In our own backyard

Top o' the mornin to ye all! And welcome to the main event of my humble journey, where I bring ye tales of a distant land. After months of conjured images, at last my eyes have seen the Land of Saints and Scholars. And I am here to tell you...It's really wet.

While I have encountered a few "shocks" in the cultural acclimation process, in most ways Ireland is exactly as I expected. Chiefly, it is green. When the clouds broke as we descended into Shannon, I took in what looked like a patchwork quilt rolled out as far as the eye can see, with squares in every shade of emerald. 

Every unpaved space in every city is carpeted with a grass so fine that when the wind picks up it's as if the land has green fur. The air is so perpetually humid that a fuzzy sort of moss flourishes in every crack of every sidewalk and building, giving the many stone structures an ancient mystical appeal. It truly is the Emerald Isle. 

The sheer age of the country can be felt in every corner of the town. The narrow streets, the dated building style, and the general rhythm of the city all speak of a simpler time. Of course, some of these charming nuances have taken some getting used to on my part. For example, many Americans take for granted that any whim ever known to come over a man can be satisfied at any hour on the clock (save, of course, beer after midnight). Here, the working class does not live to sate the late night cravings of inebriated college students. Any place that doesn't serve dinner or liquor closes by six, even the coffee shops. If you plan to become deathly ill, schedule it for Monday morning as the Pharmacies stay closed on Sundays. This early closing culture also applies to the amenities in my apartment complex (or "village"), which put me at quite an inconvenience when I had my clothes locked in the laundry room at eleven. But oddly enough, one can still obtain some decent Chinese food as late as midnight at the lovely little money laundering front just down the street from my flat. 

Window shot from my
house in Limerick

The technology within residences also speaks of a simpler time. By this I mean that heating systems haven't been updated since shortly after the Second World War. If you want to shower, you must go to the "hot press," which is apparently the closet containing the water heater (yea, that one's lost on me). Inside you'll find a dial with a switch for every half hour of the day. You must flip the switches for the hour during which you plan to bathe, then wait twenty minutes. If you wait too long, you'll simple receive a slightly more invigorating shower than expected. But it's good for circulation, and will save you a cup of coffee that morning. 

Now this flat I speak of is more like a house. It has eight separate bedrooms, all of which are occupied by the aforementioned Americans from my study abroad program. I must say I panicked a little upon learning of my housing placement, as this made for an unsettling (and you guessed it, loud) first couple of nights. But at least the shenanigans were entertaining. One night a week ago, some friends and I encountered a drunken pack of students hauling several large traffic cones from a construction site nearby. We inquired as to what on earth they were doing, to which one boy responded in an Irish slur, "We pay our taxes!" Some of the girls giggled and they continued dragging the city property in the direction of my village. The next morning I awoke to find an orange cone in my living room. 

But alas, as classes commenced we've settled into a daily rhythm. The noise has subsided, along with the number of beer cans I find in my kitchen each morning. A few of us have fallen into a semi-nightly routine of returning from whatever party, putting on sweats and laughing at the names of the horses in televised races. Some of the top names have been "She's So Mean" and "How Big's the Hole."

While I could crank out several paragraphs on the joys of living with seven females and no microwave or dishwasher, I have been eager to recount what little exploring I've managed so far.

I've discovered that the kind of un-commercialized cultural experiences fit to make a tourist wet themselves can be found right here in Limerick City if you know the right folk. My favorite so far is a pub in a less-than-savory side of downtown called Dolan's. It's a cozy, candlelit joint with a booth reserved for musicians who play a traditional Irish session every night. I was puzzled, though, when I saw them stop between each song to sip their beers and chat. When I commented on their unorganized set, a new friend of mine quickly pointed out that the Irish Session culture is not performance based. "They're not playing for us," he explained, "it's social time for them. The conversation between tunes in a session is as important as the tunes themselves." I was enchanted. Soon he pulled a tin whistle from nowhere and much to my surprise, sat and asked to play a tune. They recognized the reel and joined him, first the guitar, then the harmonizing fiddles and finally the flute. I wasn't sure if it was real, or if I'd been cast as an extra in a James Cameron movie. 

