Planes, Trains, and Automobiles

The Netherlands!! September 17 - 21.

Busy weeks equal delayed posts, but here it is, and I'm hoping to get an accompanying photo album up on Facebook soon as well, which I'll link to for the non-Facebookies among us.

So after one week here in the hostel in Dublin, I woke up early and returned to Dublin Airport to start on my first side-trip from Ireland. I hopped on my first-ever Ryanair flight and headed off to Eindhoven, the first stop on my journey where I would be meeting my old friend Lennart before catching the train heading back to his hometown.

I hadn't seen Lennart since Kassandra and I escorted him to Ezeiza Airport in Buenos Aires at then end of our six months together at la Universidad del Salvador. That was over a year ago. He was one of those friends that you make while abroad and (because you have no one else) they become like family. You learn as much about each other in the span of a few months as some people learn in lifetimes. We saw each other nearly every day, lived less than four blocks from each other, ate together, partied together, traveled together. Then, with these friends, at the end of your time together, you branch off and go your separate ways, and in all likelihood the next time you see each other won't be for years if at all. It's one of the "double-edged sword" aspects of doing this.

IT WAS SO GOOD TO SEE HIM!! Weird. But good. We both acknowledged on a couple of occasions how strange it was to be seeing each other again. It wouldn't have been as strange to be reunited in BsAs. That was our world. This was his world, his real life and not his abroad life. I encountered the same feelings visiting Isabelle in Montreal or hosting her in Boston. When we're together in these places, I feel like once in a while the feeling sneaks up on you, that this simply might not be where you belong. After arriving on Thursday, I think it took at least until Saturday, even early Sunday, before Lennart and I were back in our old rhythm, when we had finally adjusted to seeing each other in this new place.

The trip was a lot of fun. After a week of the hostel and living on cheap Irish food, it was fantastic to head to Lennart's home town of Duiven and meet the de Lange family, sleep in my room, and eat home-cooked meals. Their hospitality was incredible and greatly appreciated.

The weekend was a bit of a whirlwind. Almost directly after dinner Lennart drove us out to Arnhem, about a 15 minute drive from Duiven, where he went to school and lived until recently. I got have some drinks and meet his friends, including a host of very handsome and very charming Dutch men who insured that I didn't pay for a drink the entire time. Whenever I protested the response was "Don't be ridiculous! Have fun! Welcome to the Netherlands!"

Friday we caught another train for an hour's trip across the little country to Amsterdam. What a fucking beautiful city. Weaving in and out of the streets and canals was incredible. We walked everywhere - up and down the city, the Red Light District, the shopping districts, the government houses - by the end of the day we were exhausted and hopped a tram back to Centraal Station to avoid having to cross the entire city by foot again. I failed to charge my camera battery before leaving (which Lennart didn't hesitate to rail on me for, over and over) so unfortunately I couldn't go as photographically nuts there as I wanted to. It's a beautiful place.

Honestly, I was in the Netherlands primarily to visit Lennart so going into the details of Amsterdam doesn't really seem necessary to me, but because it's such an infamous city in the States (and everywhere I suppose), I guess it would be irresponsible not to go into a little more detail here.

Does it smell like weed everywhere? No. It's like living on a college campus, walk around in normalcy and occasionally catch a whiff of something on someone. I had heard from a Dutch girl on the way over that the passage of the no-smoking-indoors laws that have been sweeping the globe had finally reached the Amsterdam coffeehouses (it's a fairly recent development in Dublin pubs as well). That's right folks, apparently you are no longer allowed to smoke inside the coffeehouses. Thus, all the smoking we witnessed, or that I noticed, happened around small outdoor café tables or rather pathetically as someone was sitting on the curbs of the crowded sidewalks. Kind of takes away from it a little, I think. Glasswear and other paraphernalia, including seeds, were sold openly in the same cornershops that would sell coffee or postcards in another city, and were comparatively very cheap. Nearly half of the postcards sold in the city had genitalia involved somehow in their design, often in rather disgusting ways. Need more detail? Conjure up an image, and now think "overzealous piercings". Maybe you came close.

Unfortunately, I think Amsterdam might be less famous for its architectural and physical beauty than it is for things like the coffeehouses and the Red Light District, which are things that I just didn't find very exciting. Lennart warned me before we got to the city of what I could expect in the District as far as far as comments and other things went. He used the term that I had taught him when we were in Argentina and dubbed it "very sketchy". He was very worried about my sensibilities, which he clearly thinks are a bit more delicate than they actually are.

I guess the effect is different during the day. It's more of a tourist trap and less of a working district. Interesting but not necessarily impressive. It was situated along just one more beautiful canal with old buildings growing up around it. If you ignored the neon signs it'd be just another neighborhood. But because of where we were, in addition to passing the usual bars and coffeehouses we would be passing windows where girls of all shapes and sizes were displaying themselves, simply looking very bored.

