As you wish, Lauren...though I've been putting this off because I promised my posts would get more exciting, and even though each day continues to be an adventure for me, I doubt recent events will make for riveting reading. But, as many a wise person has told me, life is made up of small, simple things along with momentous and dramatic ones. So here are a few of the small, simple highlights from the last week or so.
The lough. Pronounced "the lock," which, like a loch in Scotland, is pretty much a glorified pond. There's a large and beautiful one near the UCC campus, where American girls can go and sit on benches and be stared at by nearby Irishmen and see little kids playing with their families and be accosted by geese and swans (SWANS!!!) who expect to be fed. I always joke that there's no nature in Indiana, and although there's certainly an abundance of nature in Ireland, all of it beautiful, the artificial stuff is pleasant to look at too, especially when one has random hour-long gaps between classes that have to be spent near campus. (And there's nothing artificial about a baby swan!)
Sunday's Well. Speaking of beautiful sights, the hilltop road that runs along the northern outskirts of the city offers a lovely panoramic view of Cork. We spent a few hours last weekend just wandering around up there, savoring the 70-degree angles of some of the side streets, the cute houses (there was even a purple one!), the ubiquitous rock walls, and the sub-freezing weather (okay, maybe "savoring" isn't quite the right word for that last one). And then we found...
Cork City Gaol. You'd think that only a history nerd like me would get excited about an old jail, but actually all of us were eager to check it out. The building (designed by the same architect who was responsible for the picturesque structures of UCC) looks like a castle from the outside, until you walk through the front gate (underneath an arch that once served as the gallows) and see the barred windows everywhere. Inside, we were greeted with a "How are you?" which we answered with "Good," only to be told, "We can fix that." We were promptly provided with headsets for an audio tour that took us through the whole jail. Many of the cells were populated by life-size wax figures with heart-wrenching backstories, and toward the end there was a whole cell wall covered with the scrawls of past inmates. Between 1828 and 1927, the jail housed everyone from petty thieves to prominent political prisoners (Maren: Countess Markievicz!)...which made it a better snapshot of Irish history than my "Intro to Irish History" class (from which I've learned nothing so far, except that that average working Irishman in the early 1800s ate eighty potatoes a day). By the time we left, the sun was setting, my brain was on story-idea-overload, and it was even colder than before. So we booked it home and had some Cadbury drinking chocolate to warm up. As one always does after sobering educational experiences.
The UCC library. Hi, my name is Amy and I'm a nerd. Because the UCC library is considerably bigger than the Macalester library, I've been having fun exploring it in between classes. It's equipped with self-checkout stations--just like at the grocery store, only for books. And the special collections section in the basement has all sorts of cool (ahem, "cool") things in it--like stories written down by 1930s Irish grade school students, who were enlisted by the Irish Folklore Commission to collect old tales and traditions from their elderly relatives and neighbors. They mean business down in special collections; you have to fill out paperwork and leave your bag in a locker with a key, and the use of pens for note-taking is strictly forbidden. (Jana: "This is a weapon, Oren!!" Wow, did I really just quote myself? That's embarrassing.)
Getting registered with immigration. In order to legally stay in the country (or at least be let back in if I leave, say, for a weekend in Belfast) I needed to get a yet another spiffy ID card, this one from the garda (aka police). The garda headquarters happens to be right across the street from my apartment, but I couldn't register until I could prove that I had medical insurance, sufficient financial means, and a Hawaii birth certificate. (Okay, just the first two, but satisfying the specific requirements was a lot harder than it should've been). At last, after much travail involving multiple bank accounts, MIA ATM cards, deceptive letters from Macalester staff, and international mail (which apparently is faster than mail between Indiana and Washington, DC), I finally had all the necessary materials. I came, I got fingerprinted, I conquered.
The theater. Or "theatre," as they say in this part of the world. Tickets to see a production of Oscar Wilde's "Lady Windermere's Fan": seven euros. ("That's, like, two pints!" said our professor when encouraging us to go.) Cadbury chocolate bar consumed while waiting for the play to start: one euro. (Except I didn't even pay for that. Grrr, Claudia!) Beautiful Victorian theater, entertaining performance (though Lady Windermere was in desperate need of a sassy gay friend), cute British boys sitting next to us who volunteered to take a picture of us (and who sat down right after Ian asked over the phone whether I was seducing the guy sitting next to me, and I looked at the then-empty seat and said "Yeah, this is the kind of guy I always end up seducing")....Priceless.
Photography society. Here, "clubs" are sports and "societies" are other groups/organizations. I plan to try out archery club in the near future (and now that it's in my blog, I'm honor-bound to follow through) but in the meantime I decided to sample the society realm as well. My camera isn't equipped for most of the snazzy techniques we were being taught how to do, but looking at pretty pictures of Ireland is never a waste of time (as I hope those who've looked at my Facebook albums will agree).
Girls' Night. Nothing says "classy" like a drink called "Death by Chocolate," chips and salsa on the house, and several rounds of trivia (with many answers covertly supplied by a friendly bar employee). Does the average Irish person really consider "the names of the handmaidens of Odin" to be "general knowledge"?
So nothing earthshattering to report this week...except perhaps...Nutella. OH. MY. GOODNESS. Where has this stuff been all my life?
In Ireland, clearly. Along with all kinds of other amazingness. I'm just starting to scratch the surface.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
A Peninsular Adventure
A breakdown of the weekend. (Notice, I'm foregoing the green in deference to popular demand.)
Our small but hardy band of six set out at 9ish on Saturday morning with our newly-procured rental car--of indeterminate brand, but with a lightning bolt symbol on the (right sided!) steering wheel, which led us to christen it Harry in honor of Harry Potter.
Our small but hardy band of six set out at 9ish on Saturday morning with our newly-procured rental car--of indeterminate brand, but with a lightning bolt symbol on the (right sided!) steering wheel, which led us to christen it Harry in honor of Harry Potter.
Ian the Belgian drove. And it was raining. And then it was reeeeeeeeally raining. And it was also cold and windy and cloudy and foggy and basically every form of less-than-ideal Irish weather that exists, aside from (gasp) an inch or two of snow. But we braved the elements nonetheless, and within a couple of hours we reached the town of Kenmare. After stopping there just long enough to pick up some pastries at a bakery, we embarked on the Ring of Kerry, a beautiful scenic route that covers a 110ish-mile region along the southwest coast of Ireland.
