fortnight

i leave in two weeks. a fortnight. 14 days.

i leave for my adventures in budapest, berlin, venice, and london. i keep repeating those cities, in that order, like a mantra. i tried to add in chicago, but it threw off the rhythm. because i have a rhythm now. not the musical kind. everyone knows that i can't keep a steady beat going. but i have a rhythm to how i live here, in ireland, because i DO live here.

at least for two more weeks.

i'm not sure how i feel. happy, sad, elated, tired, grumpy, nostalgic, excited, worried...

yes. i feel all of those things and there isn't a damn thing i can do about it because i am leaving and there isn't enough time left to sort out my feelings. i have just enough time left to enjoy it while it lasts.

i have two weeks.

the end of the adventure

oh dear. this is it. the end. it is monday now and we spent sunday going to the sherlock holmes museum, the war cabinet rooms (churchill museum) and then walked around a bunch to see big ben, parliament, and then found a place to eat. we finished up sunday with a jack the ripper tour at night, which was kinda spooky, but mostly annoying because of the people in the massive crowd who had seen "From Hell" with Johnny Depp and considered themselves 'experts' on te subject. tools.

monday was short and sweet. very sweet. we went back to the muffin man, where i think i will always go to whenever i am in london. the cupcakes were outstanding and the food was delightful. i will miss the muffin man.

we flew out on monday (today's post) and got back to ireland safe and sound. then we proceeded to watch "From Hell" and reinforce the belief that people are dumb. dinner was had. bus timetables were looked at.

it was a nice adventure. i don't want it to end.

the calm after the storm

commercial break

saturday, march 28th. we are still and silent, watching television and reflecting on the weekend in dublin. brian has left. he's probably just about home now, settled into his place, looking at familiar surroundings.

we sit on the couch under blankets and watch television until it gets dark. we don't move to turn on the lights. we are that tired. we think about everything we have done and everywhere we have gone in the past week.

it was all very fascinating, but now, now we are tired and want nothing more than to sit in the dark and watch television.

we'll be back after this brief bout of exhaustion.

the calm before the storm

tomorrow we leave for dublin. tomorrow i celebrate my 28th year. tomorrow i turn in my essays, almost a week early because we are going to dublin.
but that's tomorrow.

i have spent the last two days studying like mad and writing like a lunatic.

the guys are out right now so i can get these things done. i think they're attempting to learn set dancing. i am sorry to miss that, but i have to get this work done today so that i can enjoy tomorrow.

deep breath.

picking favorites

The air in Barcelona smells like a bakery as it is shutting down for the day. It is warmish, and slightly sweet, and there is a sense of familiarity in the breeze. Spain. I went to Spain this weekend. I never in my life thought I would be able to say that, yet, there it is.

I'm back in Ireland now, and I feel a sense of familiarity here as well, but it is different somehow. I can't quite put my finger on it. Maybe it's the weather. Maybe it's the difference in how the landscape is cultivated. I know they are distinctly different countries, but they both become generalized as "Foreign" countries in my mind, because I am, after all, an American. I admit, I am a city mouse, and Barcelona felt more comfortable to me, with its trains, dense population, apartments, streets and architecture. But I am happy to be back in Ireland. I feel less anxious here, less guarded. It's a feeling I don't often get when I'm in America.

I am reminded of a phrase I read once: You can't pick a favorite place until you've been to them all.

Well, I might not be able to say Ireland or Spain are my favorite places, but I will say that they're pretty high on my list, so far.

In Barcelona, I felt exhilarated, like how I felt when I first realized that I wanted to live in Chicago. Today, I say that I want to live in Barcelona, the way a child says they want a new toy. Saying that, I finally begin to realize just how very American I really am. "I want to live in Barcelona! I KNOW I have Ireland, but I want Barcelona now. Give it to me or I will stomp my feet, tell the teacher, and slam my bedroom door."

Maybe that is the difference between my identifications. I AM an American. I WANT Barcelona. But Ireland actually has ME. I loved Barcelona. It was brilliant. I could describe the sounds, the food, the sea, the scent, the views, the way the city looked like an intricate collage from the top of a mountain, but I wasn't there long enough to describe it in useful terms. I can't describe what a mundane day might be like in Barcelona, because I didn't have one. I went to museums, and tourist-spots. I ate and drank and saw the things that tourists eat and drink and see. I did not want for anything during my time there, and my time there was brief.