After exploring more of the city, we got back on the train, stopping in Utrecht (largest train station in the Netherlands - it's like a mall) where we had to connect for the train to Arnhem, to have dinner in the city center along the canal before heading back home Arnhem and then hopping the bus to Duiven for the night. Saturday held the open market in Arnhem, where I bought €10 worth of Dutch cheese which I would later smuggle back to Ireland in my carry-on (so delicious). Lennart had a 16k to run that evening, so after a energy-giving pasta lunch we headed back to Amsterdam by car for Nike's Dam-to-Dam race. After dropping Lennart and his brother off, the de Lange's drove us out to an open-air museum so I could see some of the old famous Dutch windmills. The windmills used to be responsible for pumping the water out of the ground, thus keeping the Netherlands (a country that is almost entirely below sea-level) from being buried under the ocean. They were quite impressive.

After a quick meal at McDonalds (fries come with mayo there, and you can sub out fries for a decent-sized salad at no extra cost) we headed to the finish line. Lennart managed to finish in time to beat the family record. We then headed back to Duiven for a relaxed evening of wine, cheese, and conversation out in the de Lange's beautiful garden.

Sunday held more trains and more trams, this time to the Hague. Mrs. de Lange had told me before we left that she loved the Hague, that it had a "grandeur" to it that couldn't be found in many other places. She's right. The Hague is the seat of government in the Netherlands, and houses many beautiful and impressive palaces and embassies and the like. As I had charged my camera battery by this time, there are a lot more pictures here. Lennart got me to try the Dutch "haring" (herring), which is a small fish that has been gutted and scaled, but that you eat without forks or knives, it's simply given to you on a napkin with a pile of chopped onion. You take the fish by the tail, roll it around in the onion (it's slimy so the onion sticks) then lift it up over your head, tip your head back, and lower it into your mouth. You look ridiculous, but it's pretty damn good.

After wandering the Hague a bit we caught a tram out to the coast and had lunch in the beach-town of Scheveningen. We walked the beach, collected some shells, got our jeans wet and got some ice cream before heading back. How nice to end my weekend by getting my feet wet in the other side of the Atlantic (technically the North Sea, I guess, but whatever).

Once we were home in Duiven once again it was pretty much just resting and chatting before getting driven out to Arnhem in on Monday morning to get the shuttle over the border into Germany to the Weeze airport outside Düsseldorf, where my flight was delayed for an hour or two before Ryanair flight #2 and back to Dublin to start Week One (see below).

It was a great trip. My first experience with the intercity train systems so prevalent in Europe. To me, the trains seemed almost tiring, hopping on and off, making connections, etc etc, but to the Dutch it's second nature. Lennart has several hours of commute by train every day to his job at Nike. I'd be interested to tally up my total travel time for the weekend - it seemed like a lot. But it's a great way to see the country. It's always good to see new places, and to reconnect with old friends, and I got to do both at the same time :)

Week One (Long, I know! A lot's happened!)

Well everyone, it's been about a week since I've done any kind of real post, maybe more. Things have been super busy!! The rest of the people in the CIEE program (as well as most of the other international students and freshmen starting at DCU) got in this past Sunday/Monday, so it has been a week full of meeting new people, getting settled in the new place, figuring out class schedules and internships, etc etc, with a little bit of partying and tourism thrown in there for good measure. As I was thrown into all of this directly after a fairly tiring extended weekend in Holland, I've been exhausted and it's just as of this morning that I'm starting to feel human again. (I'm still not unpacked)

This week brought us orientation activities, winding expeditions in search of the neighborhood grocery store/shopping center, pub nights out at a nearby bar (now a favorite) and Arthur's Day (see below). After going through all of this with the program people, I have to say I'm really happy with the group we have here. The CIEE people come from all over the country with all kinds of backgrounds, interests and majors, and for the most part everyone seems genuinely interested in meeting good people and having a good time. Which is all we can ask, right? Well, maybe we could ask for a few more guys to be in the mix, too. Not that the two (2) that we do have aren't wonderful :)

My apartment has 5 bedrooms and a pretty decent sized lounge/kitchen area. As of now I've met two of my roommates, the lovely Meghan (a fellow CIEE-er who hails from equal parts Nebraska and South Carolina) and Alex, a 44-year old Greek. Nice enough, but I gotta say it's a little strange living with a man quite close to my father's age. We also think there is someone else living in room E, but we have never seen this person. A tall-boy can of Miller Draft sitting warm in one of cupboard hints toward someone of the male persuasion, but that's all we got. Room D, to all our knowledge, also remains empty.

College Park is the dorm complex we all live in, 3 large buildings divided into several "houses" oriented around a central courtyard. The setup is actually quite convenient, in that it is conducive to communicating without using our phone credit. I.e., stand in the courtyard and shout up in the general direction of the person's room that you are looking for. Studies have found that the frequency, volume, and general obnoxiousness of this particular mode of communication positively correlates with the number of pints consumed across the street at Matt Weldon's Pub. (My room faces the rear of the building, thankfully)

Once again, after another week in and around the city of Dublin, it has been reinforced that the Irish culture is brilliant, warm, and still endlessly surprising to me. The people, generally, are open to the point of making me incredulous of their openness. After 2 or 3 visits, the bartenders at the pub across the street know our names and greet us loudly and warmly when we arrive, shouting around and joking with us as we sit at the bar and have a good time. People on the street are quick to offer helps if we're lost and confused, and once you get a couple drinks in any one of these people, you've made a new best friend for the night, and longer if you're willing. Without a doubt, the city favors the friendly. The people who get the most out of it are the people willing to walk up to anyone, have a conversation with anyone, share a laugh with anyone. I'm trying to get over whatever remains of my shyness after Argentina, because here it's only holding me back.

