August 1, Ireland Wants Us to Stay

The most inappropriate ending to a wonderfully smooth, well-organized and delightful trip. Katie and I somehow managed to book and miss the exact same flight home, not because we stayed out too late saying goodbye to Ireland, but because we tried to board a plane that didn’t exist. Well, technically, it did exist, but not at the airport that we were at. We both miraculously booked departing flights out of Shannon Airport instead of Dublin, a good 5 hours south from our residence at Trinity College.

After several hours of crying, disbelief, adrenaline pumping through our blood, anger, pleading with airline employees and many trips to and from the pay phones and internet booths, we finally accepted that there was no way we were getting a flight home Friday. We booked a 70 euro hotel room near the airport and decided to call it a day, spending the rest of the night searching for plane tickets and ordering wine in the lobby. Later that night came both great and frustrating news: tickets had been purchased for our return home, and they were much cheaper tickets than we were originally able to find. However, these tickets were also for Sunday, leaving us with another 30 hours to kill in Dublin. I could feel my heart sink into my stomach. I wasn’t upset because I necessarily wanted to leave Ireland (in fact, part of me thinks that I brought this upon myself because I had been complaining so much about not being ready to leave yet) but being trapped against one’s will, without money and snippy receptionists was not an ideal extended vacation. Accidentally purchasing a 474 euro ticket from Boston to Washington D.C. under the pretext that we would be able to find a flight to Boston did not help this sinking pit feeling. And neither did the 25 minutes I had to spend on a payphone with Bank of America in order to get my credit card re-authorized to purchase tickets home.

Fast forward 2 days, and Katie and I can hardly believe what this weekend has been. As we sit with our feet stretched out on the foot rests in front of us, eat our cheese lasagna and seafood stew, watch our individual tvs that pull up out of the arm rest, my faith has been temporarily restored in the karma of the universe. By some twist of fate the airline chose four lucky economy passengers (I believe ones that just recently purchased, and therefore spent a good deal of money on their tickets) to be moved to first or “business class.” I realize this is not an uncommon occurrence, but its never happened to me before, so I’m allowed to be a little obnoxious. And after our ordeal at the Dublin airport this weekend, Katie and I could not contain our excitement. As we work the next few months to try and repay our parents the debt we’ve acquired, I think we will always look back on Ireland as an adventure that ended with an especially overwhelming, albeit memorable, exploit. Ireland never failed to keep up on our toes and helped us grow until the moment our feet left it’s soil.

July 24, On the Mend

Belfast feels like a skeleton of a city. It looks like its been beat up, mugged, had all its money, its cell phone and ID stolen, gutted, and left to crawl home. It feels like we are walking into a war-torn town. I imagine each building has seen a better life at some point. Nothing looks new. And the grey sky leaves a somber taste in my mouth.

But the people are the most interesting people I’ve been exposed to in Ireland, and make an interesting contrast to the dismal physicality of the city. Their kindness, liveliness, friendliness and talkativeness hint at a deeper culture, a community, bubbling up just beneath the cracked surface.

For example, there is a group of 6 middle-aged men sitting in the couches next to me in the lobby of our hotel in Belfast right now. They are wearing red cowboy hats with white stitching, some have brown cow-spotted pants, and they are all sporting a white t-shirt with an oval vignetted picture of a smiling boy in glasses. It crosses my mind that these men are here for the gay pride parade that we stayed an extra 2 hours for. A few minutes later I realized they were more probably part of a bachelor’s party. Since we’ve been here everyone has been a surprise, and kind of an adventure.

In each new city we venture to, one of the initiating experiences is finding good (and well-priced) food. Usually we have our professors to guide us a little when we first arrive in a city, pointing out basics and suggesting restaurants they’ve already scoped out. In Belfast, we didn’t have any of this. So it was up to us to navigate the streets and guess what would be good and what we could afford. Clearly looking like a lost pack of puppies, torn between which way to look for food next, a young woman drinking coffee at an outdoor part of a restaurant in front of us jumps in, ”Excuse me,” she offered. “If you are looking for good food Queen’s Bar is just in the next building.” We hesitated for a couple seconds. “Its cheap too,” she added with a smile. “I promise I wouldn’t send you there if it wasn’t good.”

We were sold.

And so was I.

Our waiter that night, our bus driver to the Giant’s Causeway, the people staying in the International Youth Hostel, the cashier at the Off-License liquor store, the man who made our Turkish kebabs, the young lady and the nice man with septum piercing who shared their hand-rolled cigarettes with us at the Laverty were all the most friendly and kind natured people I’ve encountered in Ireland so far.

I know Belfast has an intense history of political struggle. Believe me, you could feel it in the air. But despite how nervous I wanted to be, and how sad the surrounding city looks, it feels like Belfast is on the mend. And I can only hope I can embrace that emerging feeling of persevering spirit when I leave.

