the end of this trip now. Two weeks from today I will be home and will most likely never return to Ireland, or Europe for that matter. It’s sad because I don’t really want to go home, not back to work, school, humidity, any of that. My Irish summer is almost over and I can’t shake off this feeling of melancholy because of it.

Croagh Patrick

I did it; I climbed Croagh Patrick. Croagh Patrick is a tall mountain in County Mayo, Ireland where St. Patrick is buried. Apparently it’s not even the tallest mountain in Ireland, but it certainly was tall enough to me. I don’t normally climb mountains. It’s not because I’m afraid of heights or hate the outdoors. I just haven’t ever climbed a mountain. I can’t honestly say it’s something I’ve always wanted to do, because until Wednesday, I hadn’t even considered it as a possibility. But when I found out that the Travel Writing class was going to climb and that the Film class had the chance to join, I knew that I had to do it.

I came to Ireland looking for adventure. Yes, there is that whole “studying abroad” part, all six credits worth, but for me personally, I wanted adventure. I’ve never really done anything exciting before, save for white water rafting a few times. I almost felt like I needed to climb this mountain. I didn’t rally have another option. Halfway up the mountain, doubt really started to sink in. I didn’t need to continue to climb, I’d come halfway; that was enough. I was totally exhausted now, imagine how hard it was going to get. But in spite of these grumblings in the back of my mind, I knew that I would be so disappointed in myself if I didn’t reach the top. It was something I had to do, and so I did. I really feel it this morning now, however. I’m aching in places I didn’t know existed. But that’s ok, the pain will subside, and I’ll still have the memory of that adventure up the mountain with me.

A Necessary Evil

According to Wikipedia, a necessary evil is anything that, despite being considered to have undesirable qualities, is preferable to its absence. Also according to the folks that run Wikipedia, shopping is the examining of goods or services from retailers with the intent to purchase at that time. Shopping is an activity of selection and/or purchase. According to me, shopping is a necessary evil.

I hate shopping. I’m not really sure what I don’t like about it. I suppose I am a pretty frugal person. I’m certainly not a miser, but I hate spending my money on what I consider to be crap. I’m generally a people person; I love being around people in just about every situation. But when it comes to shopping, people annoy me to no end, especially the people that lazily walk from one display to another. It’s almost as if they have nothing better to do with their day than gaze at four hundred overpriced leprechaun figurines.

But today I had to go shopping. I needed to get souvenirs after all. So upon leaving the Omniplex after my last movie of the Galway Film Fleadh, I begrudgingly dragged myself through the streets of Galway and entered the Latin Quarter. I was immediately met with a crowd of people: street performers, shoppers, and (judging by the expressions on their faces) fellow reluctant shoppers. One man had a crowd of tourists around him as he balanced a unicycle on his chin. Even I had to pause and take notice. I don’t see that everyday.

I looked around the different shops and pubs, wondering where to start. I had to get myself an Ireland sweatshirt and some postcards to send to the grandparents. But I was on a mission, a mission for Claddagh rings. Before I even left for Ireland I had decided to get my two younger sisters Claddagh rings from Galway. One must make up for missing his sisters’ graduation for flying to Ireland. Claddagh is an area of Galway right on the water. It used to be its own village before Galway expanded into it. For some reason the people of Claddagh created a ring of hands, a heart, and crown that is a real hit with the tourists.

I knew what I had to do. I went straight for the original Claddagh ring shop. It is a tiny little store across from the water and sits right next door to an equally small café. I poked my head in the back door and was surprised to only see the man running the shop and two other women shopping. The shopkeeper was very helpful. He told me how it’s actually illegal to make jewelry with nickel in it in Ireland, unlike America. This was good to know. I didn’t want to buy my sisters rings that would give them green fingers. Although I suppose if you’re going to get a green finger, it might as well be from an Irish ring. I found to two rings I needed – minuscule in size since my sisters are so small – and left to continue my dreaded task of shopping.