Yesterday, in the midst of one of the most touristy things of my life, was one of the most touching experiences that I can remember. All of the international students were invited out to Causey Farm, a working farm-turned-tourist attraction about an hour outside the city. After an hour's bus ride past rolling green hills and the occasional castle, we arrived at the farm and were swept off into a day of forced Irish dancing, drumming, bread-baking, cow-milking, pig-chasing, and bog-jumping, to name just a few of the activities.

The group of international students from DCU was at least 75, possibly up to 100 or so. At the end of the day, we were all gathered into a big meeting hall for a dinner of potato leek soup and the traditional Irish soda bread that we had made ourselves earlier in the day. After the meal, they cleared out the tables and chairs to make a big open space in the middle. A few of the farmhands grabbed instruments and started off the end of the night with a few songs. The owner of the farm said that it was traditional in Ireland to get a group of people together and for people to entertain themselves with dancing or singing or stories or whatever else. He used the Irish word for "visit", which I don't remember but looked up and might be "cuairt". He said that what made the tradition special was that it would never be the same, but would always change based on the people you were with and what they brought to the table in that particular moment.

Groups from different countries got up together to sing songs or do dances unique to them. Tom, a particularly outgoing guy from our group, played harmonica. It took a while, but eventually people were getting up and doing things on their own, sometimes borrowing one of the farmhands' instruments, sometimes singing songs that the entire group could join into, for example we had acoustic guitar versions of "Knockin on Heaven's Door" and an a capella version of Journey's "Don't Stop Believing". As fun as this was, the most striking were the traditional Irish pieces given to us by the farmhands and the Causey family.

In a lull when everyone was still a little shy to get up, the owner told us that the kids we had seen running around all belonged to him and his wife, and although most of them had gone to bed one (Rosie, perhaps, about 6 years old) was still up, and asked her if she'd be up for singing a song for everyone. It was clear that the owners and the farmhands were like family, and the little girl was sitting behind the guy playing the guitar. He turned to face her, and started playing very softly, smiling warmly to encourage her. Everyone in the room got entirely silent and watched this beautiful little blonde-haired rosy-cheeked girl shyly start singing:

In Dublin's Fair City
Where the girls are so pretty
I first set my eyes on sweet Molly Malone
As she wheel'd her wheel barrow
Through streets broad and narrow
Crying cockles and mussels alive, alive o!

Chorus
Alive, alive o!, alive, alive o!
Crying cockles and mussels alive, alive o!

She was a fishmonger
But sure 'twas no wonder
For so were her father and mother before
And they each wheel'd their barrow
Through streets broad and narrow
Crying cockles and mussels alive, alive o!

Chorus

She died of a fever
And no one could save her
And that was the end of sweet Molly Malone
But her ghost wheels her barrow
Through streets broad and narrow
Crying cockles and mussels alive, alive o!

Chorus

By the third chorus those of us who hadn't known the song (quite famous in Ireland) were able to join in for the chorus. The farmhand accompanying her on guitar would softly sing along with her so that she could keep going if she momentarily forgot the words. The amazing thing was that everyone was singing so softly, so that no one would drown out the voice of the little girl. And through the whole thing she was singing quietly, her big eyes looking around the room at all of us, as if she wasn't quite sure what to do with all the attention, but was proud that all the attention was on her and that everyone was so amazed by what was happening.

Having this song sung by that little girl, and having everyone join in to support her, was the height of this entire experience and actually moved me to tears. It was absolutely an entirely beautiful moment.

The guitarist graced us with quiet soulful versions of two favorites, the Irish "Galway Girl" and Nina Simone's "Black is the Color of My True Love's Hair", which was sad enough to bring a couple of the tears back (why am I such a sap?).

More than anything, I think it was the experience that was moving. To be a part of something like that, so special just as the owner described it, as touristy as the day might have been it was one of the first times that I really felt like I could be at home in Ireland. And it's because they want you to be at home there, they were all so sweet, making sure we had a good time and telling us to come back whenever. It was fantastic. I can't really convey it with words, I really need to start bringing that video camera around with me. *puts it in purse*

That's all for now, classes/internship starts tomorrow so I'll be up bright and early (7:30 wake up call if I want to make it to the gym before work). So once I finish my glass of wine and maybe get some photos up, it's off to bed. I'll check in soon with some tales of this coming week and perhaps of the Netherlands as well.

Keep in touch!! Miss you guys

P.S. The "Black is the Color" above is not the original Nina Simone version, but better captures the tone of what I heard. And it's put to photos of Ireland! How suitable.

Arthur's Day

Today was the 250th anniversary of Guinness, which began in 1759. As you can imagine, this is a fairly big deal here in Dublin. The Storehouse was taken over by concerts and parties, and every pub in the city was filled with people who all held up their glasses at 17:59 (5:59 pm) to the man who started it all.




I'm happy to say that I was able to take part in the celebrations, here of all places. Good times today, all.