Dolan's is a delightful best-kept-secret sort of attraction. But well known throughout County Limerick is a large farmer's market that sets up downtown each weekend called the Milk Market. A giant canvas tent keeps the Irish weather off of dozens of booths selling produce, tea, and crafts. It's a great opportunity to see some quality street performance while supporting local entrepreneurs. Doing my best to hold onto my euros, I settled for some herbal tea and a slice of the best French brie I've ever tasted. I'd recommend a visit to anyone craving bite of local culture. 

If that doesn't sate your appetite, the short walk from the market centre to the Frank McCourt Museum on Harstonage Street is worth anyone's time. The building itself was once Leamy's School for Catholic boys, where Frank was first inspired to pursue his career in writing. Now book worms from across the globe have come to see the memorial to the Pulitzer Prize winning author of Angela's Ashes. Inside are countless tokens and memorabilia from throughout Frank's life, including his childhood toys, his collection of rosary beads, and a letter from our very own University of Limerick announcing his honorary doctorate. Most days a friend of Frank's himself guides fans on a walking tour past many of the sites and churches mentioned in the book. The museum has less of the formal appeal one would expect, and more the feel of a personal tribute run by his closest surviving family and friends. A friendly tour guide named Lenny informed me that just last night, the museum employees and actors from the film adaptation joined Frank's brother Malachy and childhood friend Billy Campbell at South's Pub to celebrate the twentieth anniversary of the book's launch. The entire visit inspired me in a way. To think that so much love remains for an ordinary man who did little more than tell his story. 

Two weeks into my stay here, I feel like I've already seen so much of the culture Ireland has to offer. And it cost no more than a bus fair and a couple of afternoons! I'd encourage anyone reading to act like a tourist in your own city for a while. Visit the museums, hit that coffee shop you keep driving by, find out what famous figures lived and died there. For just one week, don't go to the same place twice. You'd be amazed what you can find in your own backyard.

To making it count, friends.

If you can think of a cheese, they'll have it at the Milk Market's Flying Cheese

Impressive graffiti across the street from King John's Castle

This frog is cut off!

Pano of Arthur's Quay, overlooking the Shannon

Mind the Gap

Dear friends, with the whirlwind of meetings, mishaps and adventures, the previous week seems to have passed before the foamy head on a Guinness can properly settle. My musings on London carried on for a line or two longer than expected, so to spare your attention spans I will confine it to a single post. 

 My arrival and stay went off without a (large) hitch. I was picked up with a small group of fellow Americans by a grumpy driver who's nationality I could not place for his lack of speech. After a..er..bracing ride into the city and a rundown of meal times and check outs, we were dumped into a small square of eateries and convenience stores. Fighting jet lag, we stumbled into a generic restaurant, where I learned that servers who do not depend on your tips will not grovel and pamper, but rather leave questions unanswered and scoff bemusedly while you fumble with foreign currency. 

 I quickly learned two more things. The first was that most of those studying abroad are in their second or third year. Therefore, any hesitancy to present as stereotypically loud Americans fails to overcome their excitement to publicly drink for the first time. Secondly, I learned that I was confined to the company of such students until I reached Ireland. I quickly decided that my best course of action was to embrace the embarrassment.

So that night, after wandering around Bloomsbury (loudly of course) we came upon a quiet Italian diner where, much to the obvious irritation of the hostess, we pulled the patio tables together to seat eleven Americans who promptly ordered eight bottles of wine. 

Afterward, we crossed the street to a tame, traditional pub called The Crown where I wasn't the only one receiving an education. There among the mahogany stools and warm lantern light, an appalled young bartender learned what "wall twerking" is, and that it tends to elicit very enthusiastic (and loud) responses among American youth. Regardless, the atmosphere was delightful, I recommend any travelers drop in. 