As I stepped back on to the street I had to smile a little bit. I know how excited my sisters will be when I give them their rings. I love being a big brother. Today, the evil of shopping was very necessary for me.

Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head

The rain dripped down my navy rain jacket as I walked home that night. The clouds had been raining a lot recently. It was drizzling now, but it had been pouring and sprinkling at different times throughout the day. That’s Ireland I suppose. Rain, rain, and also rain.

I was walking back from another movie at the Galway Film Fleadh. Another disappointment. I had been excited for this festival, figuring that these movies have to be good if they’re putting them on at a festival. Seven movies later, I had seen only three that were any good. The one I had just watched, Snap, was still in the undecided category. It wasn’t great, but wasn’t horrendous. At least I was getting reimbursed, I told myself.

And so the rain dripped. I looked at my watch and realized it was only nine thirty. Certainly not late. If I wanted, I could get back to the apartments in time to go out with people to the bars. I crossed the bridge over the River Corrib. Half past nine and those guys were still fishing. I’ve never fished before, couldn’t ever see the point. If I wanted fish, couldn’t I just go buy them at the store?

I focused on one man in particular. It was impossible not to; he was wearing bright yellow boots – Wellies as they call them here in Ireland – and a strikingly red jacket. How could that jacket shine so brightly even in the rain and clouds? He had the hood pulled up over his balding gray hair. I could tell rain was getting on his glasses and he couldn’t see well. But still he drew back his rod and cast his line. I heard the reel spin and the line whiz out of it. The sinker flew with a plop into the water.

And now he stood. I wondered what he thought about while he waited for that one fish dumb enough to mistake a lime green piece of plastic to be food. I bet he probably has a wife and a few kids. They’re probably grown now; maybe they even have families of their own now. Maybe he thought about his grandkids, or maybe just the delicious meal his wife had made for dinner. He looked like an Irish stew kind of guy.

The fisherman looked very peaceful, enjoying his time alone. I bet his house would get pretty loud sometimes, and being the good grandpa he would play along with the kids and laugh. But people need their quite time. Time to relax, mellow. Time to just let the rain drip down their rain jackets as they contemplate a movie they had just seen.

He looked up from the river. Eventually we made eye contact; he waved. I waved back, smiled. I took this as my cue to go. It was time to get back to my thoughts, so I left the fisherman to his, and continued my walk home.

Half-full or Half-empty

Well, it’s been three weeks since we all got to Ireland, and now there’s three weeks left. I have mixed feelings about being halfway done. I’m sure there’s some joke about half-full half-empty in this somewhere, but I can’t think of it.

I’m sad to be half done with the program already. After the first week in Cork going by incredibly slowly, I thought this trip would seem to last forever, something that excited me. But after the first week, it seems like somebody hit the booster rockets on time and suddenly two more weeks flew by. I suppose that’s summer though. It always amazes me how one month of summer can seem to blow on by quickly while the exact same time in the winter seems to drag on ad infinitum.

I’m also a little eager to get back home. Well not necessarily home, since I don’t want to go back to working at the movie theater for three weeks, but I do want to get to Harrisonburg. I haven’t seen all my friends there in two plus months now, and I’m really missing them. Facebook and email are only so good at keeping people in contact. I know that I’ll be really bummed out when this trip actually is over, but at least I’ll have something to look forward to as well.

The Spanish Invasion

I thought I was going to spend this summer in Ireland. I remember boarding a plane with several other people also headed to Ireland and I do see a lot of people with red hair, but I’m still not entirely sure that I’m in Ireland

I feel like I’m surrounded by Spanish things since arriving in Galway. I’m pretty sure half the people living in these apartments with us are Spanish students. They aren’t just college students either. There are kids that can’t be any older than fourteen. I remember the other day when we rode a bus to Middleton and I was talking to some random Irish guy. He said that the summer is always flooded with Spanish people. I hadn’t really noticed it before until coming to Galway. They are all over the place!