New Address! (Finally)

Elisha Clark
w103 B - Campus Residences
Dublin City University
Glasnevin
Dublin 9
Ireland

Mail is encouraged!! Feel free to send letters, cards, care packages, financial contributions, etc.

I'm kidding about the financial contributions. Unless you're actually game for that. If you are, email me and I'll hook you up with some routing numbers. I'll say that I'm kidding only because I think it'd be tacky not to.

No, but seriously...jk.

The past few days have held considerable amounts of traveling, drinking, and walking around. I am clearly (as demonstrated to some extent by this post) tired to the point of delirium.

That's all for now.

AHEM, some thoughts on this blog

Hello!

So things are a little bit crazy here with orientation and meeting all of these crazy-cool people, in the program and out, so alas you might have to wait a little bit longer for any post accounting for either that stuff or the mainland Europe stuff that I got up to this past weekend. Not only is orientation crazy, but I'm currently trying to pull together co-op for next semester, and apparently that means I need to write a 6+ page paper for the co-op department. Apparently I need to prove in this paper that I'm a nice person with cultural awareness who isn't going to fuck up too badly if you dump me in another country for 6 months. Maybe I can just send them the links to these blogs!! Probably not. Argh. No. Time.

Anyway, speaking of blogs!! I have a request for you readers. Apparently, there are more of you than I thought, which is so great. And a lot of time, I get comments and feedback about the blog through email or AIM or Facebook or something where you guys tell me that you like it or you love it or you think its a boring piece of trash, and that's AWESOME. Thank you, seriously. It's wonderful to get the feedback.

HOWEVER. This blog is just as much for me as it is for you guys, perhaps more so. Now, while abroad, it's my connection to home and all of you. Later in life after I've returned or when I'm off somewhere else doing something different, it's going to be my connection to my time here, and my key way of looking back.

Maybe what some of you don't realize is that what YOU think of these posts, what you think about what I do or what you have to say to me during this time, all of that a key part of this experience for me. That you read it at all is a great thing for me, but I'm going to request just a little bit more of you. Because it turns out, I have no way of knowing who reads, or what they like, without you all telling me.

SO, if everyone could bear with me for a second and move your eyes down to the bottom of this post, where it says "posted by Elisha at a-time-when-she-should-be-showering-and-not-blogging". Now move them to the right. See that little link? The one that says "Comments" with a number next to it? That's the one, yes. Leave it for now, but head back to that when we're done here.

Blog comments basically make my world go round. It lets me know that people are reading, what they thought, if they liked it, but mostly just that they're reading. And that is a truly fantastic feeling. So from now on, I beseech all of you: as much as you can when you read, leave a little comment afterward and tell me what you thought. Some of these posts have one comment now. Some have two. But most have none. Do you have any idea how happy it would make me if I logged into blogger and saw 10, 15 comments on a new post??? More?? For the rest of the day I would be flying, seriously. Even if its just something small that you might think to be worthless, like a smiley face. It just lets me know that you're out there. And later, when I look back on this experience, I'll be able to look and see how much my friends and family supported me being here. And that's all part of it.

Example: say I do something crazy like jump off a cliff, again, and then write about it here. You hit "comment" and say something like "Holy fucking shit Elisha, have you lost your damn mind???" and then later, after all that, we can discuss my questionable sanity via AIM, email, skype, what have you.

Think you can do that for me? Work with me here, guys. Love you all.

To the parents of potentially younger readers: sorry for the swearing :S

Getting ready to say "goodbye" to Holland...

...and "hello" to a new home.

Well everyone, it's been a couple of days but as most of you know I took a short trip over to visit Lennart, an old friend from the Buenos Aires days. Thus, I've been chilling out in and exploring the Netherlands since Thursday evening and I've had quite the lovely time with Lennart and his family.

There will most certainly be a more detailed post with thoughts on our various adventures, pictures. etc. But for now, I'm just sitting alone upstairs while Lennart is unwinding with a bath (the crazy man ran a 16k race yesterday!), and I'm reflecting on my thoughts on returning to Dublin tomorrow.

I've always balked a bit at being thrown into situations where I have to meet a bunch of new people. Even a party where I have to meet and coexist for a couple hours can be intimidating, and these are people that I have to be with for 3 months!! I still have no idea who my roommates are, or where they come from, or even if they'll be there when I move into my room tomorrow, and of the 18 other CIEE students I've only met Ali and Rebecca from Northeastern, and then only briefly. The next week of orientation and the following week of beginning classes will certainly be intimidating, but then interesting and exciting as well. It's been far too long since I've been taking classes and I will very nerdily say that I am looking forward to it quite a bit.

More than anything else, though, I am looking forward to getting settled in my own apartment. With my own room. And my own bed. I realize now that it has been over a month since I was at "home" in my Gainsborough apartment, before I got swept into the bustle of packing and moving and preparation. Then it was a 10 days or so back in CT, which was just a rush of seeing people and getting things done, with no time to rest, then back up to Boston for 9 days of sleeping on couches and living out of suitcases, then 8 days of hostel beds, noise, and strangers in Dublin, and now 4 more of living out of a backpack in a house that's not my own (not that the de Lange family hasn't been entirely lovely-they've been exquisite). A new friend that I met in the hostel put it quite well - after backpacking around Europe for quite some time, she said that thing she was looking forward to the most was to have her own designated place where she could set down her tooth brush, and leave it there. I felt exhausted before I even left Boston - now I feel like nothing in the world could fill me with more joy than the prospect of unpacking my suitcases, stocking the fridge, setting down my toothbrush, and settling in for a good night of sleep in my own bed. It will be a temporary home, but a home nonetheless, and I am absolutely thrilled at the thought of it.