I think I love Barcelona, but I can't really be sure. I only got to see it, as a child sees a new toy from a shop window. As this child, I go back to my room, and look at the things I already have: I have America. I have Pakistan. I have Ireland. I recall wistfully the colors of Barcelona, and wonder if I will ever see it again.

Picasso's work.
Gaudi's architecture.
A Flamenco dancer's skirts.
The beach in the moonlight.
The various nibblings in the market.
Gothic cathedral spires far up in the sky.
The impossible Catalan language; French and Spanish.

While I was in La Pedrera, Gaudi's famous apartments, now a tourist spot, I was approached and interviewed by some folks from Hong Kong about my views on Gaudi's work and it's relationship to the city. I'm usually terrible when it comes to impromptu answers, but I think I summed it up fairly well. I said, "Normally an artist is inspired by their surroundings, but in this case, I think the city has been inspired by the artist."

Gaudi's work is fantastic, in every sense of the word. It is dreamlike and unreal. That is how I see Barcelona and how I will remember it.

a beautiful day

I missed you today, my dear Chicago. I missed your changeable weather, your steady hum of traffic, people, electricity, and crisp, lake breeze. I missed you, and you will always be mine, but today... today, I belonged to Lahinch.

Lahinch reminds me of the Ireland I dreamt of. Well, except for the surfing. People SURF here. There were cliffs and rocky beaches. There was dancing and hiking. There was a waterfall surrounded by brightly-painted homes that set a scene for the movie in my head. But it isn't a movie anymore. It's now a memory, and an experience that I won't be able to describe in this entry. It was magical.

I did things today that I have never done in Chicago, and that isn't to say I can't do them in Chicago, it's simply that it never occurred to me to do them at home. I learned how set dancing works. It's amazing. I can't actually dance, because, like most forms of dancing, a sense of rhythm is required. Ah, well. 7-4 time? What IS that?

The rocky beaches of Lahinch rekindled a dormant sense of adventure. I hopped, stepped, slid ankle-deep into wave pools, but I also got to see mussels, barnacles, shells and stuff that I never noticed existing on the shores of Lake Michigan. Are there any of these weird little ecosystems back home, I wonder?

I climbed up a near-vertical rock-face, simply because it was there. I had fun doing it, and I loved the sense of danger. I play it too safe in Chicago. Climbing is fun. So are tours.

Tours are amazing! I plan on taking every single Chicago tour I can, when I return. We were shown The Burren, which is a plot of land that looks like the Earth got angry and shoved limestone platforms up to the surface, as if to say, "I'm tougher than you think." I didn't know our planet could do that.

I didn't know our planet could have such magnificent caves. I figured everything had been discovered by now, and therefore lose its magnificence. Apparently not. I thought bats would be more frightening. I thought guided tours were lame. I thought I would get tired of the landscape in Ireland. I thought I might be able to dance. I thought I knew things, but I learned today that there is always something else to be amazed by. Thank you, Lahinch. It has been a beautiful day.

multi-cultural ireland

i went salsa dancing tonight.

salsa dancing in ireland.

it reminded me of this weird restaurant i never went to when i was growing up. "Carlos Murphys". mexi-irish. i never actually got a chance to eat there, it being a pub and i being underage when i first noticed it. i still wonder what would have been on the menu.

i met some nice people and i danced very poorly. such is life. i realized while i was in town that there aren't parts of limerick designated to certain countries, not like it is in chicago.

there isn't a greektown, or a chinatown, or even a latino district. it's all very irish. the realization made me think about my courses and how ireland seems to be a country in a constant identity crisis. i wonder how can they willingly lose their language, but hate the people who insisted they lose it? how can they say "A Thousand Welcomes" when they don't show much diversity in culture? i love the history and what i learn about the culture, but more often than not, i miss the multi-cultural aspect of chicago. i miss being able to walk down the street and know that i blend in by being a minority; i miss being myself.

novelties

it snowed today. big, beautiful, frozen pieces of lace. and it was cold. but it was a novelty for the Irish kids. they ask me why i take pictures of every rainbow i see, and now i can say, "it's a novelty. like snow."

i made a cross in my irish folklore class today. it's a saint brigid's day cross. there's a picture of it. it required a certain amount of dexterity and even though it isn't terribly well-crafted, i'm still quite proud of it.

went out to charlie chaplin's bar with the international society. i don't fully understand why there is a pub dedicated to charlie chaplin, but i'm learning not to question these things. it seemed like an alright place, but i'm starting to feel extra awkward around the company i keep. they're so young. or maybe i'm just very old.

it's time to buy some cheap shamrock things for st. patrick's day. novelties.

disorientation meetings

There are orientation meetings today, all day long, and I am already 30 minutes late. I have to figure out the shower and get to a place I can’t even pronounce let alone locate. I’m excited. The last time I tried something I couldn’t pronounce it turned out to be a delicious dish of steamed dandelion stems at a little restaurant in Greektown.

Several hours later…

The day has been long and full of small glimpses of what is to come. I feel as if I have been walking along a corridor full of doorways, and each of them has a keyhole just large enough for me to curiously peek through. I went on a walking tour of the campus today, and it reminded me of the Hogwarts from my fictionalized memory. I met a good many people, many of whom were good to be met. I trudged through the rain with three new friends to a mobile phone store where I purchased a high-tech version of a glass bottle and scrap of paper, all for the low, low cost of 30 euro. I hope the bottle’s signal makes it across the Atlantic. I have people to call. It was pricey, but looking back I think I actually bought a little of the time I needed to make some friends.

I’m still lonely, but more hopeful that things will change. The Irish are charming and brash, and above all, friendly. After the meetings, the tour, the trek to buy a phone, and dinner, I meandered back to my dorm and debated whether or not to head out later with Maureen, to meet up with her future softball team. I like her, and she seems to like me, so I opted to join her even though I was freezing and exhausted.

Long story, short – I made friends. The Irish are relentlessly good talkers, and once Maureen, Anthony, and I were cornered, the only choice we had was to converse. The two fellows we met simply turned around in their seats and started talking.

I am a decent conversationalist when I need to be, but these two were amazing.

One of the better moments happened when Aidan (Irish) started calling my friend Anthony (American) a stupid bint after finding out his relatives come from Cork. Aidan had just finished a good-natured tirade about the “pretentious snobs from Cork.” I jumped in, mock-angrily demanding that he not take that tone of voice with my friend. Aidan paused for a moment, bowed his head, then looked up at me and said, “You’re right. I ought to be a bit angrier,” before bursting into laughter.

I kept thinking, “How do they manage to keep up their banter, the friendly line of questioning, the tidbits of personal history, and opinion on Ireland? Did they practice?” And then it occurred to me: they do practice. I decided that the caricature of the drunk Irishman is unfair. In America, people go to bars and get drunk. In Ireland, people go to pubs to socialize. The result is a country of people that enjoy company, and happen to enjoy it most frequently in a pub.

In Chicago, working in bars, I have seen some disgusting behavior. Things I didn’t see tonight, that I would have expected: drunken girls wearing little more than cocktail napkins, slobbering beasts of drunken men, vomit, annoyed bar staff, and idiots who insist they “can drive just fine.”

The glimpse from the evening’s final outing showed me that for the Irish, a laugh is more important than a drink, but if they can get away with having both, they will.

all my little words

I saw "Fake Lake" on Thursday night and it moved me, but not in the way I think it intended to. I watched the actors, some of whom I knew, and some I did not, reenact an episode from the writer's life, at a time when she left Chicago to pursue... well, something else. The story that was told had humorous, dramatic, emotional, and political points to make, but I walked away from the Welles Park Pool (where, yes, it was performed IN the pool) to ponder my own choices.

Could I write a play based on my life, or a particular point in my life? Sure. Would it be any good? Doubtful. I'm not being self-deprecating, just honest. Honestly, I don't have the time to form my experiences into anything coherently meaningful. I'm too busy living out the episodes in my life, and it's non-stop. The most I can muster is a blog or two.

How do these people make the time to write, practice, perform AND work their day jobs? All of my motivation is tied up in school right now, and I know that's part of the problem. I wish I had gone through my higher education in a conventional method. Four years and a mountain of loans. Done. Instead, I squandered my time and effort and still have little to show for it. I just want to be done with school and get ON with my life, before it's all gone.

For the time being, I suppose I will have to content myself with being consistently impressed with the efforts of artists. One day, I hope to join the ranks of the creatively employed.