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.

July 9, 2010, Mixed Buttons

There are few things that interest me the way antique stores interest me. I get a certain high sifting through junk that may or may not be the treasure that makes the day unique. Katie and I stepped into a dark doorframe, trying to escape the rain splattering from the gutter above our heads. I guess it was more of a squeeze and an awkward shuffle than a step, as there was already a man in the doorway and the subsequent room was no wider than the doorframe. But once inside, the dimly lit clutter started to reveal itself. Cases of shiny, dingy, jeweled, cracked earrings, rings, necklaces, and bracelets underneath boxes of cards, buttons, and engraved stamps guarded a small woman with fading red curls and black rimmed glassed on a chain around her neck. The sheer amount of stuff was impressive. Especially considering she had only been collecting antiques for six years.

I haven’t always loved antique shops. In fact, I used to hate them. The musty haze that seems to surround everything made me feel like I needed to shower. And after exploring enough antique stores, it seemed that the term antique may be more of a euphemism than anything— a very kind euphemism. But my feelings have since changed. While it’s hard for me to frequent local thrift stores on a regular basis, I have a different kind of appreciation for visiting secondhand shops in unfamiliar towns, cities, and now, countries.

My hand was drawn to a box filled with buttons, the metal discs attracting my bones like a magnets. Tracing the raised patterns in the brushed brass, I started to get really excited. The day I got to Ireland, my jacket systematically began losing its buttons, one by one. I watched the last one dangle from its thread, clinging for life, until I finally decided to cut it yesterday, tired of waiting for it to make up its mind. This isn’t necessarily a huge problem, but walking around rainy Galway can be gusty at times, and these buttons promised a unique solution.

After meandering around the piles of old instruments, leather luggage cases, carved pipes, stacks of photographs and copies of old newspaper pages, I was prepared to make my purchase. Not only were the vintage army buttons practical, they were little pieces of Galway I could keep, pieces of Ireland to take home with me.

July 7, 2010

[A good friend of mine has recently introduced me to a style of short stories called “Worders” that consist of 100-200 words that aim to focus on a singular moment. The foreword quotes Joyce’s idea of the “epiphany—a shout in the street, the overheard conversation, the tap on the window late at night, and even the joke.” This is what I tried to channel in the following creative short story.]

She had no idea where she was. The cold tile cradled her throbbing head until her vision leveled out. The white curve of the porcelain bowl slowly came into focus. She started to realize the wall nearest her head was only a foot tall, and belonged to a bathtub. A cold sweat blanketed her ashen skin. She would have stood up and ran if her muscles had any life left in them.

“These buildings don’t have roots.

These buildings don’t have roots,” she mumbled under her breath, eyes squeezed tight against the fluorescent glare.

He knocked. She knew it was him by the timidness in his fingertips. The liquids in her veins grew hot. Or was it the ones in her stomach?

She let him slide next to her, as she nestled in the crook of his shoulder, eyes squeezing out hot drops of salty. She tried to remember that her constructions were not permanent. Or even necessarily true. The buildings she created, the towers and castles and apartments that felt like home during the daylight weren’t grounded in anything other than her mind. The night she told him that his love was stifling, was eating her self-esteem alive, he looked at her like she was crazy. He said her words didn’t make any sense; how could loving someone be crippling them?

But she hadn’t had the courage to explain. To explain that it wasn’t his love that was crippling her, but the conditions on which he loved her. The thought of losing her best friend because she wasn’t in love with him had driven them apart.

She wanted to stay apart. But their lips met.

His kiss said, “I’m sorry.” Her kiss said, “I’m scared.”

Her hand trembled on the smooth, lifeless tile. Maybe this building would crumble too, if she willed it hard enough. Maybe she could rip it right out of the earth, exposing the hole it was built over. But this building had roots.

July 4, I hope that someday I'll see without these frames-- Daylight, Matt & Kim

“Its like a different world in Killarney,” said my dear friend Katie, only slightly exaggerating the truth we could all feel. Only a few days ago I was complaining of being restless in Cork, pleading to see more of Ireland. My wish was granted.