So as far as all that goes - don't be surprised if for the next few days I don't want to do anything except cuddle with a pillow in my new room under my own comforter. I can't say if that means there will be new posts sooner or later. But I'm sure all of you will forgive me if I say I really don't care.

All I can think about is my bed.

Ahhh!

I know I said that there would be no posting for a couple days, but Don dropped me at the airport with HOURS to kill before my flight so here I am, paying exorbitant fees for internet access at these adorable little "SurfBox" booths in the main terminal.

I checked out of the hostel this morning around 8:30 and proceeded with my very awesome, very full and strategically packed new rucksack and my little wheeling suitcase over to O'Connell Street, the huge main boulevard in Dublin where I would be hopping the bus to DCU to drop off my suitcase and get a ride to the airport, hopefully without any mishaps. Last time I tried this I ended up on the wrong bus but thanks to several very helpful passengers, it all worked out fine, just took a bit longer.

So after waiting a few minutes the 19a arrived and I hopped on to confirm with the driver that this was indeed the bus I wanted.

"Hi sorry, does this bus go to DCU?"
"Yes it does."

I dropped in my fare and started heading toward the back but the driver stopped me.

"Hang on there love. You can catch the 4, the 4a, the 11, or the 19a. They'll all take you there."
"OK thank you!"
"You got it? The 4, the 4a, the 11, or the 19a."
"4-4a-11 19a, thanks!"

I was pretty sure that these numbers were different from the numbers that were given to me at the beginning of the week when I went into the Dublin Bus Office to ask about which routes to take, but clearly my memory of those numbers couldn't have been that great, as I ended up getting on the wrong bus that time.

Anyway, I made it to DCU without any mishap and even managed to remember enough of the campus to get to Don's office without having to call and pathetically ask for help (again). The door was open and I got there.

"Don! I made it! I didn't get lost at all!" I announced proudly.

Don was sitting at his desk behind a folded newspaper. He looked over the paper at me, chuckled, and tossed the paper down on the desk so that I could see the front page."

"Just be glad you weren't on THAT bus!"

Wtf?!?!

Departure and Arrival, Part II: The Destination

So to continue from before, some story of my first day or so (started this post on Friday, got a little distracted by other things):

Don scooped me up at the airport a bit before 9 and it was from this point forward that I got to see my first glimpses of the city that would be my home for the next three months. It took me a while in my tired, confused state to get the hang of small talk again, never mind navigating the small talk with Don's accent and somewhat mumbly, gruff demeanor. As he shuffled me off to his car, Don complimented me on my light packing (I was incredulous) and seemed appalled at the lax security for visitors to his country, as well as irritated with the scare tactics and information given by the immigration officer.

We popped my bags into the trunk of Don's car and I walked to the door to jump in. When I got to the door I looked down and saw a steering wheel and gauges. I immediately moved to the other side of the car to get into the passenger's side, attempting to be as smooth as possible. The quizzical look I received from Don once we were both settled in the car told me that I probably failed in being smooth at all (are any of us surprised?).

Anyhow, we buckled in and were off. As much as it pains me to admit it, I found myself channeling my mother during the drive university. You know what I'm talking about, Mom. When you *GASP* and clutch the side of the car any time I take a turn, or stop, or slow down, or go straight, or park...

But I had an excuse. Being in the passenger's seat (which is on the wrong side) while driving on the *wrong* side of the road is FREAKY. Every time we had to take a right turn, I saw my life flash before my eyes. After getting a couple sidelong glances from Don I explained that it wasn't that I didn't have faith in his motoring skills, but that it was really quite weird to be on the opposite side of the road. He didn't seem to be very impressed. But then, after spending a little more time with him, it would seem that he rarely does.

In order to avoid rush hour traffic into the center of the city where my hostel is, Don said that we would take a detour into the village where the university is so he could give me a quick tour and give my my bearings. It seemed like a nice place, lots of ugly buildings that appear to have been built in the 60s or 70s, but its got a bit of charm to it. While I'm told the campus sits on 85 acres or so, that didn't seem to be the case at all. The campus felt smaller than Northeastern's. And quieter, but that could just be that classes weren't yet in session.

Don took me around and showed me where I'd be living and a couple other key places before taking me out again and showing me where I could catch the bus into the city. Buses run for €1.60 into the city center and take around 20 minutes from DCU. My first time out there I grabbed the wrong one, so it took a little longer (oops). Also, for the buses, you kind of have to know your shit. There's no announcing of stops like on the Boston lines. Makes for a bit of an adventure.

After the brief tour driving into the city, Don gave me some insight into the city's layout and how it works. Possibly the most helpful thing that he said was that in order to understand Dublin I had to stop thinking of it as a city and more as a series of villages that over hundreds of years have simply grown into each other. After he said this it was clear why instead of a steady increase in the hustle and bustle as we got closer to the center, it was more of a rise and fall.