I also seem to find a lot of different Euros in my pocket from countries other than Ireland. But what country do I have most of? Spain. Those little España coins jingle in my pocket every day. I guess it makes sense to have so many though if Spanish people really do come to Ireland in droves.

Where did I go to lunch today? A Spanish restaurant. Who was running crazily through the streets last night? Spanish people. Why? Because the Spanish soccer team beat Germany and is going to the World Cup Final. Where did I go today when I wandered around Galway? The Spanish Arch. I swear Spain is invading Ireland.

Reaction to "His and Hers"

This past Wednesday night I attended a screening of the Irish documentary “His and Hers.” The movie surprised me and I enjoyed it a lot more than I thought I would. I really liked the honest portrayal of the women chosen for the documentary. These women were not models or anyone incredibly special, but they were normal, everyday women dealing with life and the men in it. These women had experiences that everyone could relate. While these women may have been Irish, nothing about their experiences resonated with me as distinctly Irish; I think women in America, Canada, Germany, and another other Western culture have many of the same encounters with the men in their lives.

The one middle-aged woman reminded me especially of my mother. She mentioned how she was coming to terms with the fact she has less and less control in her son’s life. I know my mother does not often like that I can make important decisions on my own, but that’s part of being an adult. I could see my mother in this women, slowly accepting the inevitable and coming to peace with it.

There were a few elderly women in the movie that reminded of my grandmother. One of the women was talking about how she would move a chair towards the fireplace like when she and her husband would sit around the fire and drink wine. I’ve known my grandmother to set an extra place for my grandfather, even though he died ten years ago. She has also saved the answering machine that has his voice recorded on it and every once in a while she will listen to it. Another of the elderly women was adamant about walking by herself and not wanting to have to inconvenience her son or her other family because she was old. This woman reminded me of my same grandmother. Because she lives by herself, she goes places alone and likes to remain independent. I know that this worries my dad and aunt, but she this is of no concern to her. Just like the woman in “His and Hers,” her independence is very important to her.

There was also a girl in the film that reminded me of friends that I have had in the past. The girl was texting back and forth with some guy on her cell phone. It seemed like they were planning a date or something, and the girl seemed very unwilling to actually tell the guy that she was actually interested in him. Watching that scene gave me a brief flashback to middle school. I remember one girl friend in particular who would always debate with anyone who would listen whether or not some guy liked her and whether or not she liked him. I remember how back then it always seemed like such a big deal to her, but now it seems laughable.

I am glad I got the chance to see “His and Hers.” It was not the typical movie that I would have chosen to watch, but I ended up enjoying it. I think the heartfelt realism of the women was what really made me enjoy it. I was reminded of some happy memories in my life of women that have been important to me.

Charles Fort

As I walk through the ghostly remains of Charles Fort, I can imagine the footsteps of the soldiers once stationed there. I look out across the river and imagined seeing the British fleet moored in the docks of the river. I hear the cannon blasts of the attacking French, Jacobites, and IRA.

A feeling of adventure envelopes me. I imagine myself as a foot soldier, completely swept up in some battle that I did not fully understand. I may not understand the significance of what or whom I am fighting, but no matter. I must fight; my mother and sisters are living in the town of Kinsale. With my father gone it is up to me to protect them.

I can see the enemy coming up the hill. A cannon blast had just blown a hole into the right flank wall and they had begun to penetrate the fort. I abandon my post at the cannon on the parapets and grab my rifle. This is the first real battle I had ever seen. I shiver terribly as I load my rifle, forgetting to pour the powder before loading the musket ball. I can hear the yells of battle and my commanding officer yelling in my face. “Load faster!”

The pressure gets to me and I drop my ramrod. “Soldier, you are going to get yourself killed!” He pulls out his pistol and fires into the battle raging in the courtyard below us. I pick up the rod and load my gun correctly. “Do I have to teach you how to aim that thing too?” I tentatively bring my rifle up to my shoulder and look over the courtyard.