The streets are smaller, the sidewalks cramped with tourists. Instead of empty office building space, hollow and violated with spray paint, each storefront has well-maintained character. Horse and buggies litter the citycenter. Ice cream shops alternate with colorful pubs down the two main roads. But people seem less friendly here, for some reason. Maybe it’s the insane amount of curious visitors, or the impending football match that has people in frenzy, but I get the distinct feeling that no one in Killarney is actually from Killarney. Not being able to feel what life is like here troubles me more than it probably should. But I have a quiet, yet relentless voice telling me that I need to move to Ireland, rent a peach colored flat, and understand what life is like beyond the characteristic rolling green hills and boisterous nights downtown.

As I soaked in the bathtub this morning for the first time in years, I realized that, so far, my strongest connections in Ireland have been with food and pubs. Besides the fact that this realization mildly depressed my otherwise wonderfully relaxing morning, it occurred to me that this is probably a normal situation for a student/ tourist traveler. Honestly, I haven’t been exposed to much else. As much as I try to soak in history lessons, appreciate crumbling ruins and say more to locals besides “I’ll have the chicken. No onions, please,” I just haven’t given myself the opportunity to learn what living here is really like. The castles and ruins hardly inspire anything except a sadness and an uncomfortable awareness of how temporary life is. It seems that people are more disposed to talk when certain beverages are greasing the axles of conversation. Which, unfortunately, has it’s own drawbacks. Not to mention, journaling in a tub of lukewarm water doesn’t give me much more insight beyond the harshly lit bathroom.

Baths are weird. I always feel exposed at first yet slowly get a strange sense of security, like a weird liquid blanket. I watched my toes sink and peek through the surface because I couldn’t feel the difference between the water and the air anymore. I want to be immersed in Ireland. I want to know what it feels like growing up in an Irish household, going to class in an Irish school system, understand the issues beneath Irish politics, the emotions fueling Irish films and literature and comedy. I want to forget that I’m visiting, even if just for a minute.

The water kisses my stomach and leaves a little bubbly ring underneath my bellybutton. The water felt warm; I felt covered, like I was being protected. But, its completely transparent, down to the bottom of the white linoleum tub. Safety blankets, even weird liquid ones, are probably just what they sound like: momentary warmth. But they aren’t an excuse. They aren’t a solution. They aren’t life. They just help us get used to the water. Or help us float until we can’t tell the difference between the water and the air. (551 words)

July 2, His & Hers

In general, I am a bigger fan of documentaries than of traditional Hollywood movies, so my reaction to His & Hers may be a little biased. The subject matter tends to be treated more sensitively and creatively in documentaries instead of relying on cheap gimmicks and sensational footage to engage an audience. His & Hers was no exception and only added to the queue of movies I wish I could have been involved in making.

I wasn’t expecting the entire movie to change heroines about every 2 minutes, but the cross section of Irish women from each stage of life was an incredibly insightful technique to explore the intricacies of a culture, not limiting views to any one specific perspective. The range of anecdotes from the women was also carefully selected to illustrate all kinds of relationships between men and women. Young women inspired feelings of fluttery excitement and insecurities with their potential boyfriends. Small children reminded us of the friendship and affection so special and unique to relationships with our fathers. The film even had moments of heartbreaking tenderness when we were let into the home and the heart of an elderly woman who had lost her husband of many years and would still find herself rolling over to an empty half of the bed at nights.

Visually, the cinematography was brilliant. Every scene was framed with calculated and striking structure. I also appreciated that each frame included an actual frame- whether it was from a windowpane, a door jam, cabinet or bookshelves, picture or mirror frames. The shots captured life from the view of these women: what their bedrooms looked like, where their laundry hung in the backyard, the kitchens that served as backdrops for the meals they shared with the most important people in their lives. There was no narration, and no inserted text; the film literally let the subjects guide the story (or stories, rather). My one disadvantage watching the film was from a slight cultural barrier, a speed bump maybe, that made certain humor difficult to understand. Nearly the entire audience laughed when one woman was explaining how she helps her husband on their farm whenever he needs her. She stands in the “gaps” when he herds cattle, and the whole theater (save for the two rows of Americans in the back) erupted into laughter when she mused that “no matter what gap you stand in, its never the right gap.” Its possible I’m just slow, or don’t have enough (or any) experience being married, but I got the feeling that I was missing something.