On the way in Don would point out one thing or the other, older areas of the city that were starting to become more gentrified, storefronts closed as a result of the recession, different types or architecture or government projects that he approved or disapproved of. (One landmark that no one really seems to get is the Spire, left, which was erected by the government on O'Connell St as a way to mark the coming of the new millennium. This was during the "Celtic Tiger" economic period before the global recession, when the government had money to burn) Don felt it was enough to say that the Spire was stupid and worthless. The guide of the walking tour that I took the following day was kind enough to share some of the Dubs' more colorful terms for the monument, such as "The Stiletto in the Ghetto" and "The Stiffy on the Liffey" (the Liffey being the river that runs through the center of the city, dividing the North and South sides).

Despite Don's constant swearing about the traffic (which being from Boston I barely noticed) we arrived at the Four Courts hostel without much delay. Don dropped me off and I grabbed my bags and headed in, checked in a little bit early but they were cool with it. The hostel's nice. Now, at the time of writing, I've found it's gotten a bit old, but there's only so much of the noise and drunken debauchery that you can take when you're traveling alone and working on recovering from a rough couple weeks of preparation. Despite being tired of it nearly a week later, I would still recommend the Four Courts to anyone looking for a Dublin hostel for a short stay.

The next few days brought a walking tour of the city and a self-guided tour of the Guinness storehouse in St. James's Gate. Impressions? It's a cool city, but smaller than expected. At the hostel, I've made a point of trying every day to explore a little bit more, be it as simple as going on a walk for an hour, leaving the hostel and every day setting out in a different direction. So far, for me, the people make the city. Dubliners have proven to be super helpful and super friendly at every turn, such as my banking problems discussed below or when I do flaky things like get on the wrong bus. I'm done with being in the city on my own though. This week was good to relax a bit and get acclimated some, but I'm looking forward to Monday when I can move into my apartment, meet my roommates and the other people on the program, and have a social life again. I miss it.

For those of you not on Facebook, you can check out some photos with details of the first days HERE.

Thanks for reading!! I'm heading off to the Netherlands tomorrow to visit an old friend from Buenos Aires, so there will be more photos and posting to come next week, I'm sure. I wanted to get this up before I took off. Also, I won't be on the computer much (what will I do with myself?) but on one of my recent explorations I bought myself a little journal that I can keep in my purse. I was pretty excited about the purchase, and it will keep me from losing the thoughts that occur to me sometimes as I'm on the go.

Hope everything's well across the pond, miss you guys as usual.

We both speak English! Really, we do!

So here at the hostel as part of security we have a "security pass" that has to be exchanged every day for a new one of a different color. It's basically just a colored piece of paper that says "SECURITY PASS" on it and then has your room number, bed number, and date written in on it.

I was heading out today to grab some food and as it was the first time I had left the hostel today (It's been a sleepy day. Lots of naps.) I handed over my security pass (green) for its yellow replacement . Man With Long Hair #2 (I have failed to be social enough to learn their names, so in my head I refer to them by their distinguishing features. Unfortunately, several of them look very similar) busted out his pad and asked me what room and bed I was in.

"Room three-oh-one, bed eight."
"Which bed?"
"Eight?"
"You mean eight?"
"Isn't that what I said?"
"Eight, like the number. Not like the past-tense of 'to eat'."

When, at this point, I pouted and said that I failed to hear the difference, Man With Long Hair #2 laughed and proceeded to look me up in the computer. He was joined in his reverie by Man With Long Hair #1 and Tall Man With Long Hair In A Ponytail. After confirming that my reservation was through tomorrow, he handed over the new pass.

"Cheers!"

This marks the first time that I've been made fun of for my accent...when speaking my native language. And I still don't hear the difference.

*pouts*

Random post #1

So what do you do when the weather in Dublin has finally returned to normal from the sunny happiness that it's been so far and you're feeling a little down and are tired of listening to the Beastie Boys and Fat Boy Slim on the hostel stereo?

You google "puffins" so you can find pictures like THIS to make you feel better.

That's all for now :)

And then you wonder...

Is someone trying to tell you something? Like maybe you should have just stayed home? What are you doing, just flying off to different countries, as if you don't have a care in the world? Don't you know your place in this universe? What are you thinking? People can't just go wherever they want, do whatever they want to do. Go back to Boston and go to school there like the college student you're supposed to be. Nice try, but let's be serious.

Back when I made the choice to come here, it was an easy one. And a happy one. I was thrilled to think of what I was accomplishing - spending nearly as much time towards my degree out of the country as I've spent in it. Experiencing my classes as opposed to just listening to them. How cool was that?

Then, as time went on, after the decision was already made, it became more difficult to stick to the convictions that were once so effortless. There are two sides to every story, and suddenly the sad side was facing up, the side where I was going to be leaving everyone behind me in Boston, possibly to be gone from the city forever by the time I got back, where all of a sudden it's clear that I'm leaving a city and people that I really do love more than anything, only to fly off to a country where I know nothing and no one. Some know better than others how difficult it really was to stick with my choice, to go from excitement, to telling myself that despite whatever misgivings I might have in the moment I had made the right decision, and then eventually to telling myself that whether or not I made the right decision it was too late to do anything about it one way or the other, when despite how I felt I knew I had reached the point of no return.