July 19, Urban Planning

“and then you realize that you’re riding on a para-success of a heavy handed metaphor and a feeling like you’ve been here before, cause you’ve been here before, and you’ve been here before,” Sovay, Andrew Bird

One of the best parts about this program is how it’s designed. Having nearly two weeks in 3 cities, and of course the 3 days in Killarney, makes me think about our time here differently. Unlike a vacation, there is time to explore and get to know what each city has to offer. However, this program is also unlike long-term study abroad sessions that house students for months in a different country. Instead of getting comfortable and complacent, I am constantly trying to do as much as possible before we move onto our next destination. The design is genius, if you ask me.

My approach to these cities has been slightly rattled, though. On a day trip to the Irish Museum of Modern Art, there was a beautiful exhibit by Carlos Garaicoa, a Cuban artist who happened to be inspired by, in fact almost obsessed with, urban planning and cities. The first room had three Plexiglass cases only about 6 inches deep, but sat on table legs that came chest-high. Bright red pieces of construction paper cut, folded, and layered to imitate shapes and structures found in cities laid in neat rows in these cases. On the floor of the next room sat an entire city made out of paper (not unlike those Chinese lanterns) internally illuminated, light glowing through the transparent material. Through the next door, huge prints of photographs of different urban settings lined the walls. On top of the prints were pins that strung geometric lines of thread an inch away from the photos, creating supplemental designs overtop of the printed images. Each room seemed to have something completely different, yet completely related. Exquisitely executed, each piece felt like an entire collection, capable of standing alone.

For Garaicoa, though, studying cities has brought him to the conclusion that they are slowly losing the characteristics that differentiate one from another and are gradually becoming “a single endless city.” In his words, “we continually move from one airport to another, to enjoy a life that is almost identical no matter what city you find yourself in.” At first, this concept was hard for me to agree with. My time in Ireland has proved to me that each place we go is indeed different from the next. I am constantly watching how people interact differently in each city: how restaurants treat their customers, how cab drivers talk to their passengers, how strangers pass each other on sidewalks. My thoughts up until this point have been more focused on how, despite these differences, there are major underlying similarities in every place we’ve visited that have brought out different strengths in me. I have really liked feeling connected and confident that I can find some sense of commonality in almost any city I visit, not just in Ireland. But reading Garaicoa’s ideas made me question if I’ve been paying attention to the right things. Hasn’t the majority of my trip been graded on how well Ireland can fit my needs and fulfill my expectations? I’m not sure if I have been taking the time to understand each city’s personality individually.

Should I be trying to string each of these places together, tacking bits and pieces into a giant collage of “how we are the same”? Maybe I should be taking more time to appreciate what makes Dublin different from Cork and Galway different from Killarney and Ireland different from America. I’m not sure if we lose or gain more by blending cultures and practices. I’m not sure if cities becoming alike is a good or a bad thing, but I’m fairly certain that now that I’m more aware of the question, I'll be spending more time paying attention to the subtle differences.

July 17, Dublin

I could feel it instantly as our bus rounded the corner to follow the dark river. I don’t mean to sound dramatic or give the impression that I didn’t enjoy Galway, because I did. But it feels like Dublin has lifted a cloud of sorts. A different energy pumps through these streets. It feels like a tiny flame has been lit underneath me, fueling my curiosity and creativity. It may just be the excitement of a new city—of our last city—but I know that this was a feeling I had to coax out in Galway. I want these two weeks to be the longest yet.

The brown river is lined with lime green algae and the sky opens to a bright blue at about 2pm every afternoon. It may be because this is the fourth week we’ve been learning to explore Irish cities, but I’m starting to feel this may be the first time I can see myself living independently in a place other than Virginia and feel confident that I will be okay. Maybe it would be different if I didn’t have such encouraging and supportive (and fun) friends on the trip with me, but the feeling is here, regardless. And I think I’ll hold onto it for now.

July 15, Cut Outs

Smooth, winding curves. Vibrant, solid tomato red and deep, placid midnight blue. My morning stepping in front of and staring at piece after piece of art finally culminated in the seemingly disjointed array of Matisse cut outs at the Galway Arts Festival. The tall glass building looming over the River Corrib housed several free exhibits including ones on traditional military uniforms, Galway Hookers (boats, not otherwise), Irish photography, and, of course, the Matisse cut outs.

To be honest, the small lithograph prints seemed slightly out of place among the other Irish-themed art, but I found the rows of colorful abstractions hung in the narrow, squash-colored room to be the most inspiring. Not one to be restrained by his failing health and confinement to a wheelchair, Matisse spent the last 14 years of his career cutting out thousands of organically-shaped, brightly painted pieces of paper. They ended up being his favorite medium to work with and I have every reason to believe him. Besides the fact that I can understand how fun cutting things can be (I happen to be a huge fan of collages and homemade cards), I also understand why cut outs might have felt so rewarding given Matisse’s circumstances. Instead of abandoning painting, Matisse referred to his cut outs as “painting with scissors.” He has been quoted explaining how liberated he felt, the sensation of flight he felt when he guided the metal blades around the paper. Looking at those free form shapes and bold colors that seem to dance within the frames that contain them, I could feel the freedom that Matisse said filled him. While the majority of the others on the trip were scaling a rocky mountain that morning, discovering how far they could push their muscles and will power, I was reminded of how important it is to do so. The products of our most challenging circumstances also tend to be the most rewarding. 320

July 12

This trip has been a little about writing, a little about learning, a little about travelling and a lot about inspiration. Sometimes I get frustrated with the limitations I find I put on myself, even on a trip abroad like this one. A self-admitted neurotic, I often over-think things and normally spend more time convincing myself to try something scary than actually doing it. But Ireland has been supplying me inspiration in the most unlikely of places.