Lost humor aside, I think my favorite part of the movie was the fact that I didn’t grow up in Ireland—I had no idea where the towns were that these women grew up in, their homes did not spark familiarity with the homes I grew up in— and yet I still felt like I could identify with, or at least empathize with, nearly every character. I think this speaks to the universality of the film and the themes they were trying to explore. I noticed the majority of the theater was populated by females, in fact only one boy from our trip saw the movie, and I would be interested to hear how men related to the stories or if they were engaged at all. I have a suspicion though, that just by the nature of the film finding these women relatable would not be difficult. It might be a lack of interest in the subject matter that keeps men at a wary distance. However, I noticed conversation about His & Hers arising several times amongst the group the following days in downtime on drowsying bus rides and in afternoon stints at local beer gardens. And to me, if the movie is still making us talk about it afterward, hasn’t it done its job? (645 words)

I feel a post about windows brewing. I saw many a good window today.

June 30

I haven’t spent a ton of time watching Irish films. Actually, I haven’t spent a ton of time watching movies in general, much less Irish ones. But I was particularly impressed with one we watched in class this week. Instead of jotting down notes about lighting, costumes, or scene cuts, I found myself scribbling quotes, lines of poetry, and themes that paralleled ideas I’ve come across on the trip so far. If for no other reason, I thought these little inspirations were a pretty good indication of a well-made movie. I can gauge how much a like something by how motivated I am to remember it later.

The Wind That Shakes the Barley is historical fiction, chronicling the struggle between the Irish Republican Army and the insurgency of Black and Tans, British soldiers, in Ireland in the early 1920s. It shows how the confusing and often complicated conflict affected lives on a local level. Moments were incredibly heartbreaking.

A huge theme was the evolution of two main characters, brothers, who start out fighting for the radical IRA trying to win Irish independence from Britain and end up on different sides of the argument. Betrayed and near desperation, one brother reminds the other that he didn’t even want to get involved in the conflict in the first place, but now that he has, he can’t get out even if he wanted to.

It seemed to me that many of the young men found themselves fighting for things they believed in (to varying degrees) but nonetheless found themselves making choices they never wanted to make. I started asking myself how these young men ended up there. Why they kept acting like they didn’t have a choice when, clearly, they did.

The end of the movie reads a letter the main character, Damien, pens to his spouse and quotes, “Strange creatures we are, even to ourselves.” Maybe why we make choices isn’t always clear to us, or even a conscious decision at all. In Clockwork Orange, I will always remember the priest being the only one to express concern over the inhumanity of taking away human will. In fact, according to that character, free will, or choice, is the only thing that keeps our humanity afloat.

It’s a common literary theme, I’m aware. A friend of mine reminded me that even in To Kill A Mockingbird, Scout Finch admits she didn’t like reading until it was taken away from her. But it’s a powerful theme, and one that I keep running into. In one of the closing scenes of The Wind That Shakes the Barley, Damien reflects on his involvement with the IRA and his choices regarding his family and fellow Irishmen. “Its easy to know what you’re against,” he writes. “Quite an honor to know what you’re for.” And I think he has a point. Having a choice may be the most important aspect of our humanity, but maybe it takes losing it, or the threat of losing that freedom, to know exactly what we would do with it. (507 words)

June 29

If there is one thing I learned from Kinsale, it’s that the life I should be striving for, and probably should have been living this whole time, is that of an Irish dog. I would even forego the ability to see in color for the days of long walks next to fuzzy grass, splashing on rocky beaches, and lying on the warm floors of hillside cottages. Okay, maybe they don’t all live in hillside cottages. But just about every tenth person I encounter walking on the street is accompanied by a furry friend, and I can’t help but envy how loved these animals seem to be.

There are big, shaggy dogs. Small, fluffy dogs. Short dogs with black, wavy hair and half-folded ears. Skinny dogs with slender noses and muted splotches. There are old dogs, and young dogs. Dogs on leashes, dogs in laps on buses, dogs napping next to restaurants. Even more amazing than the abundance and beautiful array of these animals, is their collective behavior. Not once have I been, or seen someone, accosted by one of these dogs. A few show interest with a couple quick, exploratory sniffs, but not a single one has tried to smuggle their way onto my bus seat, or into my purse, or tried to eat my face off when I pet them (unlike my psychopathic puppy).