But I got through it. I survived the emotionally harrowing last couple weeks and with quite a bit of support from the bests of friends, I managed to force myself through that gate and onto that plane, and I immediately buckled myself in so that I would stay there. Then, 8 or 9 or however many hours later, I arrived, and guess what? It was pretty great.

So what's brought all of this on? Flying high in the first day or so, and then what? Bank of America, is what. Before leaving the States, literally minutes before hopping in the cab to the airport, I had called the number that some lovely teller in the Copley branch had supplied so that I could alert them of my journey. They asked me a billion questions, asking for details of deposits and credit lines and dates and times, and apparently, in the midst of all of the stress and such, I answered one of these questions wrong. I didn't become aware of this until Friday, rather late in the evening. Bank of America had not attempted to notify me in anyway that my accounts had been frozen, but instead I only discovered this when I tried to alert them via their online chat tool of further travel plans. I was told that the process to get them reactivated couldn't be taken care of online, so I would have to call in.

What followed was the single most ridiculous, most frustrating, and most disheartening encounter I hold in recent memory.

A few of you already know the details. In summary, once, after some arguing, I managed to convince them that it would be impossible for me to come into the bank to clear it up, it took multiple international faxes, a ton of international call time, and considerable bitchiness and general harassment of them on my part to get anything accomplished at all. The process took two full days, and cost me a considerable amount of money (that I didn't have). The bank was unable to consider that faxing documents overseas and making international phone calls - not to mention other important things like eating - all cost money, a commodity that is difficult to come by when you're alone in a foreign country with no access to your bank accounts. Possibly most frustrating was their failure to recognize any urgency in the case - not once did I receive a follow up of any kind - any communication came from my hunting them down to move things along.

Saturday night brought the low point of my time here so far. I was up late in a hostel that was alternately oppressively empty and silent or horribly loud as the other residents came and went in groups to the pubs or wherever else. After making 2 trips to an internet cafe that day already to send faxes which continued to be either unreadable or unreceived, I was once again using up calling credit and having nothing to show for it, and I was more exhausted than I've been since I've arrived. After being told again that I needed to re-fax, I did so, and once again despite assurance that I would be contacted as soon as the fax was received, I had to wait an hour and then call again on my dime. Thanks to a sympathetic soul on the other line (at long last) the issue was finally resolved at 2 am Irish time.

It's easy to feel alone when instead of out in the city that you're supposed to be enjoying, you're stuck in a hostel. You're trying desperately to communicate a problem to bank employees over a often too-faint connection, isolating yourself from the people out there that you should be meeting. Attempting to resolve a problem as quickly as possible, but feeling an absence of any effort or concern from the other side. I remember it being painful to be on the computer in the middle of the night, waiting for a call and trying to figure out another, more efficient means of communicating what had to be done, and seeing friends in the States sign off so that they could enjoy their Saturday nights with the friends that I had left behind.

Thank Christ for the Irish, though. After understanding my situation, the staff at the internet cafe I'd been using to copy and fax my passport, driver's license, bank card, etc refused to accept any money from me. "No, not til you get this figured out," they said.

Maybe it was the stress, or the exhaustion, but that kind of sympathy from a complete stranger touched me pretty intensely. I felt a mixture of deep gratitude and a touch of anger - how could it be that someone that didn't know me at all, that had a business to run, and had no stake whatsoever in whether or not my problem was resolved, had my back more than my own bank, back in my own country?

Now, a day later, I might be even more grateful for that kindness. Dealing with the doubts that I had before any of this occurred, I really do think that it would be possible for that kind of ordeal to break whatever spirit I'd managed to muster in my first couple days. Having that moment and that sympathy to reflect on, it made it clear that problem didn't come about because I came to Ireland. It had nothing to do with where I had come to, or that I had come at all. The problem was somewhere else. Those thoughts brought me clear through the part where I might have been bitter about being here, thinking that if I had never come I wouldn't be dealing with any of it and would have money to go buy a sandwich down the street if I was hungry.

Instead, I get to look at that Irish sympathy, kindness and goodwill as a reason to be glad I came :)

Departure and Arrival, Part I: The Journey

Oh, the price we pay for adventures.

I'm sitting here in the hostel, down in the common area so that I might not be tempted so much by my bed upstairs. It's taking all of my will power not to go to sleep - sleep now means a fucked up schedule later, and I'd rather just be more or less back on track by tomorrow. Thus, I'm forcing myself to stay awake, for another 2 hours at the very least, and I'm aiding myself in this endeavor by doing such things as working on this blog post and importing the handful of photos I was able to take today.

Why so tired? Well, obviously it's been a long trip. But I look back at the last 30-some-odd hours, (we can subtract the 3 or 4 of those during which I was actually sleeping) and I see a day so full that it amazes me that I'm not even more dead on my feet than I am now. Departing Boston, as predicted, was difficult. The week or so that I had there before leaving was excellently satisfying, I feel that I was able to see the people I wanted to see and do the things that I wanted to do, and the send-off from all of my friends was lovely in many ways. However, saying goodbye was harder than it has been in the past, so as satisfying as these days might have been, they were emotionally exhausting as well. I can count many moments where I was close to tears this past day or two, and several where those tears actually broke through. Whatever, hopefully most of that's behind us now. Just goes to show all of you how much you'll be missed.

