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)