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.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Monday, June 28, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
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?
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
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.
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.
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.
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