The following day we were toted about the city in the quintessential double-decker bus while our necks cramped from all the left and right looking we were instructed to do. Some of the tour took place on foot for photo ops at Buckingham and Piccadilly and such, where the locals were entertained by Liam's presence. I am especially grateful to the doorman who, when asked to pose with the frog amicably scoffed "Oh not another one of these pictures," and grinned. 

At about noon we were released to explore on our own. I was excited to see the Tower and Westminster on such an optimal day for tourism. It was a bank holiday, during which the majority of Londoners cram into a few streets in Notting Hill for a rowdy annual festival, leaving the city fairly uncrowded. 

...naturally, the exploration group to which had I adhered myself immediately decided that this very festival was the best use of our time. So off we went through the tubes, ignoring every email from the American Embassy warning against large public events. Outnumbered and helpless to protest, I continued in the spirit of Carpe Diem I had set for myself the previous night. A famous annual cultural event must be worth my only day in London right? 
To describe said famous carnival in the greatest detail I can manage, it consisted of several booths selling over-priced jerk chicken, and droves of millennials partaking in alcohol and marijuana while walking in the same direction toward nothing in particular.

Three (loud) hours and several foot blisters later, Westminster Abbey was closed. I easily subdued my rising despair with plans for a solo visit later in the semester, and spent the remainder of my daylight hours trekking the city and navigating the tube system alone, an adventure I look forward to repeating. Liam and I visited the Sherlock Holmes museum on Baker Street, and found a peaceful bench in Ramset park on which to share a sandwich.

Later that evening, I rejoined the group for the necessary visit to Platform 9 3/4 at King's Cross, and enjoyed some equally necessary fish n chips at The Euston Flyer.

In summation, there are some experiences best undertaken alone. Additionally, the UK has a high prevalence of smoked salmon sandwiches at a reasonable price, for which I am eternally grateful. 

To making it count, friends.  

Wheels Up

Dear followers, I write to you from an altitude of 33,000 feet (though I suppose I should begin thinking in terms of meters these days). I opted for the group flight package, which will place me in London for three days to gawk with the other tourists before flying into Shannon on Tuesday. I had hoped to make a post a week or so ago. However, in order to capture the days immediately preceding departure, I decided to put it off until that perfect point between preparation and initiation. What better place than the flight? 

The main theme with which I must paint the previous weeks is anxiety. There have been documents to sign and checklists to complete, prescriptions to fill and shopping to be done. Anxiety about forgetting important things and missing important people, about plunging into new social groups and living quarters. Even anxiety about loving it all too much to come back! And the consistent pause following that question, "So, are you excited?"

"Uh. I think so!"

I didn't know for a while. 

One small distraction from the anticipation was a few days last week when family flew down to celebrate my twenty first birthday with me. That's right, after years of stowing handles of liquor under my bed and confiscated fake IDs, I have finally reached the legal age...five days before arriving in a country where I could have bought a Guinness three years ago. Nonetheless, they all made quite a fuss over my departure, complete with a cheesy Irish themed birthday party with shamrock cupcakes. My mother even made a board on which to tape "limericks" that guests were invited to write for me. I must say I felt loved, while also feeling quite embarrassed for them.

This same party introduced a very important passenger on this journey. The handsome amphibian pictured here is Liam, my new travel companion. He was given to me by my aunt, who's son received a similar companion named Gordon from my mother on the eve of his travels in England. Gordon's cousin can be found in several of the pictures to be featured in future blog posts. 

While nothing makes me feel more grown up than shamrock confetti and tiny green top hats, I decided a proper pub crawl was in order to consummate the milestone. A road trip down to College Station to join a few friends in the festivities of "Gig'em week" proved to go more smoothly than anyone could have expected with a car full of college students and a campus full of partying frat boys (no one even threw up!  Well, almost no one). 

In fact, the entirety of the short downhill slide from birthday to departure was rather uneventful. Do not be fooled, my nerves have managed to wring my dry daily. But I found packing to be cathartic. Besides, there are few things that a meal at Texas de Brazil and a very cliché viewing of P.S I Love You can't cure. 