They must feed these dogs something special over here.

In all seriousness, they have it made. Every dog I’ve seen is attentive, curious, tongue-slopping-out-content. And why shouldn’t they be?

For them, the present moment is never anything more, never anything less than simply that: right now. Every meal is completely and totally welcome, satisfying that immediate sensation of emptiness. Dogs never eat because they are bored, or lonely, or stressed, or procrastinating, they eat because that’s exactly what their body tells them they need at the moment. Every walk is an adventure, every sniff a hunt for buried treasure. I can only imagine that the wind smells sweeter, the sun feels toasty, the ocean tastes saltier when you aren’t anticipating it, you aren’t lamenting yesterday’s greatness. And this is exactly how I imagine an Irish dog to approach life.

Based on the very limited observations I’ve made so far, their days consist of waking up to the smell of coffee drip drip dropping in the kitchen, followed by a sufficient romp around fluorescent green gardens. There is probably some eating, some running, maybe some more romping, until their owners decide to take them to the sandy or rocky beaches (either one will work) of the Irish countryside. The next few hours include racing up and down the shoreline, sopping wet, maniacally happy, chasing items of interest in and out of the water. Of course there are several, if not a bunch, of other dogs and puppies to play with who are all equally excited and encourage them to run their hardest, jump their highest, bark their loudest. And according to a recent theater show I attended at the Cork Midsummer Festival, nearly 44 percent of dogs sleep in a bed with their owner at the end of the day.

These dogs have the right idea. The more I can learn from them, the better. Less conscientious, more content. Less neurotic 20-something trying to figure out life, more trusting, appreciative, tongue-slopping-out-panting, happy Irish dog. (558 words)

June 28

Well, its finally happened. I woke up to the rain today. Well, if we are being accurate, I woke up to the 945 church bells ringing. When I opened my curtains to bask in the morning sunlight of our day off, gray clouds seeped in and tiny dots of water speckled the window. Sigh. It was bound to happen sometime.

You might think this damp, bleakness is unwelcome, especially after such a bright weekend. But its not. In fact, its quite welcome. More than welcome, even. Appreciated. I keep falling asleep and dreaming about home. Not in any particularly nostalgic way, just realistically enough to trick me into thinking I will wake up there when I’m blurry-eyed and hungry for Cheerios. I can’t help but wonder when my dreams will be about Ireland. Most days I’m still waiting to wake up from this. For some reason the rain makes this feel just a tiny bit more real. For right now, at least. I can smell the earth soaking up the weather. I can feel the water hit my forehead and hear my shoes squish and squeak a little on the pavement. While this is not the first time I’ve ever felt rain, nor is it actually any different from other rainy days in the states, being able to feel that cool mist calms my creeping apprehensions and confirms that I am, in fact, here, right now, not dreaming, but wide awake. (241 words)

June 25

Ping. Ping. Ping-ping. Flags clink against hollow tin. Katie, Michelle, Tricia and Molly sit in front of me on the sand, backs resting on the exposed rock. Cheryl and Tom dip their toes in the sparkly water as a young girl rides her chocolate brown horse into the surf. Matt is sprawled out on a floating dock several hundred feet out into the ocean. Puppies sprint after rocks, shells, sticks into the waves. Kinsale is sweet.

The one thing everyone can agree on is how we can never explain to anyone what this place feels like. Pictures are too dull. Words too empty. And still, we try. What choice do we have?

The thought crossed my mind last night that most of life is purposed around this frail attempt. Whether we write books, film movies, record music, take photos, shoot television shows or are just writing emails, talking to our friends on the phone, chatting with a stranger, there is a commonality in our shortcomings. Its probably true that some people are better at finding descriptive words and others are especially talented at snapping a camera lens at just the right moment, but in the grand scheme of things, how successful are any of us at recreating that feeling for others?