When Molly and I walked into our room at the hostel at Inis Mor on the Aran Islands we realized one of the bunk beds already had a backpack on the furthest bunk. We both talked about who our mystery roommate could be, imagining a handsome Irish vagabond or rustic outdoorsy man. We prayed it wasn’t one of the 16-year-old Canadians that share our dorm building in Corrib Village. After hiking up the hill to the only grocery store on the island and stocking up on wine and various “dinner” items (including chips, cheese and bagels) we settled in the common room to begin our ill-attempt at finishing (or starting) our homework.

It wasn’t long before Patty came and joined us on the mismatched furniture. Patty was soft-spoken, warm-smiled and Dutch. She had beautiful skin and straight hair that lay limp at her shoulders from travelling. Our conversation immediately turned to her. She was spending two weeks touring Ireland, by herself.

Very quickly my time in Ireland started to feel sheltered. A common complaint about study abroad, at least from stories I’ve heard from JMU students, is that students rarely break away from their group, the “JMU Bubble,” and really get to see the country. I’m not sure how much I agree with that as a blanket statement, but I do know that it’s pretty accurate for my experience in particular. Especially as we get closer on the trip, it gets harder to break away from that comfort zone.

The more we talked to Patty the more I realized how common it is for people in Europe to travel, and how unremarkable it is to do so alone. Patty’s boyfriend of roughly six years (yes, they started dating when they were 13) knew he was leaving Holland for 3 weeks on a trip to Croatia with some friends he had met in California. Patty decided this would be a good time to do some travelling of her own and set out to backpack across the rocky Island.

My respect for her soared as I noticed how kind and friendly and open-minded she was. Literally only meeting us minutes earlier, we were already talking about our life plans and what we value in relationships. She told us how hard it was to be away from her family and her boyfriend, Joost (pronounced Yost), and we could all sympathize. But she didn’t seem lonely when she said this.

As much as I love everything this trip has been, I couldn’t help but be inspired to trust myself and explore the world a little more and a little more independently.

from left to right: Molly, Patty, me, Katie, Andy

July 11

I hang my camera carefully from the armrest to the right of me. I squish my purse between my thigh and the red -cushioned seat. One foot tucked tightly behind the other’s heel, knees involuntarily kissing, tilted toward the gap between seats in front of me, water bottle in the cup holder, notepad on my knee and I’m ready for the movie to start rolling. This little routine has been my life two to three times a day for the last five days. As cramped as I am in my single, straight-backed seat, when the film flickers on, the seats next to me glow from the light on the screen. They are empty. The next closest person is a few chairs away, snuggled into her significant other, and I realize there is something to be said about the power of solitude.

Being alone is an issue I’ve been dealing with for many years. But instead of feeling insecure when I find myself alone, I always feel more comfortable by myself. Given the choice, I would almost always choose an afternoon reading in my bedroom than calling a friend to do something. And that’s exactly the thinking I’m trying to shake. Maybe the idea of being alone has been on my mind lately, but each film I’ve seen at the Fleadh has spoken about the importance of solidarity and the ways we connect to each other. Although, I suppose it could just be a really popular topic to make movies about. In any case, this film is no exception. The Diving Bell and the Butterfly is a modern-day Johnny Got His Gun where a former French Elle magazine editor, Jean-Dominique Bauby, wakes up to realize he is completely paralyzed from a massive stroke and unable to communicate except through blinking his only working eyelid. As frustrating as the first 45 minutes seeing only out of his perspective—a blurry, disjointed, tilted angled view of the world— it is soon evident that this story is a hopeful one.

The woman two seats away from me sniffles loudly. I scribble notes on my notepad, tilting my knee toward the screen so I can see what I’m writing. Twenty minutes later and I consciously wish she would stop sniffling so audibly. Admittedly my eyes are smeared with tears, but they are silent tears. Can’t this woman control herself? I think.

The walk home was an interesting one. Mostly because I don’t remember walking home at all. My head was entirely engulfed with thoughts about why exactly I was crying, how Jean-Do’s life paralleled Dumas’ Count of Monte Cristo, how someone could painstakingly dictate an entire memoir in 10 months using only their eyes. I thought about how each one of his relationships was strained and how frustrated he was when he couldn’t be who he thought he was anymore. It wasn’t until I ran into Molly on the gravel path behind our dorms that I realized what I was really lamenting: a way to share this. Suddenly I envied the sniffling woman. She clearly was moved by the film, much like I was. But when I opened my mouth to tell Molly everything that was going through my head, no words came out. Sniffling Woman didn’t need to find the words to share how powerful Jean-Do’s story was, the shoulder supporting her was there the whole time, listening to her gasps, feeling her sobs.

There is absolutely something to be said about the power of solitude. But sometimes, I am blown away by the power of solidarity and how much more we can understand just by being with someone.