Not long afterward, we came to a crossroads. One road was marked by a sign that said "Ring of Kerry." The other boasted a sign reading "DANGER. Narrow roads ahead." Which one do you think we ended up taking? I'm really not sure how it happened (though there was certainly a lively discussion about it while we were driving the extremely narrow, winding roads that, quite honestly, are pretty much par for the course anywhere in Ireland) but it worked out all right, because soon enough we reached the town of Sneem and from there were able to get back on track. (But not before we explored the town, found out how easy it is for even the sturdiest umbrella to be flipped inside out by a strong Irish wind, discovered the raging rapids of the Sneem River flowing under a bridge that was just waiting for me to drop something small through its gaps, and walked down "the dark street of doom" to paraphrase Jessie's words.)
As I mentioned before, it was raining and cold and anything but clear outside, so the magnificent views were not at their most inviting. Every so often, though, we'd come across such an amazing vista--usually involving the ocean--that Ian would have to stop the car and we would all grudgingly get out to take pictures. ("I never knew rain could hurt!!" cried Kelsie after taking a raindrop in the eye.)
What little daylight there was to begin with lasted until about 5, which is typical sundown time for winter months in Ireland. We stayed the night at a very comfortable hostel in Killarney (in the Lion Room, though I would've liked the Porcupine Room or the Smurf Room) and the next morning we were up bright and early to head for the Dingle Peninsula.
Take all the adjectives I used to describe Saturday's weather and reverse them: That was Sunday. (Except for the wind; it was still pretty intensely windy.) It was a wonderful day for picture-taking...so of course, within an hour of our leaving Killarney, my camera died. But in a way, not being able to take pictures was liberating, because instead of snapping photos frantically every time we stopped, I was able to just soak in the sights and not worry about futile attempts to capture them.
The Dingle Peninsula, of course, is the place Katherine and Anna and I found randomly on the map in my guidebook, and which we joked that I would have to visit because the name was so funny. It also happens to be of the most gorgeous spots in Ireland. (Here are some poached pictures, just to provide a visual teaser.)
Amazingly green grass, stone walls, sheep, rolling hills, cliffs overlooking the ocean...
Um, yes, that ocean behind me...
Not to mention the mountains in the distance...
And more sheep.
This doesn't even scratch the surface, but you get the idea. In the afternoon we stopped in Dingle Town, which would've been the refuge of Marie Antoinette if she hadn't refused to leave France when her would-be rescuers turned up at the Temple Prison to spirit her away to safety. (This fate could've been prevented if she'd had a sassy gay friend..."What are you doing?! What, what, what are you doing? Look at your life, look at your choices.") Not only did the French queen end up with her body in two inconvenient pieces, but she also passed up the chance to see this charming little town, where we had the best ice cream in Ireland (locally made) and heard tales of Fungi, Dingle's friendly neighborhood dolphin, who has apparently frequented Dingle Bay for more than 20 years.
Unfortunately, we couldn't stay that long, as we had to finish our loop of the peninsula before dark. The most amazing view came toward the end, at Slea Head (almost the westernmost part of Ireland...the Blasket Islands off to the left are the true winners of that honor).
We got back to Cork that night to find that the outskirts of the city were still flooded from the rain the day before. (Remember, Cork is built on marshland...sort of like my house in Indiana. Gotta love continuity in life.) While sensible people were staying inside to avoid the elements, we were off on what the Irish would undoubtedly call a grand adventure. Marie Antoinette seriously didn't know what she was missing out on.
What little daylight there was to begin with lasted until about 5, which is typical sundown time for winter months in Ireland. We stayed the night at a very comfortable hostel in Killarney (in the Lion Room, though I would've liked the Porcupine Room or the Smurf Room) and the next morning we were up bright and early to head for the Dingle Peninsula.
Take all the adjectives I used to describe Saturday's weather and reverse them: That was Sunday. (Except for the wind; it was still pretty intensely windy.) It was a wonderful day for picture-taking...so of course, within an hour of our leaving Killarney, my camera died. But in a way, not being able to take pictures was liberating, because instead of snapping photos frantically every time we stopped, I was able to just soak in the sights and not worry about futile attempts to capture them.
The Dingle Peninsula, of course, is the place Katherine and Anna and I found randomly on the map in my guidebook, and which we joked that I would have to visit because the name was so funny. It also happens to be of the most gorgeous spots in Ireland. (Here are some poached pictures, just to provide a visual teaser.)
Amazingly green grass, stone walls, sheep, rolling hills, cliffs overlooking the ocean...
And all kinds of little streams and waterfalls flowing down the aforementioned rolling hills, which were also dotted with some of the most impressive rocks I've ever seen...
Not to mention the mountains in the distance...
And more sheep.
This doesn't even scratch the surface, but you get the idea. In the afternoon we stopped in Dingle Town, which would've been the refuge of Marie Antoinette if she hadn't refused to leave France when her would-be rescuers turned up at the Temple Prison to spirit her away to safety. (This fate could've been prevented if she'd had a sassy gay friend..."What are you doing?! What, what, what are you doing? Look at your life, look at your choices.") Not only did the French queen end up with her body in two inconvenient pieces, but she also passed up the chance to see this charming little town, where we had the best ice cream in Ireland (locally made) and heard tales of Fungi, Dingle's friendly neighborhood dolphin, who has apparently frequented Dingle Bay for more than 20 years.
Unfortunately, we couldn't stay that long, as we had to finish our loop of the peninsula before dark. The most amazing view came toward the end, at Slea Head (almost the westernmost part of Ireland...the Blasket Islands off to the left are the true winners of that honor).
We got back to Cork that night to find that the outskirts of the city were still flooded from the rain the day before. (Remember, Cork is built on marshland...sort of like my house in Indiana. Gotta love continuity in life.) While sensible people were staying inside to avoid the elements, we were off on what the Irish would undoubtedly call a grand adventure. Marie Antoinette seriously didn't know what she was missing out on.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
A Few Fun Facts from the First Two Weeks
This post is going to be the equivalent of the second Pirates of the Caribbean movie: random, not cohesive, and basically just filler to pave the way for the next installment, where stuff starts to really happen (aka weekend roadtrip to the Ring of Kerry and...drumroll...the Dingle Peninsula. Stay tuned.)