The officer turns and yells at some other frightened young soldiers. He looks back at me. “Fire, damn it, fire – ” A bullet rips through his chest and blood splatters on my face. I watch my commander fall. I turn and spot the enemy that had fired. I aim my rifle and fire. I might have hit him in the shoulder but I can’t be sure.

I duck back down and cower. I look at my now dead commander; the blood pours from his mouth and chest. His hand still clutches his pistol. This is madness. I try to reload my rifle, fumbling for a powder charge. Again I drop my ramrod. “Bayonets!” shouts some other officer. I grab mine from my belt and secure it to my rifle.

Screwing up the courage, I ran down the stairs. The chaos that I see on the ground astonishes me. Surely not all battles were so bloody, so gruesome? Where was the adventure, the chivalry? A gun butt slams me in the back and I fall to the ground. I look up to see a bayonet diving towards my chest. I throw up my rifle and am about to thrust my bayonet up when another rifle bashes into my knee.

“Jared, why did you just knee that wall?”

I look up. I am no soldier. I am a college student, a tourist. There is no battle, no adventure, only a ruined fort in a tourist town. I smile and shrug off the pain in my leg. Maybe some other day.

Moving Out

Well, tonight is the last night it Cork, Ireland. I feel bittersweet about leaving. I'm sad to say goodbye to the first city of our trip. I have a hard time believing that it's been two weeks already. That's a third of the trip gone. I don't even want to think about how much money I've spent here.

I've really grown to like this city. I love the tightly packed houses and bed & breakfasts on Washington Street. I will miss the familiarity of Patrick Street and Parade. I'll even miss the Centra and Subway right by our dorms. They sure have been convenient for food. I'm sure Galway will have something, but it'll be something new to discover.

I am excited to explore Kilarney and Galway, so there is plenty to be happy about with leaving Cork. Some of my favorite days in Cork were days exploring the city, figuring out where the streets led. I look forward to seeing different movies at the Film Fleadh. I look finding new favorite restaurants and paths to walk.

A change of scenery will really be nice. I sometimes have felt that I have seen all there is to see in Cork, whether or not that's true. Still, I will miss the familiarity.

Different

This morning I was sitting at the kitchen table in our dorm and eating a bowl of Cheerios. As I slowly chewed the cereal, slowly waking up, I started thinking of how a lot of things are different here in Ireland versus America, but are also very much the same. My box of Cheerios for instance is Nestle brand, not General Mills. I had no idea that Nestle owned General Mills. Another different thing just about my Cheerios is the fact that they are not Cheerios as I know them. They are not my tasty oat o’s; they are several different grains – wheat, oat, rice, corn – all shaped like o’s. It’s a little different, and kind of strange, but I have to say, they are quite tastey.

I should also point out how people drive on the other side of the road here. I will not go into too much detail since I wrote an entire submission about that fact earlier, but it is worth noting. I have even seen signs that say “No Left Turn on Red,” just like our “No Right Turn on Red” signs. The roads are set up in an exact mirror of our road system. It makes me smile sometimes, but it sure makes me have to think when I cross the street.

Another different thing the Irish have is the metric system. I realize that in theory the metric system is better, since it is all about using multiples of ten, but it sure confuses me. It makes me really have to think when I want to make Ramen (or Tesco brand noodles) and have to add two hundred milliliters of water. I have no idea how much two hundred milliliters is. I have not had a lab science since senior year of high school. The metric system is completely foreign to me. Yet the Irish, and the vast majority of world, seem to have no trouble using it. I know that America tried to convert to the metric system at some point in time, but failed. I guess it does not really matter, but it sure would make it easier to measure water for my dinner in other countries.

Some things are the same here in Ireland however. The television stations show a lot of American television shows. The stores sell a lot of American movies. The radio plays a lot of bad American music. It is almost just like home. It is also a little disappointing to me. I was excited to come to a different country and experience new things. I complain about the difference and the inconveniences that they cause me, but I love them. Anytime I walk into a store and here Ke$ha playing on the radio I frown, both because Ke$ha has some of the worst music ever, but also because I would much rather hear the music of Ireland, not America.