Anne Lamott writes that she believes there is no point in a hopeless novel. Everyone is acutely aware of the terminal nature of life. Some of us may even be aware of our puny significance amongst the confusion and chaos that tends to direct most situations. But this is precisely why novels serve such an important purpose. Regardless of how inadequate we know we are at imitating the intricacies, the grandeur, the complexities we encounter daily, we still try. That gives us hope. Or, at least, it gives me hope. I try to remember that when I’m sitting in a particularly enjoyable spot, or laughing at something particularly silly, or glowing with warmth inside when connecting with someone over something particularly surprising, that I probably won’t be able to do my emotions justice. But there’s no reason I can’t keep trying. (353 words)

June 23

Last night, after spending the day in the warm sun and cool, salty breezes of Cobh, we decided to celebrate the eve of our first day off from class. In short, a large group of us took the liberty of making this the fourth night of celebrating (and toasting to) Ireland, and didn’t fail to deliver obnoxiously American bouts of behavior. The juxtaposition is a first for me. I can still hear the hum of the green and yellow train cars pulling us into the Cobh shore. The glaring sunlight as we climbed the hills covered with purple, blue, green, yellow houses is still making my eyes squint. I can see the splotchy and weathered gravestones of the Lusitania victims. And I can taste the heel of my tuna and corn baguette soaked in potato leek soup that we—quite proudly—found for a mere 4 euro. As the train left and Cobh went sliding back to where it came from, I couldn’t help but feel like I was riding on a metaphorical hyphen: constantly in between, slipping from place to place physically and mentally.

In a slightly more compromised state of mind later that evening, I found myself accidentally engaged in one of the most interesting conversations I’ve had thus far. Occasionally glancing over at my classmates dancing to Michael Jackson and Cascada in a sea of equally uninhibited Europeans, I felt myself sliding on that hyphen again. The young Irish man was genuinely interested in how young Americans can be so disinterested in the rest of the world. He didn’t understand why it seemed that most Americans have no interest in travelling. I wasn’t sure I agreed with that, but maybe on a deeper level he had a point. Maybe Americans don’t seem to be interested in travelling emotionally or mentally past their comfort zone. The American-centric culture is so pervasive in the states I’m almost surprised anyone is able to break free of those self-preserving clutches. Now, I’m really not American-bashing as much as I am just mourning the loss (or was it ever really there?) of open-mindedness and compassion. Ireland was one of the first countries (if not the first) to have a woman president, according to my new friend. While Ireland’s president serves mainly as a figurehead, he was adamant that women are capable of more empathy and that influenced their governing. He was shocked to hear that American children grow up learning how heroic European explorers were, and how our country was based on freedom, democracy and individual liberties, but never hear about how barbaric and exclusive (respectively) their means were to achieve such greatness. However, this Irish friend was quick to admit that Irish are quite xenophobic themselves and that its human to hear and believe stories as they are taught to us, regardless of the merit.

It occurred to me that this is true of almost anyone. We value things based on how we have learned to value it—not necessarily because they deserve it. Whether we are overly proud of our country, or regrettably not proud enough, I believe the things that resonate most deeply within us are those things that inspire the best in us. I was re-reading an old journal entry I wrote from April about my thoughts on “heroes” and “people as concepts.” But my concluding line fits this train of thought quite nicely, I think. It reads, “Half the time we aren’t in love with people, we are in love with the concept they inspire in us.” And maybe that can be true about more than just people. Maybe it can be true about Cork, or Cobh, or Ireland, or America. These things aren’t supposed to mean one singular thing to everyone, or even to one person. My time in Cork is almost exclusively based on what I decide Cork means to me right now, the kind of person I am when I’m here. And for that, I am grateful for this hyphen sliding me back and forth, in and out of cities, sobriety, empathy and curiosity for that beyond my experience. (685 words)

June 22 4:00am

Some people notice architecture. Some people notice personality types and quirks. Me? I notice shoes. It’s honestly the second thing I always look at, second only to eyes. I feel one can tell a lot about a person based on their footwear. One’s daily aspirations, one’s daily habits, almost one’s hopes and dreams—depending on the shoe, of course. It leaves me with a strange sense of curiosity. Where these people are going. Who they were. Who they want to be. It’s probably the most superficial way to judge a person, but I believe clothes (and shoes) work as an extension of one’s being. Clunky, skinny, dark, light, jeweled, beaded, heeled, laced, slip-on, leather, rubber, canvas—they all convey a certain choice, a certain preference, a certain statement. The interesting thing is that in Europe, there are so many different kinds of shoes, and the majority I cannot recognize. My sense of judgment is momentarily suspended. And maybe that’s the best thing that could be happening to me, at this point.