1. There's a Fitzgerald Park near the UCC campus that is apparently quite a well-known tourist attraction. It's right on the river with a lovely view of the nearby hillsides with their various church steeples and brightly-painted houses (buildings here come in all kinds of unexpected colors), and it's dotted with lots of random busts of presumably important people. It's quickly becoming a favorite between-classes picnic spot; I wish I could claim an actual family connection to it. But as it turns out...
2. Everywhere I go I see places called Fitzgerald. The Earls of Desmond, whom one of my professors mentioned in his lecture the other day, must've been very fond of procreating.
3. There is such a thing as raspberry wheat beer, and it is actually very tasty. It was the first drink I ordered and paid for myself--ever, actually.
4. It's brewed at a little pub/microbrewery called the Franciscan Well, which is located in what used to be an abbey. The entrance is inside a stone archway/tunnel that looks like it would've been a good place for unwary monks to get knifed, but other than that it's a charming little place.
5. Paying for things in cash, especially exact change, is weirdly fun here. 1- and 2-euro coins abound, and there's something classy about even the smaller change. Except I mysteriously keep running out of it; pity.
6. Something that isn't classy but is nevertheless appealing: chips. Which are actually fries. I had them for the first time yesterday, along with ketchup that tasted vaguely apple cider-y. They came in a giant portion wrapped up in paper (which I probably could've finished by myself, but only with grave consequences for my stomach). My experience in Ireland couldn't have been complete without this British/Irish staple. I also was offered a Jaffa Cake the other day, and had the pleasure of explaining the nature of a digestive biscuit to someone; certain redheaded friends will be proud.
7. Most of this week has revolved around getting my bearings, getting to know people, and going to class. Classes at UCC generally start 5 to 7 minutes late and end 5 to 10 minutes early, so I actually spend more time getting to and from campus (excellent exercise) than I do listening to any single lecture. But for the most part my courses are interesting, and at least once per lecture I find myself giggling over something a professor says that reminds me I'm in Ireland--like "Father Christmas robes" or "Cu Chulainn: c-u space c-HAYCH..." or "Oliver Cromwell, who was a horrible man" or "one more thing, and then I'll leave you go..."
And on that note, I will "leave you go" until my next (hopefully more action-packed) foray into blogland. Hope you're all having a grand day. :)
1. There's a Fitzgerald Park near the UCC campus that is apparently quite a well-known tourist attraction. It's right on the river with a lovely view of the nearby hillsides with their various church steeples and brightly-painted houses (buildings here come in all kinds of unexpected colors), and it's dotted with lots of random busts of presumably important people. It's quickly becoming a favorite between-classes picnic spot; I wish I could claim an actual family connection to it. But as it turns out...
2. Everywhere I go I see places called Fitzgerald. The Earls of Desmond, whom one of my professors mentioned in his lecture the other day, must've been very fond of procreating.
3. There is such a thing as raspberry wheat beer, and it is actually very tasty. It was the first drink I ordered and paid for myself--ever, actually.
4. It's brewed at a little pub/microbrewery called the Franciscan Well, which is located in what used to be an abbey. The entrance is inside a stone archway/tunnel that looks like it would've been a good place for unwary monks to get knifed, but other than that it's a charming little place.
5. Paying for things in cash, especially exact change, is weirdly fun here. 1- and 2-euro coins abound, and there's something classy about even the smaller change. Except I mysteriously keep running out of it; pity.
6. Something that isn't classy but is nevertheless appealing: chips. Which are actually fries. I had them for the first time yesterday, along with ketchup that tasted vaguely apple cider-y. They came in a giant portion wrapped up in paper (which I probably could've finished by myself, but only with grave consequences for my stomach). My experience in Ireland couldn't have been complete without this British/Irish staple. I also was offered a Jaffa Cake the other day, and had the pleasure of explaining the nature of a digestive biscuit to someone; certain redheaded friends will be proud.
7. Most of this week has revolved around getting my bearings, getting to know people, and going to class. Classes at UCC generally start 5 to 7 minutes late and end 5 to 10 minutes early, so I actually spend more time getting to and from campus (excellent exercise) than I do listening to any single lecture. But for the most part my courses are interesting, and at least once per lecture I find myself giggling over something a professor says that reminds me I'm in Ireland--like "Father Christmas robes" or "Cu Chulainn: c-u space c-HAYCH..." or "Oliver Cromwell, who was a horrible man" or "one more thing, and then I'll leave you go..."
And on that note, I will "leave you go" until my next (hopefully more action-packed) foray into blogland. Hope you're all having a grand day. :)
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Some miscellaneous observations
Thursday nights. As I mentioned before, every night except Saturday and Sunday is prime bar-hopping time in Cork. But on Thursdays are the peak, because most Irish students go home for the weekends, starting on Friday when most people don't have class. The usual Thursday routine for people over 18 (the drinking age) is to buy cheap(ish) alcohol from liquor stores and pregame before going out for real at around 10. (Though one of my professors noted, "I think vodka from Tesco [the local supermarket] is like paint thinner.") So this Thursday, my suitemate Jessie had her usual crew of about 5 people come over to our place for a few rounds of prepping, while my roommate Maegan had her group of 30 people come over to the same small kitchen/common area for what I can only describe as a shitshow. (I really did look for synonyms.) I counted more than 60 empty bottles the next morning (and we're not just talking beer bottles--we're talking several 1-liter bottles of Bulmer's, flasks of vodka, etc). I had nothing at all to drink and spent the next several hours bonding with the few sober people there while the mayhem progressed. We didn't actually leave the flat until 11:30, by which time the lines for all the good pubs were insanely long. We ended up at a frequent haunt of American students, where everyone got really excited when the DJ played "Sweet Home Alabama." Fire codes apparently don't exist in Ireland, because extreme crowdedness in pubs is the rule rather than the exception, and having people shove past you is par for the course. Speaking of par for the course, Irish girls dress in a style reminiscent of Rocky Horror Picture show, minus the tights. (Seriously. It's January and they don't wear tights.) The outfit I'd borrowed from Jessie made me look like Sister Mary Bridget in comparison.
Groceries. Despite the lack of chocolate chips and cocoa powder, shopping at Tesco is pretty much like any other grocery shopping I've done, except that it has to be done more often. Most people don't drive to and from the grocery store even if they have cars; they walk over every couple of days to pick up what they happen to need. And they bring their handy reusable plastic bags with them, or else they have to buy new ones to carry their purchases. Why don't we do this in the States? "Paper or plastic? K, that'll be two dollars." Brilliant. In any case, I'm getting very familiar with Tesco already. And yesterday we stopped by the English market, which has been around since 1788 and has a huge variety of stalls selling meat, fish, fruits and vegetables, breads, and desserts. I had a lot of very touristy geek-out moments looking at all the food.