Ireland is different. It can be a real inconvenience for me, but mostly just makes me think. There are a lot of differences between America and Ireland, but both groups of people seem to function just fine with different kinds of cereals, roadways, and measuring systems. Differences really are not that important.

Waiting

I sit here waiting for the wireless Internet to work. It’s not. And it probably won’t work either. I think I’m okay with that. The computer lab in the basement has been working fine. We’re all respectful of each other and don’t take too long when there are other people waiting for the computer. It hasn’t seemed like that big of a deal having to share a computer.

If anything the time that we spend in the lab together has made us grow together as a group. I think we have become pretty close. I’m kind of afraid that if we do get wireless access, we might not see each other on a casual basis anymore. We very well might go back in our usual habits of Facebooking and Skyping with friends back home. Sure I’m eager to be able to access the Internet whenever I want, but I also have kind of liked not being able to have contact with home that often. If I stayed in contact with home more, I might have not been as willing to explore Cork.

And yet here I sit on the cold, stone floor of the reception lobby. Waiting. I may have enjoyed the lack of Internet access, but I’m still too addicted to it to forgo the opportunity to get access. So much for any technologically imposed Internet intervention.

Postcard World

In the film class we have been watching movies about the Irish War of Independence. It has been interesting to learn about the struggle that the Irish and British have had for such a long time. For a while, however, I could not figure out what was so important about Ireland that made it such a “must have” for Great Britain.

It is a quaint little island. The people are nice; the beer tastes good. Ireland has some nice things going for it. On the other hand, the land is very rocky and terrible if you want to grow crops other than potatoes. Setting aside the possibility that Britain might want Ireland only to use as a potato garden, I contemplated what the big deal about Ireland was that Great Britain had spent the better part of seven hundred years trying to beat Ireland into submission and under its control.

I considered these facts for most of this past week. Then I went to Bantry this weekend. Bantry is a small coastal village on the Bantry Bay in West Cork. Bantry also happens to be part of Ireland, or what I now refer to as “Postcard World.” I call Ireland this because every piece of scenery is picturesque. Every hill, every lake, every sheep belongs on a postcard. It is impossible to take a bad picture of the Irish landscape.

The beauty of Bantry (and Ireland as a whole) is amazing and truly jaw-dropping. It is my belief that this is the reason why the British were so hell-bent on controlling Ireland. When you see the Irish countryside and the coastlines, there is nothing that is going to stop you from wanting to come in and have this land all to yourself. How could the British not want their own postcard mine in their backyard? Even to this day the United Kingdom holds on to Northern Ireland. It’s almost as if the British are saying, “All right, you Irish. You can have your fair share of the place, but we are not going to let you have a monopoly on the postcard business.”

I say this lightheartedly, but the scenery that I saw over the weekend really amazes me. Bantry Bay is simply breathtaking with its blue water and drastic changes in tide. I had a hard time believing how much green was on the surrounding hills. I had no idea that so many different shades of green existed on the Earth.

I had always thought that America was such a beautiful country, and still do, but as I stood on the coast that Saturday and watched the water ebb and flow and the sheep graze across the green hills I became to doubt whether or not our country was the most beautiful. I can appreciate why the Irish would fight for their country, despite how overpowered they were by the British. They were willing to give up everything to keep it, even giving up their lives so that their children could have it, this one island in the North Atlantic that is more beautiful than any other part of the Earth.

Exploring St. Finnbar's Cathedral

I walked around Cork by myself today. It was good to get away from everyone and have some time alone. No having to wait for someone taking pictures, or trying to catch up when I take pictures. Everything was at my own pace.

The focus of my excursion was to visit St. Finnbar's Cathedral. It was absolutely beautiful. The ornate sculptures around the entrances and the architecture of the church were amazing. There were individual people carved into the walls. The steeples towered into the sun. I think I spent a good hour taking pictures of the outside of the church. I wanted to explore the interior, but there was a mass being held inside, so I could not get in. I suppose that might have been rude if I did though.