This morning I awoke and looked out the window of my childhood bedroom for the last time, thinking how many different views I will wake to in the coming months. I decided to start a collection of window pictures. Every time I wake up in a new place, a photo of the window will find its way into my next post. (Pardon the curtains in this one, I did not pick them out). 

My Last Meal consisted of chicken wings and spring rolls from my favorite Asian restaurant, and the saltiest, greasiest, cheesiest Texas cheese fries I could find. I hear that I will find European food quite bland. 

A quiet car ride later, it was time to bid farewell to my rather concerned parents. I must say, those tearful goodbyes in movies are nothing like reality. If you've ever had someone walk you to the security barrier, you know that your parting consists of an emotional hug and last words, followed by a half hour of TSA procedures during which you periodically glance over at them, while they stare at you. Smile and wave. Smile and wave. Make a funny face. There's only so many longing looks people can manage, and by the time you're out of sight you're glad to be finished with the whole ordeal. After thoroughly embarrassing myself in the security line by forgetting to remove my laptop and my belt, and momentarily panicking that my suitcase had been stolen before remembering I had checked it, I finally waved an (actual) final goodbye to them, turned around and felt...relief. 

After so much conversation and anticipation, I am alone in this journey for the first time. But aren't we all, really? You come into the world alone, you leave the same way, and the time between (though it's easy to forget) is yours to make something wonderful of. 

And what I find the most surprising, is that anxiety could not be farther from my mind. Actually the longer this flight drags on, the less nervous I am, and the more I wish they'd start serving dinner to the economy passengers. 

To making it count, friends.

Where it all started

They say your undergraduate years are the best of your life, where you become who you're going to be. As a senior who is still living at home and fighting the incessant drizzle of "what do you want to do with your degree?" with an umbrella of half-hearted hypotheticals, I now realize these were relatively high expectations for my college experience. As I type in between bites of instant noodles, I recall that in reality, most of my time off campus has been spent explaining to the angry public that they have to wait fifteen more minutes before they can sit down to order their mid-range sirloin, or too exhausted to do anything but watch reruns of Orange is the New Black. Who has time to find themselves? On social media, I watched my peers become immersed in Greek life, land internships, and travel the world. My junior year, I began to develop a nagging fear that when I hang my degree next to my high school diploma I'll look at the space between and wonder, Did it even count?

I had some connections with international students and one American friend in particular who opened my mind to the idea of studying abroad. I had never considered it. I guess I had thought such an endeavor was for those with more glamorous majors. And I've never been a fan of paperwork. But one visit to the advisors office told me this was easier and more do-able than I ever could have imagined. As I browsed the list of destinations, my eyes fell on an affiliate program in Limerick, Ireland, and I couldn't have been more sure of my choice. From the color of my hair to the folk songs I heard my father sing growing up, Ireland is in my blood. But I may never have another chance to see its culture, history and beauty up close and personal.

So there you have it! on August 27th, I depart to spend four months as an international student at the University of Limerick and travel throughout the country. I hear so many things from study abroad veterans, but what I hear more than anything is that this experience is bound to change me. I hope to be a clean slate for whatever the world will make of me, no tethers. And I hope to share what I learn with all of you! So stay tuned once a week this fall for the mishaps and adventures of a spoiled American in a world without roaming data or Walmart. 

In a famous scene from my favorite movie of all time, a young man named Jack Dawson is asked if he finds the "ruthless existence" of a traveler appealing. To this he responds,

 "Well, yes, ma'am, I do... I mean, I got everything I need right here with me. I got air in my lungs, a few blank sheets of paper. I mean, I love waking up in the morning not knowing what's gonna happen or, who I'm gonna meet, where I'm gonna wind up. Just the other night I was sleeping under a bridge and now here I am on the grandest ship in the world having champagne with you fine people. I figure life's a gift and I don't intend on wasting it. You don't know what hand you're gonna get dealt next. You learn to take life as it comes at you... to make each day count."

To life. To ruthlessness. To making it count.