Cooking. Because we don't have cake pans in our kitchens, the cake I helped Jessie make on Friday actually took the form of muffins (rather misshapen muffins which earned themselves several very mature nicknames). The main course supplied by her friend Ian the Belgian was much more professionally done.
TV. Given that Katherine is intent on seeing the Doctor Who Museum at some point, I guess it's a good thing that I was encouraged to watch a few episodes of it last night. I felt almost as culturally enriched as when I was forced to watch Father Ted. Actually, though, the other day one of my professors referred to "a post-Father Ted world" where religiousness is viewed askance, so perhaps this knowledge will come in handy after all.
Navigation. Now that I've nailed down my street names (which are posted--if they're posted at all--on the sides of buildings, not on street signs) it isn't that difficult to find my way around. The main part of the city is built between the two branching halves of the Lee River, so every other street is a quay (pronounced "key"). And every other building is a place of worship; Holy Trinity Church, right by my apartment, lets me know that I'm almost home, and Saint Finbarre's Cathedral is the halfway point on my route to campus. I think I already know my way around Cork better than I know my way around the Twin Cities. (It helps that Cork is significantly smaller, but let's not dwell on that.) Yesterday I went to an adorable used bookstore in search of books for my classes, and later I visited people at another apartment across town, and on neither venture did I get lost. Necessity is the mother of, you know, good results or whatnot.
Groceries. Despite the lack of chocolate chips and cocoa powder, shopping at Tesco is pretty much like any other grocery shopping I've done, except that it has to be done more often. Most people don't drive to and from the grocery store even if they have cars; they walk over every couple of days to pick up what they happen to need. And they bring their handy reusable plastic bags with them, or else they have to buy new ones to carry their purchases. Why don't we do this in the States? "Paper or plastic? K, that'll be two dollars." Brilliant. In any case, I'm getting very familiar with Tesco already. And yesterday we stopped by the English market, which has been around since 1788 and has a huge variety of stalls selling meat, fish, fruits and vegetables, breads, and desserts. I had a lot of very touristy geek-out moments looking at all the food.
Cooking. Because we don't have cake pans in our kitchens, the cake I helped Jessie make on Friday actually took the form of muffins (rather misshapen muffins which earned themselves several very mature nicknames). The main course supplied by her friend Ian the Belgian was much more professionally done.
TV. Given that Katherine is intent on seeing the Doctor Who Museum at some point, I guess it's a good thing that I was encouraged to watch a few episodes of it last night. I felt almost as culturally enriched as when I was forced to watch Father Ted. Actually, though, the other day one of my professors referred to "a post-Father Ted world" where religiousness is viewed askance, so perhaps this knowledge will come in handy after all.
Navigation. Now that I've nailed down my street names (which are posted--if they're posted at all--on the sides of buildings, not on street signs) it isn't that difficult to find my way around. The main part of the city is built between the two branching halves of the Lee River, so every other street is a quay (pronounced "key"). And every other building is a place of worship; Holy Trinity Church, right by my apartment, lets me know that I'm almost home, and Saint Finbarre's Cathedral is the halfway point on my route to campus. I think I already know my way around Cork better than I know my way around the Twin Cities. (It helps that Cork is significantly smaller, but let's not dwell on that.) Yesterday I went to an adorable used bookstore in search of books for my classes, and later I visited people at another apartment across town, and on neither venture did I get lost. Necessity is the mother of, you know, good results or whatnot.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
If I'd been organized enough to have a to-do list, it would've looked like this...
Go to orientation.
I tagged along with the giant gang from Boston College, which includes my roommate and several other people I'd met already; they'd been to campus the day before, thus I did not get lost. I really don't remember much from the actual orientation, aside from the fact that everyone pronounced schedule "shhedule" and said "em" instead of "um." (And by the way, I'm told people say "I'm going to college," not "I'm going to school," even if they're just on their way to classes for the day.) But the campus is beautiful....Someday, the pictures I've taken will be available as evidence.
Get cash.
Took care of that at the campus ATM, though on the first try I accidentally withdrew only 10 euros instead of 100. (See, folks, math really is an important life skill.) I then felt very empowered by my possession of cash, and acted on this feeling by buying some towels and cereal (you know, the essentials in life) as well as enthusiastically paying back everyone who'd covered my food expenses over the past couple days. I think I was happier about reimbursing them than they were about getting money.
Get groceries.
Wednesday morning, I woke up early, had some cereal (my first breakfast since I'd arrived) google mapped the route to the Tesco, and made it over there without a single mishap. All the landmarks I'd seen the day before on the way to and from campus (which, at the time, I thought I wasn't absorbing at all) suddenly were familiar and friendly. And just as I was approaching the vicinity of the shopping center, (which entailed going through a little alley-sized street where a guy was playing an accordion), a little boy walking in front of me with his mother exclaimed "Tesco!" so I knew for sure I was in the right place. I even remembered to bring along the required reusable plastic bag to hold my purchases. Of course I could only buy about four days' worth of food, given the size of the bag and the distance I had to walk, but that's normal in Europe, and anyway I'm terrible about buying in bulk because, news flash, I can't plan ahead. At least I'm now past that horrible one-meal-a-day streak I had going. (It's okay, Mom, it's over now...)
Go to classes.
Having returned successfully from my grocery trip, I then set out for campus, via a slightly different and supposedly quicker route that I hadn't taken before. Despite fully anticipating that this decision would end badly, I actually found the campus without any trouble. It was about a 20 minute walk; gone are the days of waking up ten minutes before class and dashing across Grand. But because I had prudently started early, I got there in plenty of time. I only took a wrong turn once, onto a street that seemed to have a suspicious number of empty boarded-up buildings and more graffiti than average (which is saying something), so I quickly doubled back to the fort (yes, my landmark was a 17th century fort--think about that) and got back on the right track. Once at UCC I even found my classes easily, including the one that was a ten-minute walk from the main campus. In fact I flatter myself that, to the untrained eye of a casual bystander, I looked as if I actually knew my way around and had my life totally together. Also, Anna, I saw what must've been the Irish equivalent of a UPS guy humming what sounded very much like the theme from the Peanuts Christmas special. It made me smile almost as much as the car that whizzed past me earlier with "Ridin' Solo" blaring. American music gets played everywhere and makes me feel quite warm and fuzzy.
Observe.
Of the three classes I had yesterday, two were taught by Englishmen. One of these Englishmen was thin and bald and middle-aged, and when he walked into the lecture hall he said, "I'm in the right place, am I? Medieval and Ren-AY-ssance Drama? Brilliant." Now I'd been getting the impression that classes at UCC were going to be chill to the point of inducing a coma, and I was reconciled to that, but this guy was super enthusiastic, and clearly knew his stuff--and as some of you know (cough, Jana), the combination of enthusiasm, knowledge, and baldness is hard for me to resist. At one point, when he was trying to illustrate some concept, he asked if anyone knew any good Christmas cracker jokes. This basically made my life. I wasn't planning on staying in that class originally, but now I happen to be much more excited about that one than the one right after it, taught by a younger and much cuter Englishman who nonetheless lacks a certain spark. (Though he did play us a snippet of a 1950s British radio show, commenting casually that on radio shows "people are constantly giving each other pictures of Queen Victoria to smoke...")
Try the bagel place on campus.
It was highly recommended, and rightly so. They were very generous with the cream cheese. I also got a smoothie, though it didn't hold a candle to Jamba Juice, which they don't have here. (They also don't have chocolate chips here. Or Reese's. Or cocoa powder. People are apparently too busy getting drunk to crave chocolate things. Speaking of getting drunk...)
Have a Bulmer's for Maren.
I went with my suitemate and her friends to a pub that plays traditional Irish music, which always makes me happy even when it's not being played in Ireland. I had just paid her back for a meal, so she promptly used the money I'd given her to buy me a drink. I managed to finish the bottle in two and a half hours, which I think is record speed for me. Maren, it was quite tasty. And it comes in multiple flavors, did you know?
See Cork/Meet Irish people.
This morning after class, I went to the computer lab to check my email but couldn't remember my password to use the UCC computers; the sheet I'd written it on was back in my room. So I thought, "Okay, I'll head back to the flat and take pictures as I go." I'd been meaning to do that anyway. I always feel a little awkward taking pictures in a blatantly sight-seeing way, perhaps because of a movie called "American Dreamer" where the main character gets mugged while trying to take a picture in Paris, with disastrous results. I didn't get mugged. Instead, when I was already almost back to the flat, I was taking a picture of a little monument, and suddenly an older gentleman came up to me and said, "Have you seen the cannon?" I said, "I haven't," and he proceeded to show me part of a cannon sticking up from the ground, leftover from back when the area we were in was all underwater and part of a canal. This gentleman, whose name was Pat, then spent the next hour and a half showing me around Cork and giving me a running commentary of historical background--which, alas, I retained only in fragments because he shared so much information. (Perkin Warbeck was barely a footnote, Maren.) He kept saying "You're not in any hurry?" and fortunately I wasn't, because it was fascinating. He showed me the English Market, which was exciting because now I'll know how to find it when I want to go there for fresh produce and bread. And he showed me the oldest part of the city, where the widest of the original medieval streets was about five feet across, and we went past the art gallery which used to be the customs house and got a bunch of replicas of famous sculptures from the British government (which didn't want them because they'd been gifts from the Pope), and we went into the Cork Museum which was inside one of the two oldest churches in Cork, and we saw the other oldest church too, and everywhere we went he'd explain what each particular street used to look like, whether it had been underwater or marshland originally, how old the buildings were and which ones had burnt down in various fires and which ones had been restored, and why the streets were named as they were (Cork's Washington Street, he said, was the first street ever named after George Washington, done as an act of defiance toward King George--"To give him the two fingers, as we say")...Anna and Katherine, Rick Steves would've adored this guy. I asked if he'd lived in Cork his whole life, and he said, "Since I was about six months old. And I'll be sixty-eight come Saint Patrick's Day." He said his grandfather used to take him around the city when he was a boy and show him everything; I'm sure that's where he first heard a lot of what he told me. "To me, Cork is like an older lady who used to be very beautiful and charming in her youth, and then as she got older, still has an elegance about her, but she's just got a bit shabby." I said that a lot of places are like that, to which he replied promptly "But especially Cork!" He's very, very fond of his city--I can't count the number of times he said "I love this place, you see"--and I can't believe my luck at having run into him. Just think--if I'd remembered my password for the UCC computers, I would've missed out on so much!
Experience Thursday night????
Young people go out drinking pretty much every single night here, but Thursdays are the biggest nights. Past highlights for study abroad students going out on these nights include having a toe pierced by an Irish girl's ill-placed stiletto, losing such trifles as passports and immigration cards, being traumatized for life by how little the Irish girls are wearing, and receiving various levels of sketchy attention (all the way from 3 to 9, I'd say, Becca and Anna) from Irish guys. I haven't decided yet if I'm ready to brave this insanity. But in any case I know I have a lot to look forward to. (Like revisiting the remains of one of the only two Huguenot cemeteries in Europe...Pat made sure I saw that too.)
I tagged along with the giant gang from Boston College, which includes my roommate and several other people I'd met already; they'd been to campus the day before, thus I did not get lost. I really don't remember much from the actual orientation, aside from the fact that everyone pronounced schedule "shhedule" and said "em" instead of "um." (And by the way, I'm told people say "I'm going to college," not "I'm going to school," even if they're just on their way to classes for the day.) But the campus is beautiful....Someday, the pictures I've taken will be available as evidence.
Get cash.
Took care of that at the campus ATM, though on the first try I accidentally withdrew only 10 euros instead of 100. (See, folks, math really is an important life skill.) I then felt very empowered by my possession of cash, and acted on this feeling by buying some towels and cereal (you know, the essentials in life) as well as enthusiastically paying back everyone who'd covered my food expenses over the past couple days. I think I was happier about reimbursing them than they were about getting money.
Get groceries.
Wednesday morning, I woke up early, had some cereal (my first breakfast since I'd arrived) google mapped the route to the Tesco, and made it over there without a single mishap. All the landmarks I'd seen the day before on the way to and from campus (which, at the time, I thought I wasn't absorbing at all) suddenly were familiar and friendly. And just as I was approaching the vicinity of the shopping center, (which entailed going through a little alley-sized street where a guy was playing an accordion), a little boy walking in front of me with his mother exclaimed "Tesco!" so I knew for sure I was in the right place. I even remembered to bring along the required reusable plastic bag to hold my purchases. Of course I could only buy about four days' worth of food, given the size of the bag and the distance I had to walk, but that's normal in Europe, and anyway I'm terrible about buying in bulk because, news flash, I can't plan ahead. At least I'm now past that horrible one-meal-a-day streak I had going. (It's okay, Mom, it's over now...)
Go to classes.
Having returned successfully from my grocery trip, I then set out for campus, via a slightly different and supposedly quicker route that I hadn't taken before. Despite fully anticipating that this decision would end badly, I actually found the campus without any trouble. It was about a 20 minute walk; gone are the days of waking up ten minutes before class and dashing across Grand. But because I had prudently started early, I got there in plenty of time. I only took a wrong turn once, onto a street that seemed to have a suspicious number of empty boarded-up buildings and more graffiti than average (which is saying something), so I quickly doubled back to the fort (yes, my landmark was a 17th century fort--think about that) and got back on the right track. Once at UCC I even found my classes easily, including the one that was a ten-minute walk from the main campus. In fact I flatter myself that, to the untrained eye of a casual bystander, I looked as if I actually knew my way around and had my life totally together. Also, Anna, I saw what must've been the Irish equivalent of a UPS guy humming what sounded very much like the theme from the Peanuts Christmas special. It made me smile almost as much as the car that whizzed past me earlier with "Ridin' Solo" blaring. American music gets played everywhere and makes me feel quite warm and fuzzy.
Observe.
Of the three classes I had yesterday, two were taught by Englishmen. One of these Englishmen was thin and bald and middle-aged, and when he walked into the lecture hall he said, "I'm in the right place, am I? Medieval and Ren-AY-ssance Drama? Brilliant." Now I'd been getting the impression that classes at UCC were going to be chill to the point of inducing a coma, and I was reconciled to that, but this guy was super enthusiastic, and clearly knew his stuff--and as some of you know (cough, Jana), the combination of enthusiasm, knowledge, and baldness is hard for me to resist. At one point, when he was trying to illustrate some concept, he asked if anyone knew any good Christmas cracker jokes. This basically made my life. I wasn't planning on staying in that class originally, but now I happen to be much more excited about that one than the one right after it, taught by a younger and much cuter Englishman who nonetheless lacks a certain spark. (Though he did play us a snippet of a 1950s British radio show, commenting casually that on radio shows "people are constantly giving each other pictures of Queen Victoria to smoke...")
Try the bagel place on campus.
It was highly recommended, and rightly so. They were very generous with the cream cheese. I also got a smoothie, though it didn't hold a candle to Jamba Juice, which they don't have here. (They also don't have chocolate chips here. Or Reese's. Or cocoa powder. People are apparently too busy getting drunk to crave chocolate things. Speaking of getting drunk...)
Have a Bulmer's for Maren.
I went with my suitemate and her friends to a pub that plays traditional Irish music, which always makes me happy even when it's not being played in Ireland. I had just paid her back for a meal, so she promptly used the money I'd given her to buy me a drink. I managed to finish the bottle in two and a half hours, which I think is record speed for me. Maren, it was quite tasty. And it comes in multiple flavors, did you know?
See Cork/Meet Irish people.
This morning after class, I went to the computer lab to check my email but couldn't remember my password to use the UCC computers; the sheet I'd written it on was back in my room. So I thought, "Okay, I'll head back to the flat and take pictures as I go." I'd been meaning to do that anyway. I always feel a little awkward taking pictures in a blatantly sight-seeing way, perhaps because of a movie called "American Dreamer" where the main character gets mugged while trying to take a picture in Paris, with disastrous results. I didn't get mugged. Instead, when I was already almost back to the flat, I was taking a picture of a little monument, and suddenly an older gentleman came up to me and said, "Have you seen the cannon?" I said, "I haven't," and he proceeded to show me part of a cannon sticking up from the ground, leftover from back when the area we were in was all underwater and part of a canal. This gentleman, whose name was Pat, then spent the next hour and a half showing me around Cork and giving me a running commentary of historical background--which, alas, I retained only in fragments because he shared so much information. (Perkin Warbeck was barely a footnote, Maren.) He kept saying "You're not in any hurry?" and fortunately I wasn't, because it was fascinating. He showed me the English Market, which was exciting because now I'll know how to find it when I want to go there for fresh produce and bread. And he showed me the oldest part of the city, where the widest of the original medieval streets was about five feet across, and we went past the art gallery which used to be the customs house and got a bunch of replicas of famous sculptures from the British government (which didn't want them because they'd been gifts from the Pope), and we went into the Cork Museum which was inside one of the two oldest churches in Cork, and we saw the other oldest church too, and everywhere we went he'd explain what each particular street used to look like, whether it had been underwater or marshland originally, how old the buildings were and which ones had burnt down in various fires and which ones had been restored, and why the streets were named as they were (Cork's Washington Street, he said, was the first street ever named after George Washington, done as an act of defiance toward King George--"To give him the two fingers, as we say")...Anna and Katherine, Rick Steves would've adored this guy. I asked if he'd lived in Cork his whole life, and he said, "Since I was about six months old. And I'll be sixty-eight come Saint Patrick's Day." He said his grandfather used to take him around the city when he was a boy and show him everything; I'm sure that's where he first heard a lot of what he told me. "To me, Cork is like an older lady who used to be very beautiful and charming in her youth, and then as she got older, still has an elegance about her, but she's just got a bit shabby." I said that a lot of places are like that, to which he replied promptly "But especially Cork!" He's very, very fond of his city--I can't count the number of times he said "I love this place, you see"--and I can't believe my luck at having run into him. Just think--if I'd remembered my password for the UCC computers, I would've missed out on so much!
Experience Thursday night????
Young people go out drinking pretty much every single night here, but Thursdays are the biggest nights. Past highlights for study abroad students going out on these nights include having a toe pierced by an Irish girl's ill-placed stiletto, losing such trifles as passports and immigration cards, being traumatized for life by how little the Irish girls are wearing, and receiving various levels of sketchy attention (all the way from 3 to 9, I'd say, Becca and Anna) from Irish guys. I haven't decided yet if I'm ready to brave this insanity. But in any case I know I have a lot to look forward to. (Like revisiting the remains of one of the only two Huguenot cemeteries in Europe...Pat made sure I saw that too.)
Monday, January 3, 2011
36 Hours and Counting
...is about how long I've been in Cork. And yes, it's taken me this long to break down and finally set up a blog. Now everyone who told me I should get one had damn well better read it. You know who you are.
I'll start off with what have already proved to be "frequently asked questions."
How was the flight?
It started off with me spending five minutes forcing my stubborn duffel bag into the "Your Bag Must Fit Here" frame. Followed by another two minutes getting it back out once I'd wedged it in to the airline staff's satisfaction. I think a carry-on should qualify as anything you can physically carry to the gate (K16 is a bit of a haul), but American Airlines disagrees. Anyway, once my duffel bag passed muster, I got through security quickly (the guy ahead of me laughed when he saw me taking off my shoes ahead of time, but it pays to be ready to go), toted the aforesaid duffel to the aforesaid distant gate, and boarded my flight (sneaking past the second "Your Bag Must Fit..." station rather stealthily) with my pristine passport in hand. (I'd forgotten to sign the inside of it, but other than that everything was in good order.)
Okay, but really, how was the flight?
There were movies!! Need I say more?
Probably not, but if you want to...
This was my first international flight, and my first flight that was more than a couple of hours long. Those screens on the back of the seats rocked my world. After I'd looked at our flight path to my heart's content, I decided to watch "Never Let Me Go" out of nostalgia for my FYC (and even if we hadn't all bonded over that book, I might still have watched the movie for the Andrew Garfield factor). It's a bit awkward to be watching a really emotionally intense movie when the girl sitting next to you (Crystal, from Bradley University) is reading Cosmo. It's also awkward to be giggling hysterically at "Sherlock" after everyone else has gone to sleep (helpfully cued by the dimming of the overhead lights), but if anything was going to get me excited about crossing the Atlantic (other than Andrew Garfield) it would be "Sherlock."
Jesus, Amy, you haven't even gotten to the London layover yet. How long is this post going to be?
I don't know, but it can't be as long as my trek through Heathrow after Flight #1 landed. The bus ride between terminals was 7 minutes long, but it was more like a haunted construction site tour than just any old bus ride.
You usually make a few blunders when traveling. Care to share any?
Well, the flight attendants had deceived me by saying I didn't have to fill out an immigration card. I did. Also, when I was asked if I had any liquids other than the small ones in their ziplocked bag, I said no--forgetting that I still had a water bottle from the flight in my coat pocket. The guy who hand-checked that coat kindly let me drink the water and chatted with me as I did so. (Him: "Going someplace nice?" Me, in my chipper voice: "I hope so!") I also dropped just about each item I was carrying at least once (passport, scarf, jacket, other jacket, coat, etc), but there always happened to be some nice person walking behind me who made sure I didn't lose anything.
So then you had another flight, right?
Yes, but this time I was in line for check-in with several other girls going to Cork for study abroad, so we waited out the rest of our layover together. This was when I realized that everyone else already had euros, mostly leftover from previous trips abroad, and that some people even had working phones (mine was still in my pocket just for the placebo effect, but the poor thing couldn't even figure out the time anymore). But despite being jealous of these conveniences, I had a lovely 2-ish hour chat with these girls before we got on the plane, where I heard my first Irish accents of the day.
So what happened when the plane landed?
Don't rush me! I want to talk about how beautiful the view was just before we landed! I seriously don't know how it can be so green. And so many shades of green. Also, we got a glimpse of what I think may have been the Cliffs of Moher--which is probably pointless to mention because I can't describe them except to say they're gorgeous. Watch "The Princess Bride"; they're the Cliffs of Insanity. Only they're prettier in real life.
Okay, can you move it along? What did you do when you got off the plane?
We stood in line one last time to prove we belonged there. (My UCC acceptance letter, which had started out in such great shape, was severely crinkled by then, but that was all right because I have "a fine Irish name" according to the guy who stamped my passport.) Then the four of us split a taxi to our various flats--and by "split" I mean one of the girls with actual euros covered my share, because I'd been so busy following them that I hadn't gone to the ATM. The driver told us how the street where two of us would be staying had once been a cow field where he played as a child. When we arrived, it didn't resemble a cow field, but the building where I was living did happen to be locked. I waited at the house across the street until someone showed up to let me in and then...
Then you moved in?
Yup. I have a roommate named Maegan, and a very nice room, and a heater that we finally got to work after several hours of freezing while we unpacked/napped, and a bathroom with appliances that make all sorts of interesting sounds when in use. There are also two girls living in the same suite, in singles; one, whom I haven't met yet, is a Spanish girl studying here for the year, and the other is an American girl who's also studying here for a full year--aka Jessie, Maegan's and my guide to all things Cork.
So how did you spend your first night in Cork?
With Jessie as our chaperon and tour guide, Maegan and I picked up some toiletry essentials and Irish phones (which I later discovered I could've gotten for much cheaper at a different place, but, to quote The King's Speech, "I had to throw in a few [mistakes] so they'd know it was really me"). Then we went to dinner at a nearby pub, where I had what I think must have been my first full glass of beer (Carlsberg) which was actually very good, and some pizza. (The pepperoni pizza also had random pieces of potato on it--quite tasty, and of course quite Irish.)
And what did you do today?
Slept until one, did not get cash as planned because it was a bank holiday, attempted to go grocery shopping and of course failed because my sense of direction never serves me well on a first try, but did a bit of pleasant wandering around Cork (I'm pretty sure I never went beyond like a four-block radius, but I can't prove that because I didn't know where I was, so just imagine I explored the whole city). 'Twas a lovely walk, and I didn't die crossing the street, despite the fact that pedestrians don't wait for traffic signals, so you're either a silly foreigner who waits for traffic signals or a silly foreigner who just got run over after misjudging the traffic flow. The few pictures I've taken so far will be posted when I figure out how to get them off my camera without the connecty-cable-thing, which of course I couldn't find to pack when I was getting ready to leave home. (Sidenote: I was the one who figured out how to insert the SIM card into Maegan's and my phones. Me understanding technology intuitively: talk about a once-in-a-lifetime moment.)
So now what?
Now, I've eaten dinner courtesy of my generous suite-mate Jessie (given that I hadn't actually made it to the grocery store and thus had no food of my own to eat all day) and I've written this epically long blog post. I wish I could say they won't be this long in the future, but knowing how rambly I can get, that's unlikely. I do think they'll be more exciting, though. After all, now that I'm here, "The game" (as my newly-discovered, hip-and-happenin'-ed-up Mr. Holmes would say) "is on."
I'll start off with what have already proved to be "frequently asked questions."
How was the flight?
It started off with me spending five minutes forcing my stubborn duffel bag into the "Your Bag Must Fit Here" frame. Followed by another two minutes getting it back out once I'd wedged it in to the airline staff's satisfaction. I think a carry-on should qualify as anything you can physically carry to the gate (K16 is a bit of a haul), but American Airlines disagrees. Anyway, once my duffel bag passed muster, I got through security quickly (the guy ahead of me laughed when he saw me taking off my shoes ahead of time, but it pays to be ready to go), toted the aforesaid duffel to the aforesaid distant gate, and boarded my flight (sneaking past the second "Your Bag Must Fit..." station rather stealthily) with my pristine passport in hand. (I'd forgotten to sign the inside of it, but other than that everything was in good order.)
Okay, but really, how was the flight?
There were movies!! Need I say more?
Probably not, but if you want to...
This was my first international flight, and my first flight that was more than a couple of hours long. Those screens on the back of the seats rocked my world. After I'd looked at our flight path to my heart's content, I decided to watch "Never Let Me Go" out of nostalgia for my FYC (and even if we hadn't all bonded over that book, I might still have watched the movie for the Andrew Garfield factor). It's a bit awkward to be watching a really emotionally intense movie when the girl sitting next to you (Crystal, from Bradley University) is reading Cosmo. It's also awkward to be giggling hysterically at "Sherlock" after everyone else has gone to sleep (helpfully cued by the dimming of the overhead lights), but if anything was going to get me excited about crossing the Atlantic (other than Andrew Garfield) it would be "Sherlock."
Jesus, Amy, you haven't even gotten to the London layover yet. How long is this post going to be?
I don't know, but it can't be as long as my trek through Heathrow after Flight #1 landed. The bus ride between terminals was 7 minutes long, but it was more like a haunted construction site tour than just any old bus ride.
You usually make a few blunders when traveling. Care to share any?
Well, the flight attendants had deceived me by saying I didn't have to fill out an immigration card. I did. Also, when I was asked if I had any liquids other than the small ones in their ziplocked bag, I said no--forgetting that I still had a water bottle from the flight in my coat pocket. The guy who hand-checked that coat kindly let me drink the water and chatted with me as I did so. (Him: "Going someplace nice?" Me, in my chipper voice: "I hope so!") I also dropped just about each item I was carrying at least once (passport, scarf, jacket, other jacket, coat, etc), but there always happened to be some nice person walking behind me who made sure I didn't lose anything.
So then you had another flight, right?
Yes, but this time I was in line for check-in with several other girls going to Cork for study abroad, so we waited out the rest of our layover together. This was when I realized that everyone else already had euros, mostly leftover from previous trips abroad, and that some people even had working phones (mine was still in my pocket just for the placebo effect, but the poor thing couldn't even figure out the time anymore). But despite being jealous of these conveniences, I had a lovely 2-ish hour chat with these girls before we got on the plane, where I heard my first Irish accents of the day.
So what happened when the plane landed?
Don't rush me! I want to talk about how beautiful the view was just before we landed! I seriously don't know how it can be so green. And so many shades of green. Also, we got a glimpse of what I think may have been the Cliffs of Moher--which is probably pointless to mention because I can't describe them except to say they're gorgeous. Watch "The Princess Bride"; they're the Cliffs of Insanity. Only they're prettier in real life.
Okay, can you move it along? What did you do when you got off the plane?
We stood in line one last time to prove we belonged there. (My UCC acceptance letter, which had started out in such great shape, was severely crinkled by then, but that was all right because I have "a fine Irish name" according to the guy who stamped my passport.) Then the four of us split a taxi to our various flats--and by "split" I mean one of the girls with actual euros covered my share, because I'd been so busy following them that I hadn't gone to the ATM. The driver told us how the street where two of us would be staying had once been a cow field where he played as a child. When we arrived, it didn't resemble a cow field, but the building where I was living did happen to be locked. I waited at the house across the street until someone showed up to let me in and then...
Then you moved in?
Yup. I have a roommate named Maegan, and a very nice room, and a heater that we finally got to work after several hours of freezing while we unpacked/napped, and a bathroom with appliances that make all sorts of interesting sounds when in use. There are also two girls living in the same suite, in singles; one, whom I haven't met yet, is a Spanish girl studying here for the year, and the other is an American girl who's also studying here for a full year--aka Jessie, Maegan's and my guide to all things Cork.
So how did you spend your first night in Cork?
With Jessie as our chaperon and tour guide, Maegan and I picked up some toiletry essentials and Irish phones (which I later discovered I could've gotten for much cheaper at a different place, but, to quote The King's Speech, "I had to throw in a few [mistakes] so they'd know it was really me"). Then we went to dinner at a nearby pub, where I had what I think must have been my first full glass of beer (Carlsberg) which was actually very good, and some pizza. (The pepperoni pizza also had random pieces of potato on it--quite tasty, and of course quite Irish.)
And what did you do today?
Slept until one, did not get cash as planned because it was a bank holiday, attempted to go grocery shopping and of course failed because my sense of direction never serves me well on a first try, but did a bit of pleasant wandering around Cork (I'm pretty sure I never went beyond like a four-block radius, but I can't prove that because I didn't know where I was, so just imagine I explored the whole city). 'Twas a lovely walk, and I didn't die crossing the street, despite the fact that pedestrians don't wait for traffic signals, so you're either a silly foreigner who waits for traffic signals or a silly foreigner who just got run over after misjudging the traffic flow. The few pictures I've taken so far will be posted when I figure out how to get them off my camera without the connecty-cable-thing, which of course I couldn't find to pack when I was getting ready to leave home. (Sidenote: I was the one who figured out how to insert the SIM card into Maegan's and my phones. Me understanding technology intuitively: talk about a once-in-a-lifetime moment.)
So now what?
Now, I've eaten dinner courtesy of my generous suite-mate Jessie (given that I hadn't actually made it to the grocery store and thus had no food of my own to eat all day) and I've written this epically long blog post. I wish I could say they won't be this long in the future, but knowing how rambly I can get, that's unlikely. I do think they'll be more exciting, though. After all, now that I'm here, "The game" (as my newly-discovered, hip-and-happenin'-ed-up Mr. Holmes would say) "is on."
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