With my plans of exploring more of the church thwarted, I explored the surrounding grounds of the church. I found that there was a very old graveyard behind the church. Most of the graves were from the late 1800s, around the time that the church was built. My mind cannot even comprehend that long ago. Ireland was still part of the United Kingdom back then. America was expanding westward. And these people were busy dying. Events that I only read in textbooks were realities for these people.

The Wrong Side

The other day we took a bus ride from Shannon to Cork after flying into Ireland. The entire group was pretty tired from jetlag, so we slept. I slept off an on mostly; I've never had much luck falling asleep on a bus and the sun kept shining on me and making me hot. Eventually I did get some sleep however. When I woke up, we were still on the road, driving through the Irish countryside, but I was in a sleep-induced stupor and when I looked out the window I momentarily freaked out. We were driving on the wrong side of the road!

I eventually came to my senses, realized that I was in Ireland, and fell back to sleep. That feeling has stayed with me however: that feeling of fear from driving on the wrong side of the road. Since coming to Ireland I have found myself doing things and considering things that I would not have if I were still home in America. It has really started to make me think.

On the one hand it's a good thing to contemplate your current habits, choices, decisions, beliefs, values, etc. and consider whether or not they are right. This is smart. You get a better handle on why you believe what you believe and why you do what you do. But what happens when you decide what you normally have been doing is right, but then decide what you want to do is wrong? What happens when you realize you are driving on the wrong side of the road?

Summer Adventure

Written 6/22/10
9:25 PM

I never looked forward to summer vacation much as a child. I never did much. My family would never go on vacation. The farthest from home I would ever go would be to my grandparents. I lived in Indiana and they lived in North Dakota. I suppose that's far, but North Dakota sure isn't that exciting as a little kid (nor as an adult, I might add).

I eventually resigned myself to the fact that I wouldn't get to take some great adventure in the summer. I would have to content myself by listening to the stories my friends would tell whenever one would return from a vacation.

"It was sooo cool, Jared! We saw Mickey Mouse! And I went to the top of Space Mountain!"

I would tell myself that I wasn't really missing much. It couldn't be anymore exciting than curling up and reading a book. That's what I would do during my summers. Read.

"And the water was sooo blue! I got to swim with dolphins! Dolphins!"

The first assignment of every school year was to write about what you did over the summer. While my friends would write of trips to Florida and Hawaii, I would write about seeing grandma take out her false teeth. Again. About riding my bike through the woods and picking the scabs off my knees. Again. I never had a good story to tell. I never took that summer adventure.

Well they never went to Ireland. It took me twenty years, but I'm finally on that summer vacation. I plan on taking full advantage of my time in Ireland. I want to explore every city, every town that I visit. I have twenty years to make up for. My adventrue has begun.

Names

Written 6/22/10
11:16 AM

Apparently wheat bread is not wheat bread. It's brown bread. At least it is in Ireland. I suppose when I think about it, wheat bread might not be such a good name for it. Perhaps "brown" describes it better; after all; after all, white bread is made with wheat too.

This reminds me of that line from Romeo and Juliet "what is a rose if by any other name it would smell as sweet," or something to that effect. Why do names matter so much to us? If I call it wheat or brown bread, I'm talking about the same things aren't I? And yet two different cultures give one object two different names.

It makes me wonder what other things we give different names than what the Irish give them. I also wonder if the names we give them are really that important. I can easily switch to eating brown bread and crisps and not give it a second thought.

But objects do not feel; they do not care what you call them. There are thousands of languages in the world after all. But names do matter to people. I don't want to be called anything other than "Jared": no nickname, nothing else. My name means something to me. Other people are very proud of their names as well; they take pride in a unique spelling or pronunciation. Names mean something to people. Maybe it's identity, maybe pride, maybe dignity. I really don't know. I do know that it's a much larger faux paux to call someone the wrong name than to order a ham sandwich on wheat in Ireland.