Instead, I’m forced to look closer at three passing women, walking together, all carrying shopping bags. First, I realize they are wearing sandals all with a similar strap, and that strikes me as interesting. And I as I look closer at the women, I notice how similar two of their postures stand. I slowly realize those two women actually look exactly alike, and are most probably twins. The third woman clearly emerges as their mother, with a slightly older face, but remarkably similar attributes. When I understood their relationship (or pretended I did) a little better, my interest in their story peaked. Did they realize how similar they all looked? Did they know they were all wearing an extremely similar variation of the same shoe? Did they care? Or were they just so close that those things tend to happen incidentally? My mind drifted imagining their conversation. What they had been shopping for. Where they were headed next? Were any of them married?

Normally, these thoughts wouldn’t have been given a chance to grow simply because my initial judgment usually narrows the field of people I’ll allow myself to get to know. But without this built-in schema, I find I’m noticing a lot more about a lot more people.
My preoccupation with shoes may be a little ridiculous, although irrelevant most times. But I know things are slowly changing within me, and these are the silly ways that I can tell it’s happening. (404 words)

June 22 11:20am

There is a Shel Silverstein poem that still floats around the back of my mind sometimes. The kind of poem that I don’t necessarily live by, but one that tends to show up more often than not, and often when I don’t expect it to. It chronicles the tale of a fellow who expected to simply splash in a particularly splashy puddle, but found himself sinking in the smallest, yet deepest lake.

Ireland feels a lot like that small, deep lake.

It parades as a puddle, a short, fun trip. No major urban cities. No extensive time or emotional commitments. Yet here I am, four days deep, and I can feel myself getting lost in the rising bubbles of conversation, the currents of the Cork streets. I guess it might be unfair to say that this was entirely unexpected. I had every expectation that Ireland would be beautiful, and fun, and splashy. My surprise comes at how deep it is. How I can feel every part of my life being slightly influenced by the choices I am making here and the situations I am experiencing.
Before I left home I spoke with an old friend form high school who had just returned from a trip to Nicaragua where she spent a month helping orphans learn English and rehabilitating women stuck in prostitution. Honestly, my heart dropped a little when I realized my trip had no philanthropic value—how are stories about drinking at pubs supposed to compare to that?—and I started to question how valuable my time here would really be.

Now, while I realize I’m not making any major strives in the social justice or world health fields, I think this trip will be rehabilitating in a different, perhaps more personal, sense.
And I can’t wait to get my feet wet. (303 words)

“glub—glub
he thought it was
the biggest puddle
He’d go splashing through.
Turns out it was
the smallest lake—
and the deepest, too.”
-Shel Silverstein

June 21

I’ve never been a big believer in destiny or fate. You know, the silly explanations people chalk up and use to excuse all the work and coincidence and magic of life. But it caught me off guard when one of the girls on the trip already had me pegged for it. While her words, “I know you aren’t into anything institutionalized…” seemed a little extreme to me, she clarified to mean “things like marriage,” to which I could do nothing but agree. I had a surprisingly interesting conversation with a friend on the trip the night we saw local Irish music at The Pavillion. The night was wonderfully entertaining. We got dinner downtown, shared ebony Irish coffees and split pints of frothy Hoegaarden until the show was ready to start. Before the lights dimmed in the upstairs venue and the circle tables of people were still chattering to keep busy, Matt and I started discussing movies. See, I am in the film class and he is in the travel writing class while in Ireland, but he is the one that likes movies and most of my experience is with nonfiction writing (although I’ve never spent concentrated specifically on travel writing). I spewed my gripes about the sensationalism and commercialism and blatant disregard for an intelligent audience in American movies, and how I find it mind-numbing. Matt agreed, but pointed out that most people want that in a two-hour movie, which I couldn’t really disagree with. But somehow the conversation got turned to the issue of “love.” Personally, I think love, like a million other social practices, is nothing more than a cultural construction. While I absolutely believe in the challenge, the inspiration, the encouragement, the learning, and the loving that comes when you connect emotionally and intellectually with someone, I am convinced that “love,” as a western idea, has been confused with “romance” and tends to leave a very narrow window of what is acceptable and “good.” The institution of marriage for example, is extremely culture specific. But for some reason, many people believe this is only one acceptable way to express a healthy, loving relationship. Or that, marriage is the ultimate loving relationship, and it is up to us to find the find person that fulfills this for us, before it’s too late.