The trip up to Logan and the boarding process went exceptionally smooth, no small thanks to Alex's accompaniment and a quick drink at the bar before heading through security. The timing was perfect, I was boarding no less than 10 minutes after re-donning my shoes and pack. After a few last-minute calls on-board the plane, we were off. The flight was smooth but predictably I was unable to get any sleep at all. Luckily, Aer Lingus has a wonderful on-flight entertainment. I landed in Shannon, Ireland at 5:20 am (12:20 in Boston) after having indulged in quite a few episodes of the first season of Mad Men.

Chilling in Shannon Airport for the hour or so before we boarded our flight to Dublin was boring and a bit depressing. The airport, already pretty run-down and unimpressive, was completely barren at that hour of the morning. I was thirsty as hell but didn't have any Euro coins to get anything from the vending machines, the only operating sources of refreshment at the time. WiFi wasn't working, I had no phone, no games, and my eyes hurt too much from the dry air of the plane to read anything. But soon enough we'd boarded again, the 40-50 passengers doing nothing at all to fill the huge trans-Atlantic Airbus they had us on for the 35 minute flight across the country to Dublin. What a small country it is when you can fly clear across the whole thing in less than 40 minutes!

Exhaustion had hit. If the flight had been longer than it was, I feel that even I would have been able to crash. We landed and the walk clear across the airport to Immigration Control felt brutal with my heavy backpack and even heavier-feeling legs. Dublin International seemed nearly as abandoned as Shannon, and there was no line to wait in to go through immigration, just the usual hoops to jump through and an unclear and ominous warning from the officer that the hostel I was staying in was in a "dodgy" area.

My bags were on the belt just as I walked up to the claim, and then customs was non-existent. When I asked the only airport official standing in the area what I needed to do, she responded, "Nothing, unless you've got something" with a warm smile and wink and waved me through. I was still reeling from this encounter when the doors opened and finally I was out in the lobby.

Thanks to the lack of lines, waiting, customs, and general humanity, I was through quite a bit earlier than expected, and it was a little while before Don, my program director, arrived to meet me. I had met Don once, months before, when I was working for the OISP and he was doing a visit to some of his partner universities in Boston, Northeastern obviously being one of them. I liked him then, and after spending some time with him this morning I like him even more now. I can only hope that such a funny, friendly, and helpful man like Don is the standard here in Dublin, although I find that rather hard to believe. Time will tell.

Well, the common area is filling up, my computer battery is dying down, and the loud house music playing mixed with the many shouted languages around me is becoming an assault on my tired senses. Time to finish up for now, and I'll have Part II of this first post (in Ireland) later on. Thanks for reading and as always, I love you all.

Gettin' Ready

So the past week or so has pretty much been a whirlwind. Moving out of my apartment in Boston, going home to Connecticut to do everything from connecting with family and friends to getting my wisdom teeth yanked out, packing, and preparing in any number of ways has had me pretty much beat.

It hasn't been the easiest of times. Be it the stress of so many transitions, the stress of trying to get together with all the family/friends (no offense guys - well worth it), or the constant driving from doctor's appointment to various errands to doctor's appointment again, this past week has left me tired, emotional, and (no small thanks to the constant pain in my jaw, I'm sure) kind of a bitch. So, if any of you readers have been negatively effected in any way by mood swings or childish temper tantrums or anything of the like, I apologize, and I assure you I greatly appreciate your support.

However, I think the worst is over. I no longer feel that I require my Vicodin prescription for the pain in my mouth nor for the extreme emotional distress brought on by my least favorite thing on earth - packing (arrrghh). Suitcases are packed, I've immersed myself in assorted projects and endeavors (not the least of which is this blog) intended to get me into the proper head-space for this next journey of mine. While home, the multitude of waiting that I endured - waiting for doctors in waiting rooms, waiting for AAA to start my car for me, waiting for friends to be able to go out - allowed me to blow through what will be the first of several Irish literary explorations, Angela's Ashes by Frank McCourt. I've since started (at a slower pace) on Joyce's Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, to be followed eventually by his short story collection Dubliners. Cliché? Perhaps, but these are literary classics that should be read regardless, so what better time than now? My belongings are all appropriately relocated or stored, and I'm set to enjoy a few short days back in Boston with some of my favorite people who I unfortunately may not be seeing for a very, very long time.

That being said, if you are in town this week, there is nothing I would like more than to get together and have some good times before I take off. It's been a long and generally empty summer, sometimes disappointing enough to actually make me resistant to the idea of leaving all of you for so long. I feel that I'm not quite as ready this time as I was before I left for Argentina last year. I need to make this week count, so that I can have enough of a push to get me through the first leg of the journey - the hard, lonely, and kinda crappy part that I have to get through before I can settle down and really sink my teeth into my time there. There are already some exciting plans in place for before I depart, which I'm looking forward to very much. For those who I haven't seen yet, I can't wait. Help me make this week special :)

Love to you all.