Thirteen strangers, picked to study abroad, have their lives taped. They find out what happens when culture shocks and starts getting real.

Like “The Real World,” my study abroad group was quite similar. Only, our lives weren’t taped. If you count Facebook, Twitter, YouTube and various other forms of social media documentation, then the formula is exact—with the addition of a few cast members. Oh, and not all of us were officially strangers. A few knew each other before the thirteen of us ventured off to Ireland. Anyway, logistics aside, June in Ireland is like “The Real World”—minus all the reality TV drama.

Before embarking upon this journey to Ireland, I had no idea what to expect. Even now in the aftermath, I’m agape at the experience. It is almost as if the trip as a whole never happened— like I’m living in someone else’s dream and I can’t bare to wake myself up because my reality doesn’t compare. I look at my life before Ireland. I was living in Oklahoma, finishing my degree, desperate to escape and return to Texas where my friends and family are. Mind you, I had friends in Oklahoma, but many of them came with candy coating that I was not affixed to.

After four years of being uprooted from my life in Houston, because my mom didn’t want me to get “stuck,” I was eager to get back. I just had six more hours to complete. My mom, always acting as my biggest supporter and sympathetic to my struggle, assisted me financially so that I may make June in Ireland a reality.

“Pack these,” my mom says to me as she holds up a pair of North Face gloves. “You’ll thank me later.”

It’s 12 a.m. on the morning I am set to depart. She and I are hovered around the giant suitcase I am packing to sustain myself for the month I am abroad.

“Don’t pack that, it’s too fancy,” she says. She is now coming at me with a bright yellow North Face rain jacket.

“That will take up too much room mom. I don’t want to pack that,” I say.

We finalize my packing selections around 2 a.m. I attempt to sleep, although the effort is futile since I have to be up in two hours.

With a late night and late start, mom and I make our way toward the airport, not accounting for the 45 minutes it takes to get there. We arrive at 6:15 a.m. for my flight that departs at 7:50. After delays of getting my bags under the weight limit and linking my flights all the way through to Dublin, I make it through security only to hear, “This is the final boarding call for flight 1184 with service to Newark.”

Suddenly, I am in a fit of panic. What if I miss my flight? I repel these notions and book-it toward my terminal.

“We have a runner!” I hear onlookers shout behind me. I prevail and make it to my terminal with a few minutes to spare.

I later arrive in Dublin where I meet everyone. The June in Ireland group had a pre-departure meeting with nearly everyone in attendance, but this meeting acts as the first time the 13 of us actually have a chance to get to know each other. Shortly after arriving, we receive our room assignments for our weekend in Dublin, staying in the dorms at Trinity College. Here, I am introduced to Alyssa, my original roommate. (Alyssa and my living situation becomes expanded in Cork, when three more girls share space with us.)

At Trinity, Alyssa and I share a tiny, single-bedroom dorm that is occupied by two twin beds with only a nightstand between them. After a full day of traveling, Alyssa and I depart from the group around 9 p.m. to fight jet lag and catch up on sleep.

The night before, I agreed to let Alyssa use my hairdryer. At midnight, or what I think is midnight, I am confused and awakened from my sleepy stupor. I hear the hair dryer furiously drying Alyssa’s hair. I illuminate my phone to see what time it is, 12:30 a.m. There is no way I have only been sleeping for three hours. I set my phone back on the nightstand and fall back asleep. I don’t have to be up for another seven hours.

“Does your hair dryer always flash orange and green disco-like lights?” Alyssa asks me the following morning.

“Um… No. Not that I know of,” I reply, still under the covers of my twin bed. “Were you drying your hair at midnight?” I ask.

“No. You were muttering stuff in your sleep though,” Alyssa says.

“I was so confused. I blame the jet lag,” I say.

I sniff the air, a burnt marsh mellow scent lingers. I can’t place its origins. It’s not till the next day when Alyssa and I try to dry our hair that we realize the hair dryer no longer works. We blew the fuse. That would explain the green and orange disco lights. This serves as a relief as it lessens the weight of my already oversized bag. Alyssa and I decide to purchase cheap hairdryers that are pre-equipped with the correct outlet converter.  We haven’t started class yet, but already we’ve learned our first lesson in Ireland.

After leaving the dorms at Trinity, the 13 of us board the coach taking us to our next destination in Cork. Our professor informs us that we are going to take a detour through Glendalough. None of us really know what Glendalough is. I’m a little annoyed because I just want to get to Cork and get settled. I think others partake in my same sentiment, although unexpressed.

When we arrive at Glendalough National Park in the Wicklow Mountains, our professor informs us that we have two hours before we have to be back on the bus. I look out the bus window to see rolling green mountains and not much else. Two hours? What can we possibly do here for two hours? Still not completely acquainted with one another, we stagger to the restrooms before figuring out a game plan. From here, we segregate into micro cliques, each unit taking a different approach to the terrain ahead.

Before we got off the bus, it was barely sprinkling. After making it out of the bathrooms, the light mist becomes full-on rain. I instantly regret my decision in not bringing the yellow rain jacket my mom insisted I pack. I don’t want to pack that. My mom loves to say, I told you so, so I refrain from telling her she was right.

Our micro groups weave around the bathrooms and along the visitor center, making our way across a stream. One group breaks off and purchases ponchos from a souvenir canopy just outside the cobblestone archway leading into Glendalough. This archway is beautiful, like a treasure hidden around a secret bin. Matching cobblestone steps lead up to the arch where many of us posed for pictures, still not anticipating what lies beyond.

Ruins from a sixth century monastery greet us. Dilapidated headstones are overgrown with bushes of fuchsia flowers, while a round tower overlooks the cemetery and the decrepit remains of the church. More cobblestone paths lead further into the mountainous mist. We come across wooden posts, pointing in opposite directions depending on our desired destination. The Boardwalk, The Lower Lake, The Upper Lake— all routes showcasing the amenities of the park. Many of us decide upon The Boardwalk, leading to the Lower Lake. On our path, we come across a deer cozying up to the shrubbery that lines the trail. We pause, enjoying the animal’s hospitality before making our way further into Glendalough. A forest welcomes us after stepping off The Boardwalk. Perfectly aligned trees are unified in columns, helping to pave the way forward. At the edge, a moss-covered rock wall awaits. Rocks jut out, making them easy for us to climb up. Off to the side is a waterfall. The scene reminds me of Swiss Family Robinson.

At this point, we are all soaked, but in awe of the beauty this place has to offer. There is no way any of us anticipated what was beyond the rolling greens. I look at my watch and see that we have 20 minutes before we have to be back on the bus. Now I’m wishing I had more than two hours. There is so much to take in and not enough time.

The 13 of us make our way toward the bus, saying goodbye to the mystical greens depicting something of a shire, leaving behind our own version of the Lord Of The Rings fantasy. Although slightly unorthodox, I can’t imagine a better “getting-to-know-each-other” activity. Once we were all aboard the bus, the rhythmic rocking and reminiscent memories of our previously experienced fairy-tale, ease us to sleep like a soft lullaby. Now, I am ready to settle down in Cork.

Even though Glendalough was at the beginning of the month, I feel like the experience is the perfect metaphor for the month of June in Ireland. We all came in with no idea of how our time in this country was going to play out and in turn, we walked away with 13 new friends and stories that will bind us together forever. We all shared something at Glendalough, and in Ireland that will follow us throughout our lives, serving as a bedtime story to be retold when life seems mundane. We lived our own fairy tale, experiencing the magic of a mythical culture.

My mom picked me up from the airport at the end of the month. After relaying my experiences to her, she says, “Funny how you had to go all the way to Ireland to meet people you actually like at OU.”

She’s right and I feel lucky to have been one of the 13 strangers picked and to share my experience. To think, it almost didn’t happen. Still, there is not enough time, back to the real world.

There are many faces that work in the accommodations office at University Hall. Of these faces, two in particular stand out to me. The first face belongs to an older woman with shallow eyes. Her face is a bit hardened. At a glance, I see an oversized mole on her chin. This mole is almost witch-like, but I won’t go that far— despite this women’s annoyance to “accommodate” me when I ask her to print papers for class. After looking at this woman’s face a second time, I realize the mole is merely imagined. In her defense, I have discovered that printing is not part of the “accommodation” package. This woman was going above her job description, accommodating me through extended means out of the goodness of her begrudging heart.

The second face belongs to a bright-eyed young lady that exudes cheer through a genuine desire to, not only accommodate, but to get to know those whom she is accommodating on a more personal level. My reluctant requests for printing are quickly dismissed with a waving, “It’s no bother,” and a chuckling grin. Her name is Aisling. (Pronounced Ash-ling)

Bryce, Aneesh, Max, Alyssa and myself were walking home from class one afternoon. We were deeply engaged in conversation— probably coming up with Max puns, which I have since learned is a no, no, as this only inflates Max’s ego.

“Hiya guys!” an Irish accent interrupts.

I break myself away from the conversation to look at the person delivering this friendly greeting. A smiling face, but one I do not recognize.

“That’s the girl from the accommodations office,” Alyssa says as we pass by on the street.

This is the first time I register Aisling, although I don’t know her name at the time.

This past Sunday, Meagan and I find ourselves with free time and a lazy day at our disposal. Meagan­— being the European sports aficionado she is— suggests we go to a hurling match. She looks up the time and location and relays this information back to me. The game is at 2 p.m. The ticket situation is a little ambiguous and the stadium is about an hour-walk away. With this, we decide to take a cab and proceed to get ready from here.

Meagan and I— being the notoriously late girls that we are— finish getting ready around 2:15. We make our way to the accommodations office to get the number for the student cab, as well as to inquire about purchasing tickets. Aisling greets us, which is always a pleasant surprise.

“Hiya girls!” Aisling says as we let ourselves in through the glass doors.

“Hi!” Meagan and I say in unison.

“We were wondering if you know where we can buy tickets to the hurling match today? It’s at 2:00, right?” Meagan asks.

“You girls want to go to the match today, do ya?” Aisling asks.

We nod.

“I’m pretty sure the game is at half three…” she continues. She averts her eyes from us. Her face is now illuminated by the glow of the computer screen in front of her. She clicks the mouse, weeding her way through web pages.

“Ah, it’s at 4:00. I could have sworn the match was at half three,” she says as she continues surfing.

This pleases Meagan and me. We were worried about making it to the game on time.

“You don’t want to go to the match at 2:00, those are the intermediate teams. They’re not worth watching,” she says. “I’m not sure if you can buy tickets though… Let me call my dad. He’s going to the game. Will you hold for just a minute?” she asks Meagan and me.

“Dad? Hiya. Are you going to the game today?” Aisling asks the phone’s receiver.

Aisling continues her phone conversation with her father, all-the-while Meagan and I wait patiently. Meagan reaches over brochures to Cork’s Butter Museum and grabs the card for the student cab.

“No. I’m working, but I’ve got some customers that want to go,” Aisling says.

“Oh that’d be great! I bet they wouldn’t mind at all. Let me ask them…” she palms the receiver with her hand.

“My dad says he can give you girls a lift to the game.”

“That would be awesome!” Meagan and I say.

Aisling smiles. “Yeah, they said they’d love a spin,” she tells her dad. “Do you know if they can still get tickets?” she continues. “Great. Thanks a million dad.” Aisling hangs up the phone.

“My dad said you girls can get tickets at the stadium. He will be here at 20 till 3:00 to pick you up.”

“Thank you so much! That’s awesome,” we reply.

“It’s no bother. My dad’s name is Michael,” Aisling says.

We begin to ask where we are meeting her dad, but Aisling reads our minds and tells us to meet him back at the accommodations office.

“What are your names?” she asks.

“Meagan and Morgan,” we say.

“Meagan and Morgan, that’s easy enough,” she says.

I feel rude. I’ve had numerous encounters with this girl, yet I still don’t know her name, so Meagan and I ask.

Mindful of punctuality, Meagan and I arrive at the accommodations office at 2:35. Michael is waiting. He’s a tall man, much taller than Meagan and I. He’s wearing jeans and a red jersey representing Cork City. We follow him across the street to his car and open the doors of his silver Audi. Sports radio is playing in the background as he makes conversation. He tells us the rules of the game while taking us through streets of Cork that are unfamiliar.

“There are 15 players. Six in the front. Six in the back. There’s a goalie and two men on the sides. Players score through a net, like hockey. That’s three points. There is also a post through which players can score, like in American football, that’s one point,” Michael tells us. He looks back at us, his glasses are now tinted black to reflect the sun as it was unusually shinning.

“Hurling is only played in Ireland,” he says. “They have a version of it in Scotland, but they call it something different,” he continues.

Aisling forewarned us that her dad has a tendency to park a mile away from things. He sees a car pulling out of a spot on the opposite side of the road. He flips around and waits for the car to leave before he attempts to parallel park in the newly vacant spot. He has stationed his car in front of a duplex near a residential neighborhood about twenty minutes away from the arena. As per Aisling’s warning, I’m not the least bit surprised. Nor, do I mind.

Michael treats us like his own, letting Meagan and I walk first through the narrow streets, walking beside us, leading us since we don’t know where we are going.

“That’s where you get tickets,” he says, motioning us to the singlewide ticketing trailer. He tells us we want to get the Blackrock tickets and waits for us to purchase.

“I’m not sure if you can go in this entrance, let me ask,” he says. We wait while he asks the man at the gate whether Blackrock tickets can enter through here. The man confirms and Michel motions for Meagan and me to follow him.

“I can give you girls a spin—” he corrects himself. “A lift back as well,” he finishes.

We oblige and he tells us to meet him at the red trailer after the match, a distinguishable landmark that makes for a great meeting place.

Throughout my time in Ireland, I have been fortunate to experience, first-hand, the hospitality this culture is known for. Seeing Aisling’s smiling face, eager to assist me with any request I may have, is a comfort that has made my time in Ireland significantly more enjoyable. Her beaming disposition has given me a sense of home, at least for the month that I am here in Ireland. Aisling’s friendly demeanor has aided me in a smooth transition to a new country. Here is a girl that has nothing to gain from helping the American customers that bear upon her on a daily basis but does so anyway. Not once has she seemed annoyed or put off. She eagerly and authentically accommodates, not because it is her job, but because she is endowed with a sheer willingness to do so. I feel blessed to have had the pleasure to meet Aisling and her father. To me, they are the epitome of what it means to be Irish. I only hope that I can bestow the same courteousness to future travelers that I may encounter.

“Worst case scenario, we can stay at that Bed and Breakfast,” Jenny says to me as we hike our way along N71.

I look to my left and see Eden Crest B&B. The place looks inviting. They offer Wi-Fi. In my short two weeks in Ireland, I have come to find Wi-Fi a luxurious amenity. The pale blue sign posted in the front lawn depicts a dancing leprechaun. Tourist friendly. That’s neat.

“I like the garden,” I reply in-between bites of the veggie loaf I had purchased from Organico minutes before.

Jenny has her thumb out as I preciously unwrap my sauce-less pizza present.

“Let me finish this, then I can more actively hitchhike with you,” I say as I attempt to eat my lunch.

If someone told me that I would be spending my last free Friday in Ireland hitchhiking, I probably wouldn’t have ruled it out. The night before I was running through the streets of Cork City Centre barefoot after all.

“Which way to Crane Lane?” I shout at random Corkians as they pass by.

A nice young man points us in the direction we need to go and Jenny and I race along the rain-washed streets of Cork with Meagan and rain showers in-tow. Before our jaunt, I take off my four-inch wedge heels to make better timing in our sprint. With bare feet, I feel the variations in pavement. I make my way across sleek cement followed by rough orange metal that looks like bubble wrap, sans popping.

We make it to Crane Lane, only for the bouncers to deny us entry. Back to the streets.

We dash to An Brog, the pub we just left.

“This way!” Jenny motions to me, wedging herself between the roped-off boundaries of the pub, as to avoid the bouncers at the door. Meagan and the rain are still behind us.

We make our way to the bar and order three shots.

“Something strong and cheap,” we instruct the girl behind the bar.

The shots arrive. We scan the place for Meagan. No luck. We wait a few seconds then decide it’s best to give the shot away.

“Here, you want this?” we ask the guys standing next to us.

“What is it?” he asks.

We shrug. This response seems to suffice. The three of us raise our glass and clink our shots together.

“Cheers!” we say in unison, downing the chestnut colored liquid.

We shake our heads. Jenny and I make blowing motions with our mouths, as if we could blow out the alcohol we just consumed.

“Whiskey,” he says.

Jenny and I are satisfied. We set the glasses on the bar and bid the guy farewell. Outside, we meet Meagan.

“There you guys are!” Meagan exclaims. “See! I told you they were in there,” she says to the bouncers.

“We didn’t see you go in,” a portly man tells Jenny and me.

“Jenny is sneaky,” I respond.

“Ahh, you two went around the side,” a taller man says.

The three of us make small talk with these men for a few minutes before walking toward the line of cabs outside the Brog. Taking a few steps away from the pub doors, we open the cab doors.

“Victoria’s Cross,” we say. The driver understands and we’re on our way.

Earlier in the night, we were accompanied by nearly our whole crew. It was Mallory’s 21^st birthday, so Erin, Taylor, Katie, Max, Aneesh, Alyssa, Bryce, Jenny, Meagan and myself were all in attendance. Alyssa and the boys were the first to depart, followed by Mallory and the other girls since they had to catch a flight to London the next day. This left Meagan, Jenny and Myself.

After our prolonged night out, the three of us make it back to the apartment around 3:30 a.m. and find the other girls still awake. We conclusively decide that we are really in the mood for pizza. To our dismay, we discover the pizza place below our flat is closed. We opt for our best alternative, frozen pizza.

“Okay. We have to be up at 7:30 to catch the bus to Ballycotton,” Jenny says to me as she dunks her pizza into the pool of vinegar on my plate.

I don’t know how we justify this notion as plausible, but we both agree.

DING!

This wake-up call rings me out of my sleepy stupor. I fumble for my phone to illuminate the time. 9:15 a.m. Well, shit.

I hazily make my way to the door. Through squinted eyes, I barely make out Jenny’s petite 5’2 frame standing in front of me.

“Sorry I overslept,” she says. “Can you be ready soon?”

Still squinting, I stare back at her.

“Yeah. Let me just wash my face,” I reply after a significant pause.

By the time Jenny and I reconvene, she looks like a pro with her rain jacket, Vibram shoes, and sporting backpack. I look like a baggy gypsy with my oversized hoodie and hand-sewn knapsack that I had purchased in Galway the previous weekend. Jenny had done the research in finding places to visit during our free time. Since I was not going to London, I was just down for the ride. We overslept our previous itinerary and as a result had to forego with plan B, or rather Jenny’s plan B.

“Where are we going?” I ask Jenny.

“Glengariff,” she says, flipping through screens on the bus station kiosk.

I find our location and attempt to purchase my ticket. After many futile attempts, I freeze the screen.

“No, it’s like this,” Jenny tries to show me as she shoves her card into the card reader. She incurs the same results.

My screen has unfrozen itself, allowing me to try again. This time I leave my card in versus my previous attempts where I swiped my card. Success.

After Jenny and I make our purchases, we realize we have no idea which bus we’re supposed to catch, only that it leaves in five minutes. We proceed to the information desk at which a dark haired woman with her hair pulled back into a tight bun frustratingly explains to us that there is no direct bus to Glengariff. She continues to explain that we can wait two hours and depart at 12:30; this would put us in Glengariff after four. No, no. We disregard what the woman says and continue to board the bus, asking the driver our best option.

“Glengariff?” he confirms. This bus will take you to Bantry. From Bantry, Glengariff is about 15 km.” (That’s 10.5 miles.)

“How do you suggest we get there?” we ask.

“You can thumb it,” he suggests.

Mind you, the Irish have trouble pronouncing the letter “h.” We hear tum instead of thumb. We’re not sure what this means.

“Can we take a taxi?” Jenny asks.

“Yeah… You can take a taxi for a small fortune, or you can thumb it,” our driver replies.

“Thumb it?” we ask.

“You know, hitchhike?”

Jenny and I exchange knowing glances.

“How safe is that?” Jenny asks.

“Well, I’d say about 99% of the time you’re alright.”

We look at each other once again. We decide to take our seats, not completely ruling out the idea, we do have a two-hour bus ride to make a decision.

I look out my window which I deem a looking glass. I decide that I enjoy driving/riding in a vehicle. I like watching the landscape pass by, crossing over into new terrain. Although all small towns in Ireland look identical, I love them all the same. Colorful multiplexes line the narrow streets. Each “plex” is a different color, tan, purple, yellow, red. I love the character, the personality of the country that is displayed through these splashes of color on a predominantly green canvas.

We stop for a brief moment to let new passengers on. Outside the looking glass, I see The Village Butcher with a banner reading, “UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT Lots of Special Offers.” In front of the shop, two mannequins relay a scene. One is pushing a wheelbarrow, the other enticing people to come in by holding a ‘thumbs up’ and the nub of his left hand. I’m not sure what to think of this. The wheels of the bus continue to go round and we stop again. This time I see a Buzz Lightyear action figure in the window of a flat above a hairdresser. To infinity and beyond? I wonder if these images have any significance to the journey that lies ahead for Jenny and me.

Finally our bus arrives at its final stop in Bantry. We take our time to exit.

“What’s it gonna be? You girls gonna thumb it?” the driver asks us.

“I think so,” I respond.

He proceeds to tell us which direction we need to take, since the road forks at the edge of town. Once Jenny and I get off the bus, we are immediately greeted by a van, housing various caged animals. Ducks and chickens stare back at us. It is cute and sad, all at the same time. Leaving behind our barnyard friends, we begin our hike in the direction dictated by our driver.

I, unlike Jenny, was not prepared for this journey. My stomach starts making angry gargling sounds. I need food. As we ascend deserted streets, we fortuitously embark upon Organico, a health food shop and bakery. It is here that I buy my veggie loaf.

“Should we wait till we get to the end of the road before we stick our thumbs out?” Jenny asks.

“Yeah, I think so,” I respond.

As we further our ascent out of town, we pass an array of houses, including Eden Crest B&B. The bed and breakfast has a sunroom that looks out into the garden housing a variety of flowers. Pink and purple patches delight our senses, emitting a fresh fragrance that only rain-washed flowers can give. I catch glimpse of a newborn bud. Beads collect, dripping slowing, watering the grass like a dripping faucet.

“What if some old creepy guy stops and offers to give us a lift?” Jenny asks.

“We say, ‘uhhh… Just kidding!’ and run,” I manage in-between bites.

I finally finish my loaf, dedicating my full attention to the task at hand. After what feels like hours, but is really a matter of minutes, I ask Jenny how long it took her to get a lift when she hitchhiked in Italy.

“It took a little while,” she responds.

We continue our trek, noticing many drivers pointing in a specific direction. We’re not sure how to interpret this. None of them pull over, so we continue. After a few more minutes, we come across a gravel clearing with a turquoise hatchback conveniently stopped. We look at the driver’s side and notice an old man. It’s debatable whether or not he’s creepy looking. Jenny and I look at each other.

And this is how we make it to Glengariff.

It’s hard to imagine it’s been a week since my last post. My apologies. Even harder to imagine, I only have two weeks left!

This weekend was our last free weekend as we will be traveling toward Northern Ireland to see the Cliffs of Moher, Connemara and Sligo. Like the previous weeks, this week is full of stories. About half our group split up to explore London, while those of us left were left to travel on our own.

Since we don’t have class on Fridays, Thursday night all of us went out to celebrate Mallory’s 21st birthday. Before going out, Meagan and I went back to The Woodford because we had such a delightful experience the first time when we went with Angelica and Aly. Again, we got our cheese tray with drunkin’ figs, salty crackers and assorted cheeses. Unlike the first time, our waiter did not pop out of thin air to answer any pressing questions that we may or may not have spoken out loud. After our delicious dinner, we went back and got ready for the nights festivities.

Like the good Americans we are, we have already found a haunt. We first visited Costigan’s the night of our arrival dinner. Here we were greeted by our, somewhat pompous, bartender Gordon. I say this because the girl that was working the bar with Gordon that night was dismissed upon our arrival and the top buttons of Gordon’s shirt came undone revealing an underwhelming amount of protruding chest hair. Regardless, Gordon entertained us by enabling our shenanigans. He supplied Angelica with a pint of Guinness as we voted her our most worthy contestant.

“I’ve seen someone down a pint in three seconds. Think you can top that?” Gordon asks in his coy Irish accent.

Angelica never agreed to three seconds, but did agree to chug the pint which was given to her for free. I think she did it in 15 seconds? Still, impressive. The video is attached below 🙂

In addition to chugging Guinness, we taught Gordon the great American tradition of icing. In return, Gordon let two of our girls stand on the bar to spin the wheel for free pints. See, at Costigan’s they have a wheel displaying various prizes if you throw a two euro piece into the basket and make it. Both our girls are champs and made it, but only one of them spun and won the free pint (paid for by her two euro piece).

Because of our great experiences in the past, this Thursday for Mallory’s birthday we started at Costigan’s, taking tequila shots and enjoying Guinness pints. In Ireland, tequila shots are served with individual packets of salt and lemon. Tequila is rough all the same. Costigan’s is not a late-night-pub on Thursdays, they do last call at 11:30 p.m. Needless to say, we changed locations.

Our next stop on Mallory’s 21st birthday extravaganza brought us to An Brog, a nice little dive. We had attempted to go to other pubs, but had some kids that are not quite 21, thus limiting the options. (Something interesting, Ireland has various tiers of drinking. You have your 18 and up spots, 21 and up and then 23 and up).

I don’t know if I can count all of Europe, but the Irish at least are quite obsessed with Fat Boy Slim’s, “Funk Soul Brother.” I have heard at least once at every pub I have been to. In case you are unfamiliar with this tune, I have uploaded the audio. Thanks Youtube!

After hours of showing off our P. Diddy dance-moves, we bid farewell to Mallory and the other girls as they were leaving for London the next day.

Crane Lane, in my opinion, is the best pub in Cork. Last Thursday we were fortunate enough to see Kanyu Tree perform. After the guys’ gig. A few of the members hopped off stage and chatted with us. We’re lucky girls. Anyways, this Thursday after we sent the girls off, I suggested we go back to Crane Lane. The bouncer at An Brog said we should probably hurry since it’s 1 a.m. and they’re going to stop letting people in. This did not deter us. Being that I was in wedges and that it was raining, I opted to take my shoes off and run with Jenny. I was barefoot, she was not.

“Which way is Crane Lane?” We asked random Corkians. A nice young man points us in the direction and we continued our stride through the rain.

We get to the front doors, only for the bouncers to deny us entry. Slightly upset we decide to make our way back to An Brog. Again, running barefoot and in the rain. Having learned our lesson from our previous encounter, Jenny and I sneak in through the patio as to avoid the bouncers. We wait for Meagan, but then decide she’s probably not going to make it and proceed with our rendezvous.

There was something freeing about running in the rain barefoot through the slick streets of Cork City Centre. The variation between the smooth pavement and the raised metal areas (that look like orange bubble wrap, sans popping,) reminded me that I am in Ireland. I felt Irish (more so than I already am). I felt myself connecting to the land, a major constituent of the Irish culture as I have learned in class. I love it here. I feel at home.

Yesterday, I went to the Cinema and saw, “John Ford- Dreaming The Quiet Man.” It’s a lovely documentary, but I will relay more of the details in another entry as this one is getting quite long. Anyways, one of the parts that really stuck out to me is, “The Isle of Innisfree.” We read the poem in class and the documentary mentions the lyrics which are used in the movie,  “The Quiet Man.” The basic message or theme is that Ireland has a restorative quality about her. In the movie, John Wayne’s character kills a guy during a fair fight in America, but deems himself a killer, in which he escapes to Ireland. In Ireland, he connects with the land and falls in love. Although I haven’t seen “The Quiet Man,” the documentary’s portrayal is poetic and beautiful and something about it really hits home. I love this country. Despite that I only have two weeks left, I know I will be here again. Similar to John Ford, Ireland is a home for me that I must come back to.

I have more to include from this weekend, but like I mentioned earlier, I will update in another post.

Sláinte!

This entry is special in more ways than one. The first being, I get to recount my weekend in Galway! The second, this is my fifth entry and according to wordpress, this means I have been initiated as a blogger. WordPress tracks my progress according to the number of blog entries. It keeps stressing five entries, so we’ll see what happens after I publish this post. I’m hoping for certification.

Moving on… The Mumford and Sons concert was amazing! Galway is amazing! The kid from the student center at UCC wasn’t kidding, it could quite possibly be the best city in all of Ireland.

We all took the bus there, some of us arriving at different times than others. I went with Angelica and Aly. Our bus left at 11:25 and we made it to the station in perfect time. We even had time to stop at Centra on the way. I got a maple pecan pastry and coffee. The perfect snack. The three of us loaded the bus, taking a row of seats to ourselves (we did have big backpacks after all).  Dr. Cusack was explaining that taking the bus is a class thing and can be looked down upon by some. Opposers will take the train, but I just see this as slow-moving and boring. I enjoyed the two and a half hour bus ride. I enjoyed looking out my window at the scenery displayed before me.

Before coming to Ireland, I had heard that it is very green. Even flying over the country, there was no doubt in my mind to attest to this fact as I peered out my plane window, looking at the various shades sprawled out like a map. The countryside is scenic no matter what road you take. Rural farms are occupied by sheep and horses. I saw many horses posted up in the front yard, while others stood alone on a hill claiming king of the mountain. In the herds of sheep, there was always one black one, which I found ironic. I like this. I wonder if the black sheep knows he’s different from all the rest. Even more interesting about the scenery is you can be traveling for miles, looking only at the green pastures and then suddenly drive across the ruins of an old castle. We passed one that was overgrown with moss. It was picturesque and beautiful. I’ve noticed this about the Irish, they are quite sustainable. Boundaries are drawn by cobblestones, uniform to those found at Glendalough and those are from the 6th century. Even in their everyday lives, the irish stress the three Rs: reduce, reuse, recycle. During our campus tour today, we were interrupted by a farm truck carrying grass clippings to be transported and used as compost. In America, often times these grass clippings are bundled into a plastic bag to be tossed out with the rest of the waste. I like that the country is so conscious of preserving. They’ve done a great job. With the help of the rain, the country is more green and plush than ever.

Once we arrived in Galway, we got off the bus only to be immediately greeted by music. We followed the sound waves reverberating through the city and found ourselves in the middle of a park surrounded by alternative architectural statues and stadium style steps (this is where the band was performing). Eager to get to our Hostel, we left the scene and followed Aly’s map on her phone.

After we found the Hostel, we headed toward the City Centre. Many of the City Centres in Ireland look the same. Galway resembles the other Centres, but also stands out in its own right. Like the other cities, Galway too has it’s share of street performers. We walk up to a crowd of people encircling this guy on a unicycle. Getting closer, I realize he is in a straightjacket. A guy in a straightjacket is riding a unicycle. Even more impressive, he frees himself of his restricting jacket all while simultaneously spinning the peddles of his single-wheeled cycle. I guess his shift ended because the perimeter was later occupied by a three-man band. They didn’t attract as big a crowd though.

Another distinguishing factor separating Galway from other City Centres is that it is close to the ocean. The pier encompasses the city, overlooking the Atlantic. We saw many brave swimmers out in the water, getting their exercise. I admire this as I’m sure the water is freezing. Being from Houston, my closest body of water is the Gulf which is heavily polluted, leaving the waters a murky brown color. This water is crystal blue. You can see islands of seaweed scattered close to the shore in patches. And like big cities, there were a ton of people, but I am told they were in town for the concert.

Walking to the concert site was very much like walking Boyd street on football Game day. Open containers everywhere. We crossed a bridge going over a dam, finding ourselves behind young men pouring a bottle a chardonnay into a CamelBak. Others were throwing around cans of Bulmers and making their way toward the closest off-liscence. We decided to follow suit and purchased our own party favors to aid us in our journey to the concert site. I asked the girl behind the counter if it’s normally like this, if they normally let people walk around with open containers. She shakes her head no.

“So the cops just turn their head for the day?”

“If no one is causing any trouble, there is no reason for the cops to make a scene.” She replies.

I like this logic.

The concert was amazing! I think the fact I was seeing a European band in Europe made the experience more authentic.

“We love Ireland!” The British boys of Mumford and Sons proclaimed to us midway through the show.

During the show, I was with Katie as we lost sight of the others during our toilet hiatus. She and I were able to get pretty close and found ourselves in the company of some nice young Irish boys. I think they were 18, but they claimed to be 19. One of them put me on his shoulders during “Dust Bowl Dance.” I liked this a lot. I could overlook the entire crowd. Normally it’s hard to find gaps in-between people since I’m only 5’1 and 1/4 inches tall.

Below are some videos and pictures from the event. It’s hard to describe a concert, so I will let the pictures/ videos speak for themselves. My only complaint about the event is the toilet situation. As I was drinking before, I broke the cardinal rule and “broke the seal.” Bad idea. I literally had the bladder of a raisin that evening. I’m pretty sure I used the toilet three times in a two-hour span. This would not have been as big a deal if the lines for the toilets were uniform. All there was, was a square of outhouses boxing in the people wishing to use these outhouses. It was hard to tell who was in line for what. This process took upwards of thirty minutes each time. Boo! Hisss! As Aly would say.

Anyways, that’s all I got. I hope you enjoy the footage!

In these bodies we will live,
in these bodies we will die
Where you invest your love,
you invest your life

This is one of the new songs they played. Youtube claimed to fix my “shaky” video, but I think they just made it worse. You can pretend I’m a good videographer and that the blurriness is a video effect.

Same goes for this one, “Awake My Soul.” Yay Blurry video effects!

P.S. If you don’t know the lyrics to “Awake My Soul” or really any Mumford song, you should look them up. They are incredible.

Hello!

All of the girls in the program just got back from Galway today. We went to see Mumford and Sons on the Gentleman of the Road tour. The gig was incredible, but I will post the details in another entry.

Moving on.

On our last night in Dublin, we participated in a literary pub crawl. It was alright. I was kind of expecting more than watching actors relay scenes from literature. The works included those of Joyce and Wilde and we followed these actors from pub to pub across Dublin. Many times the pubs severed as a pit stop where there was no performance involved.

One of the pubs, O’Neil’s used to have a tiny room for women to drink because up until the 60s women were not allowed to drink in pubs, even though it was the women who brewed the majority of the beer. After the pub crawl, many of us went back to O’Neil’s because we liked the scene. There was a traditional irish band and many of the kids there had finished another pub crawl (not of the literary variety). We were able to get a table in which a crowd of drunken co-eds surrounded us. One kid set his pint on the edge and got so excited dancing that he knocked it over breaking the glass. This was funny because you would think that someone would come around and properly clean, i.e. sweep. This was not the case. A broom was involved, but it was used to push the glass to the edge of the stairs so that shards of glass were merely out of the way and so everyone could continue dancing. I love the irish.

I was trying to capture the essence of the place and depict how drunk everyone was. Unfortunately, I don’t think my video does a very good job of achieving this, but it is entertaining no less. 

Last Sunday, we left Dublin and made our way to Cork. On our way to Cork, we stopped through Wicklow so we could go to Glendalough.

Glendalough is beautiful. It is called the land of two lakes and is located in the Wicklow Mountains National Park. The site homes the ruins of a 6th century cathedral.

While our group only made it to the first lake, the second lake is absolutely breath taking. One of my professors made it and posted this photo. 

Our trip at Glendalough was an unusual one, but not unusual in a bad way. We got off the bus to a light mist that got progressively heavier as we made our way through the terrain. Of course, my outfit choice was not conducive to the weather, but oddly enough, it didn’t matter.

Glendalough is the epitome of serenity. Rain or shine. I don’t think it matters. Actually, I think the rain only added to the experience.

As soon as you make it past the visitor center and the bathrooms, a cobblestone archway greets you into the gravesite. Past this archway, is peace. I was surprised. I thought being in the ruins of a 6th century graveyard would be… spooky. It seems that the past has moved on. All that remains is the poetic ruins of the Monastery. Flowers and moss-covered trees continue to grow, creating a beautiful garden, with the tombstones acting as accent.

We decided to take the boardwalk to the Great Lake, despite that we never made it past the first lake. On our way, we came across a deer. The deer was just laying in the grass, munching on whatever it is that deers munch on. We all began to whisper as to not disturb, but I don’t think he minded. He just stared back at us, continuing to enjoy his snack. He didn’t care. We were in his home and he was being a good host, letting us ogle at him without running away.

By the end of the excursion, we were all soaked. Liam, our bus-driver, turned up the heat to assist in drying us. Our wet shoes and feet stunk up the bus, so needless to say we were relieved when we arrived in Cork, but still, Glendalough is an exquisite site and totally worth spending a few hours enjoying. I wish we had more time.

I have class tomorrow, so I will end here. Tomorrow I will update with some of my Cork adventures and brag about how awesome the Mumford and Sons concert in Galway was.

So, I know it’s been a bit since my last post and like always, I have quite a bit to catch up on. 

I have been in Ireland for a week now and just finished the first week of classes yesterday (we attend class Mon- Thurs). I still love it here and am even growing an affinity toward the rain, I guess you kind of have to.

Today Meagan, Angelica, Aly and myself went into town at the City Centre. The weather was nice today in comparison to other days  for the mere fact that it did not rain once. The sun was shining and the wind was blowing a cool breeze. It got colder as the day progressed.

In the City Centre we went to the English Market. People of Cork love their English Market. Liam, our bus driver from Dublin to Cork, told us all about the Market and how it even received the approval from the Queen. Inside the Market there are banners picturing the queen smiling during her visit. This is a bit surprising being that the Irish typically rebel from forms of Monarchy, or at least as History tells. Cork is the rebel city after all, although I found Dublin to be more anarchist.

The English Market is great because it has an array of fresh produce vendors. Meagan and I bought cherries that were delicious. We ate them as we strolled the rest of the corridor. On our stroll we came across a butcher displaying pig’s heads. This was a little off-putting for me. The heads looks like masks. They didn’t look real. All I could do was contemplate this pig’s life. I’m sure he was a happy porker until he met his end. I don’t like it, but what can you do? Be the change you want to see in the world. I’ve never liked pork anyways.

There are quite a few vegetarians in our group. Four in total. Which in a group of 15 is 26 percent. Not bad. Professor Bosse was sharing with us his decision to become a vegetarian at our arrival dinner Wednesday night. He told us of a time he was fishing on this serene lake and when he finally caught one, he couldn’t bring himself to kill it and decided he couldn’t support others in this slaughter and has stopped eating anything with a face since. This made me think about my own motive behind my vegetarian diet, or pescatarian as some say.

I originally made the decision to become a vegetarian for health reasons. Like most girls, I just wanted to lose a few pounds. I absolutely love sushi, so decided I wouldn’t give up fish (and the occasional Raisin’ Caine’s splurge). After incorporating this diet into my life for about two years now, give or take, I have lost the weight and find my overall attitude and outlook on life to be more sunny. While I do love animals and have never been able to bring myself to kill one, despite my family’s inclination toward hunting, I have not been conscious of them in my diet decisions. After hearing Professor Bosse’s story, I am starting to question my own morals. I used to justify my eating fish by saying they reproduce by the dozens, but the same can be said for the human race and genocide is soooo wrong. I don’t want to go into some morally compelling story about vegetarianism and how it’s wrong to eat animals, but the moral of this is that I am making a conscious effort not to eat fish as a result. So far, so good.

I still have yet to talk about my Dublin adventures, so I will take the time to relive them now 🙂

After a four-hour flight delay I finally make it to Dublin. Daniel exits the plane before me and I see him while waiting in line at customs. After that, he’s gone. Fortunately, I see him Saturday morning as our group makes it’s way out of Trinity to view the Dublin Castle.

“Daniel!” I say.

“Morgan! This is Crazy, what are the chances?”

“I know! I thought you were only in Dublin for the night before you leave for Wales?” I say.

“Yeah, but we wanted to see Trinity.” He says. I notice he has his SLR around his neck.

“Very cool. Well I’ve got to catch up with my group, but I’m glad I saw you!” I say and we exchange a farewell hug.

“I know. I’m glad we got a proper goodbye.” He says. This is the last time I see Daniel.

I’m a lucky girl.

Before going through customs, I wait at the baggage carousel in which an Irish woman holding some type of electronic device approaches me. She asks me if I wouldn’t mind taking a survey, of course I oblige.

“How would you rate your travel experience?” She asks me.

Aside from the Irish family I met at the Newark airport, this is the first time I have heard the Irish accent. It makes me very excited.

“Wonderful,” I say in response to her question.”My carry-on bag was rather large but I didn’t want to pay the airline’s fee to check it, so when I was boarding my flight they said they would check it for me.”

“For free?” She asks.

“For free!” I exclaim. “The guy asked if I had received my christmas gifts yet, so I presume this is his gift. I’m a student, so I’m broke.”

“Oh, that’s great.” she says through her accent. “That really confirms your belief in humanity I bet.”

I agree.

I wait in the Dublin airport for a few hours as I am the first to arrive from the second round of group pick-up. I notice a young couple staring at me and in my head I have decided that they have most definitely marked me as an American due to the size and number of bags I am using to enclose myself in the seat I am sitting in.

“You’re in the June in Ireland program, aren’t you?”

I look up at the isle across from me and notice two girls becoming acquainted. They get up and move to another part of the airport. I struggle to collect my things in effort to meet up with them. I’m racing with my bags to catch up, knocking down magazine displays as I do so. Nothing too drastic, just a little bump. I finally catch them and the three of us wait for our professor and the last three girls to arrive.

Once the whole group arrives, Dr. Cusack leads us to the bus. We all have rather large bags, but if there was a contest, I would definitely win. Again struggling, I accidentally run over a girl’s toe.

“Oww!” I hear behind me. I look back and see a girl hopping on one foot clutching her boyfriend.

“Sorry! I’m so sorry!” I say.

She hears my accent and I guess decides it’s justifiable. “It’s okay.” she responds. Not happily though.

This situation repeats itself on the streets of Dublin as our entire group struggles to hike our way to the bus taking us to Cork, about four blocks from our dorms at Trinity.

“Team America has arrived.” We hear an onlooker say.

Great. Team America. I wonder how they can tell.

The city of Dublin is great. It’s like the trendiest areas of New York (minus the sky scrappers) conglomerated into one central area. The houses are precious, displaying an array of colored doors. I learn this is because in the 18th century, When someone of nobility died, Queen Elizabeth said all of Europe is to paint their doors black in mourning. Ireland, being the rebel nation they are, painted their doors blue, pink, purple, green, yellow— just to piss off the Monarchy. This makes me smile. 

Our first day in Dublin, the group and I take to the streets. I guess they were doing a benefit for the homeless because a group of Irish boys come skipping by us with their faces painted. They are carrying various tokens of Irish culture, such as flags, leprechaun hats and shamrock beads. They jab each other and crack themselves up as they make their way to the Joyce statue (Dubliners, and Ireland for the most part, LOVE their Joyce). They take pictures with the statue and notice us taking pictures of them in which they invite us to take a group photo.

“This is James Joyce.” One of them says. “He’s a fantastic writer. A bit of a pervert, but a really, really brilliant writer. Have you heard of the book Ulysses?”

This is one thing I’m noticing about the Irish. They are obsessed with their writers. Ireland is, “The land of Saints and Scholars” after all. I don’t know that I can say the same for America. We’re obsessed with happy meals and the Kardashians.

It was the weekend, so Dublin was quite chaotic. There are tons of people, hence my comparison to New York. Temple Bar is a cool district in the city. There are often street performers and throngs of youth pushing through the streets. We see a mob of young men. One of them is dressed in drag, resembling Britney Spears, I presume, because he had a pleated plaid skirt with thigh highs and midriff top. He slips a nip, pressing it up against the window of a cafe. The boys think this is hilarious. Rebels. I’m telling you.

Apparently the average age in Dublin is 26. The city is quite youthful. We were making our way back from Dinner at Stir Crazy and we notice bubble suds floating through the air, obstructing our path.

“Where are these bubbles coming from?” Jenny, a girl in our group asks.

As we make our way closer to Trinity, we notice someone has put bubbles in the fountain. The suds are fleeing, stretching a few miles into the city. Jokesters. I wanted to get a picture, but we were late to meet our professors in Temple Bar.

It is also worth noting that Formula 1 was doing a demo race the last day we were in Dublin, so they shut down the streets. Kind of a big deal. It was neat.

There is more I can say about Dublin, but I’ll leave it there. Like always, I will include pictures for your viewing pleasure.

Sláinte!

Hello! Or, Dia dhuit as native irish speakers say (pronounced dierh-ut). The literal irish translation of this means, “May God bless you” and the typical response is Dia is Muire dhuit (pronounced dierh-is-muer-ut) meaning “May God and Mary bless you.” I learned both of these phrases from my friend Daniel, who I briefly talked about in the previous entry.

Today was our first day of class. University College Cork is absolutely beautiful. I’m literally attending class in a castle. 

Our first class is at 9 a.m. and last until 11. We have a two hour break until our next class at 1, which ends at 3.

After our first class, Myth and Revolution in Irish Literature, Aly and I decided to go into town for lunch. It was a bit dreary and drizzling, so the others decided to head back to the apartments and grab Subway which is right outside the gates of our letting. Aly and I decide to eat brunch at a cafe named Serendipity. The cafe is cute and quaint and claims to prepare home-cooked food. We arrive around 11 a.m. and order off the brunch menu, as they do not start serving lunch until noon. Aly gets eggs benedict while I get eggs florentine. The eggs come out sitting atop a toasted ‘everything’ bagel and are lightly covered with hollandaise sauce. There are only a few in the cafe at this time since it’s not quite lunch and many are enjoying espresso. We hear the machine manifesting hot water as we eat our eggs.

After brunch we walk back and explore UCC campus because we still have an hour until our Travel Writing class. We go into the University Gift shop, which is adjacent to the Stone Hall. The Stone Hall is a hallway displaying an array of ancient stones. I do not get a picture, but I will, and will post later. Apparently you’re not supposed to touch the stones. I didn’t find this out until Aly catches me stroking one, showing me the sign that reads “No touching.” Aly and I both get hoodies in the UCC gift shop and the clerk gives us about eight euros in free merchandise. We get UCC pens and pencils with the UCC crest and cards featuring a picture of the courtyard (As pictured above, but with better light.) The other clerk tells us stories about how the University used to hang people from the main archway. One of the buildings used to occupy a men’s jail and they would frequently take prisoners from their cells to hang in the middle of the afternoon. This caused problems for students as they would often be late for class to witness the hangings. As a result, the university president did away with the whole ordeal.

After our purchases we make our way to the Student Center where we chat with the friendly young man behind the information desk. He asks us about our program and we tell him we will be staying in Cork a month. He says this is not enough time. We tell him about the Mumford and Sons concert that the majority of us are attending in Galway this weekend and how we plan to visit the Aran Islands (just off the coast of Galway). This makes him very excited.

“Galway is the best city in all of Ireland.” He says in his Irish accent.

Other students approach the desk so we bid him adieu and head to class. We are pleased with our experiences on our break. The irish have proven to be quite friendly!

I briefly want describe my first four days in Ireland because they were quite eventful and worth sharing. I will hurry because I don’t want to bore you with an extensive narrative.

So… My flight from Houston was set to leave at 7:50 a.m. I wanted to fly out early so I could have a long layover in New York to visit Kara. She works about a block away from Penn Station and instructed me to take the PATH from Newark into Penn Station. I wake up at 4:10 a.m., late. Mom and I leave the house at 5:15 a.m. Fortunately we get to the airport at about ten after six. Plenty of time, or so we think. I get into the airport to check in and immediately they tell me to weigh my bag. Seventy two lbs. Twelve lbs over the 50 lbs weight limit, unless I want to incur $200 in additional charges. Mom and I begin frantically rearranging the contents of my bag to make weight by bulking up my carry-ons. After we get my luggage squared, I wait for the check-in agent to try and configure how to link my flight from Houston to Newark all the way to Dublin. This takes some time. She finally notifies me this can not be done so I proceed to security.

After it’s all said and done, I get through security only to hear, “This is the final boarding call for flight 1184 to Newark.”With that I book it to my terminal.

“We have a runner!” I hear behind me in my effort to get to the terminal in time. I make it. All is well.

I’m sweating as I make my way to the back of the plane. Now I have to lift my 40 + lb carry-on into the overhead bin. A nice young man assists me in this, shoving my bag into the compartment. There is no way I could have done this on my own. I take my seat, sitting next to a girl who looks to be about my age.

“Where are you going?” She asks.

“Dublin.” I say.

“Where is that?” She asks.

“Ireland!” I respond.

“Oh! Very cool! I’m going to Italy!” She says.

“Italy?! That’s very cool.” I say. I then proceed to ask her name.

“Stacey.” She responds holding her hand out.

I shake her hand. “I’m Morgan.”

Stacey and I find out that we have a lot in common. She’s going to Italy because she’s an artist taking an art therapy class and I’m going to Ireland because I’m a writer taking a travel writing class, a destined friendship. We’re comparing pictures via Facebook.

We land in Newark and Stacey and I exit the plane together. Outside the terminal, her fellow travelers are waiting for her.

“Hey guys! This is my friend Morgan. She’s going to Ireland!” She proceeds to introduce me to everyone, after which I excuse myself because I have to grab my luggage.

Once I re-check my bags, I make my way to the Airtrain terminal to figure out how I go about getting into the city. Here I meet a new friend, Noel.

Noel is originally from the Philippines, but he currently lives in Florida. He was visiting New York to make a trip to the Philippine Embassy. We help each other navigate the confusing mass-transit system that is the New York/New Jersey Subway. We arrive at Penn Station and Noel walks me to the front of Madison Square Garden where I am to meet Kara.

“Are you good?” He asks. I shake my head and he departs in the opposite direction.

New York City is chaotic and fanciful all at the same time. I look up and see the huge Billboards, flashing various advertisements, all while clutching my belongings in attempt to deter muggers. Throngs of people pass by as I try to locate Kara. I like the energy here. It’s something that can’t be described. It is felt. It’s a good feeling.

I find Kara directly under the West 33rd Street, street sign. She helps me with my luggage and takes me to Brooklyn Bagel which is about five blocks away in Chelsea. At Brooklyn Bagel, she buys me a wheat and raisin bagel with regular cream cheese and iced coffee. Delicious.

Kara has been my friend since sixth grade. She and I had World Cultures together and I remember the exact moment we met because the teacher held up her assignment, a quilted diagram colorfully colored with color pencils.

“Class? What do you all think of this assignment?” Our teacher asks.

“She’s creative.” I say.

The teacher agrees and Kara and I become friends later that day because we discover we have advisory (home room) together. You may follow her blog here.

Kara moved to New York a little over a year ago on a whim. She bought a one-way ticket with no job and no place to live. The only thing she did have was the money she had saved in the year she lived with her parents after graduating from A&M. She packed up and went and has loved every minute of it since. It is worth mentioning that Kara used to work for a minor league baseball team on Coney Island and now works as a digital traffic coordinator for an advertising agency.

“If you would have asked me what I thought I would be doing two years ago, there is no way I would say living in New York City,” She says to me as we enjoy our bagels.

I deeply admire this about Kara. I think Ireland has been my equivalent, but it’s still quite safe as I had the logistics worked out  upon my arrival. Now once I get back from Ireland, that’s a different story. I would love to do like Kara and buy a one-way ticket and just go. We’ll see what the world brings.

After leaving Kara, I am left to figure out the Subway system on my own. It was easy the first time with Noel’s help, but now I feel overwhelmed. There are all these tracks with all these trains and I had no idea which one led to where. I ask a police officer what to do, explaining that I have already bought my ticket. He points me to the blue and orange kiosk. I again explain that I have already bought a ticket.

“You already bought your ticket? You said you didn’t have your ticket. Aye! This is going to be a seven martini kind of night.” He points to the sign behind me. “There.” He says. “The train will post in about three minutes.”

I look at the sign and see that the train I need has already posted. The thing I’m still confused about is where to catch the train. Slightly intimidated by the officer, I decide to ask someone else. I go downstairs where all the tracks are located and find a conductor. I ask him what I need to do. He tells me I need to know my train. I tell him my train in which he then tells me to follow him.

“Third line down. You’re waiting for the track number to be displayed.” He says. Suddenly it all makes sense. I look up to thank him, but he has already left.

Once I make my way through Newark security I have about an hour and a half to spare before my flight. I see a kid my age playing on his laptop. I take the seat next to him, leaving an empty seat between us. After a few minutes he asks me where I’m going. When I reply Dublin, he explains that he is on the same flight. This is how I meet Daniel. Daniel is from South Carolina. He and I become well acquainted, not only because he has been to Ireland before and delightedly relays everything he knows about Irish culture to me, but also because our flight gets delayed for four hours. We had quite a bit of time to kill while waiting in the Newark airport. Poor Daniel had been waiting in the airport for 12 hours.

As I have mentioned previously, Daniel is the one responsible for introducing me to various Irish phrases. He even shared Lasairfhiona, a native Irish musician, with me. He transferred her album onto a flash drive for me to load into my iTunes library. I can’t understand any of what she is saying, but that’s not to say I won’t learn.

Anyways, this is getting quite long and I have some more work to do for class.

Until then, here are some more photos to enjoy.

Sláinte!

Our walk on the way to Cork City Centre.

The mini Lake at Glendalough.

Architecture from inside Dublin Castle Chapel.