Other cultures see it differently. India, for example, has a long history of practicing arranged marriages. While it probably stemmed out of some sort of necessity because of their equally long-standing caste system, the perspective is not nearly as cynical as Americans like to believe. Instead of seeing arranged marriages as an infringement on one’s personal choice at happiness (although I suppose it does happen), many Indian people trust their families’ judgment for choosing a spouse. After all, they have lived their entire lives with their families’ at this point; who would know them better than their parents? Their parents are also usually looking for spouses who are compatible financially and have similar values as their own family. They aren’t looking to ruin their son or daughter’s lives, they are trying to match them with the best possible partner. I’ve heard Indian people say that they have their entire lives to get to know each other; marriage, for them, is the process of learning to love someone.

For whatever reason, I relate more closely with this approach to love. I have no intention of demeaning it, or de-mystifying it, I just appreciate when I can understand things on a practical level. And being able to learn to love someone sounds much more believable than waiting around for the perfect partner to fall from the sky. Unfortunately, this is the perspective that I am constantly bombarded with from American movies. This is the sentiment that our cinema, our media, our culture keeps perpetuating. We expect things to just happen magically—by fate—and don’t want to believe that working for something as emotional as love could actually build us a fulfilling relationship.

As frustrating as it is sometimes, this is also how I tend to feel about writing. For whatever reason, I just expect the words to fall out of the sky and dance around my page until I string them into beautiful sentences. Sadly, that hasn’t happened yet, either. And I think the more I can understand my relationship with writing, the more I will be able to learn to cultivate it. Maybe even love it one day.

With that being said, something about Ireland has me thinking we are all here for a reason. It’s incredible that each person seems legitimately interested in contributing to a more well-rounded and fulfilling six weeks. As a journalist for NPR at JMU Martha Woodroof once wrote, sometimes it’s about deciding whether our desire to have functional relationships will trump all our excuses not to. In this case, I think fate could be the biggest excuse to overcome so far. Not necessarily to ignore fate, or discount destiny, but to understand where their place in the world is and when we need to take matters into our own hands. (850 words)

June 17

I could feel my eyes get warm, start to tingle, with that slight burning feeling that comes right before your tears do. I’ll admit I felt silly, stupid even. Maybe it was the faint dizziness from the combination of anti-depressant and sleep medication. Maybe it was the fact that it was well past 3am the day before I left for Ireland and my anxieties were starting to get the best of me. But I pushed those excuses aside and went ahead and admitted to myself that I was honestly moved by what I had just read.

There is something incredibly powerful about feeling completely understood and spoken for (not to mention better articulated than I could ever hope to be) that literally brought tears to my eyes. The irony-- or maybe genius-- hasn’t failed to escape my attention that the passage is (appropriately) about what reading, and writing, and books can mean. The power that these pencil scratches, pen marks, key strokes possess.

The magic of this passage is that it applies to my entire life. My entire struggle to figure out and express just exactly how it is I understand life. How I’ve learned to understand other people’s stories. How I’ve learned to tell mine. My favorite part, though, is the feeling that I’m not the only one that feels this magic. As the clock flirts with 4am, and my neck starts to ache from craning it to read, I can feel my insecurities slowly creep back up. Pressuring me to stop writing. Because it isn’t good enough. Because it isn’t unique enough, profound enough, different enough, new enough, poignant enough. And I think this is when I start to try to write exactly what I want, how I want, as truthfully as possible. (295 words)

“Because for some of us, books are as important as almost anything else on earth. What a miracle it is that out of these small, flat, rigid squares of paper unfolds world after world after world, worlds that sing to you, comfort and quiet or excite you. Books help us understand who we are and how we are to behave. They show us how to live and die. They are full of all the things that you don’t get in real life—wonderful, lyrical language, for instance, right off the bat. And quality of attention: we may notice amazing details during the course of a day but we rarely let ourselves stop and really pay attention. An author makes you notice, makes you pay attention, and this is a great gift. My gratitude for good writing is unbounded; I’m grateful for it the way I’m grateful for the ocean. Aren’t you?” –Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird