Dun Dun Dun...Dublin! The finale

Monday was a sight-seeing day. Not that the other days didn't involve seeing sights. But Monday was sunny and peaceful and leisurely; we didn't have any grand time-consuming items on the agenda and didn't need to be on time for anything except the bus home. (Heh. We'll get to that.) We were able to just walk and look and absorb. Things we saw included...

O'Connell Street. It's Dublin's main street, and on either side, everywhere you look, you see beautiful buildings. Buildings that now house offices or shops or McDonald's knockoffs. There's nothing significant about them; they're just old and pretty, and the very fact that they count as ordinary amazes me. At the same time, there were plenty of significant things to see--mainly statues of famous people. Ireland has a lot of famous people. Famous revolutionaries, famous statesmen, famous martyrs (actually, we could make this a Venn Diagram with martyrs in the middle)...and most of them can rest peacefully in their graves knowing that 26/32 (you can't reduce that very effectively, can you?) of Ireland is independent now and they have statues in their honor in Dublin. 

The Custom House. This is a massive, beautiful building that the IRA actually burned down in 1921 during the Civil War (oops, there go hundreds of years of historical records...oops, looks like a lot of our men are getting captured in the mayhem...we'll call that a victory...). It was rebuilt a few years later with not-quite-matching Irish limestone and has aged quite well.

Famine Ship. While we were by the Custom House, I glimpsed sails in the distance and went "Ooo! Ship!" Emilie thought at first that I was saying "Sheep," but we soon straightened it out. We didn't get much closer to it, but I realized later that it was a replica of the Jeanie Johnston, a merchant ship that transported Irish emigrants to Canada and the U.S. during the Potato Famine. Remarkably, there were never any casualties aboard this vessel. Usually "famine ships" had horrible conditions, but the captain of the Jeanie Johnston was careful not to avoid overcrowding and keep a doctor aboard. Yay! An Ireland anecdote that doesn't involve death!

The Garden of Remembrance. This one does involve death. This lovely little park is a memorial to "all those who gave their lives in the cause of Irish freedom." I know I sometimes sound a bit flippant when I mention the rebellions and unrest that played such a huge role in Ireland's history--and I must say I'm not a fan of the high-minded talk of noble blood sacrifice that was used to pump up nationalist sentiment over the years. (I'm looking at YOU, Yeats.) I prefer the philosophy of Daniel O'Connell (the statesman for whom O'Connell Street is named), who famously said, "The altar of liberty totters when it is cemented only with blood." But that doesn't mean I don't respect the efforts and ideals of a lot of the people who worked toward Irish freedom. Americans got their independence on the first try; if our "founding fathers" had failed, I don't know if the next generation would've had the tenacity to give it another go--let alone the next and the next, over and over in the face of repeated defeat. The Irish struggle is very powerful and moving in that it spanned so many years and consumed so many lives. Anyway, the memorial is really beautiful. There's a cross-shaped pool with a green-and-blue-stripe-y design on the bottom that looks lovely in the sunlight, and there's a big statue with a big backstory. It's based on this Irish legend, the Children of Lir. Lir has a daughter and three sons, and his wife dies, so he marries her sister, who in classic evil-stepmother fashion decides she doesn't like the kids and proceeds to turn them into swans. So they spent 300 years as swans, until either the tolling of a church bell or the blessing of a priest returns them to human form. (And then they die. But it's peaceful and they go to heaven and whatnot.) So the statue is of four human figures (a woman and three men) and four swans rising above them, but also intertwined with them. And the human figures are bowed down and look like they're struggling to rise, and their posture mimics that of the swans, which are flying straight up into the air. I didn't realize at the time that the statue was based off the story, so all I saw were these prostrate but clearly striving humans mirroring these birds who were flying away. And really, that was all I needed to see to get the meaning. Trust me, it was really moving in person. (Sidenote: this is why I generally don't like art that's overly abstract. I don't tear up looking at a triangle. I just don't.)

So after I composed myself and we sat for awhile just enjoying the weather and the beauty of the park, we went to meet Katherine and her mates at another park--Merrion Square, which used to be a private park for the owners of the nearby Georgian houses (like Number 29) right up until the 1970s. Fortunately, today it's open to the public, and it's quite pleasant and pretty, and Oscar Wilde presides in statue form over one corner of it. I'd assumed it would be fairly easy to get a photo-op with him, but it turns out that he's sitting on top of a massive rock that his fans have to scale in order to claim a seat beside him. I only got part of the way up with my traction-less shoes, but Katherine, the true Wilde fan, managed to get cozy with him. We were also accosted by an excitable little dog named Banksy. ("Like the artists?!" Katherine practically squealed. Affirmative.)

On our way to get food, I stopped to peer into the Huguenot Burial Ground (the only one in Ireland other than the tiny one in Cork, I believe). I don't know what I'll do when I get back to the U.S. and find myself no longer surrounded by old graveyards at every turn. It's become a sort of scavenger hunt here.

At lunch, we made sure Katherine tried Irish stew and soda bread to complete her Ireland experience. (I myself have only had a few bites of Irish stew. It's tasty if one doesn't dwell on the baby "ships"...)

Then it was time to part ways. Claudia and Emilie and I had to go back to the hostel to retrieve our stuff, then head to the bus station in time to catch the 4:00 bus. At this point Emilie's leg, still recovering from a recent handball injury, started to pain her. By the time we'd collected our bags and gotten halfway to the station, it was 3:42 and we realized we weren't going to make it. Rather than wait for the 6:00 bus, which would've gotten us home at around 10:30, we sprang for a cab. The driver asked if we'd gotten any Valentine's Day candy, and we had to tell him no. (Though Claudia had bought us some beautiful flowers. There were flower sellers set up along all the major streets, which made for quite a festive sight.) When he dropped us off, we owed him six euros and of course we didn't have exact change--only a five-euro bill and a two-euro coin. Since he couldn't reimburse us for the extra euro, he just gave the coin back and told us to buy some chocolate with it. With our day thus made, we got to the bus just in time.

And THAT is the end of the Dublin saga. Thanks for bearing with me. Pictures will be on Facebook soon, and if I survive my sojourn to London, you can expect several long-winded posts about that experience next week. 

Grace Gifford's Ring and Rugby: Dublin, Part Three of Four

On Sunday, we caught the bus to the Kilmainham Gaol, the famous Dublin jail. (For those who find this stuff interesting--coughDavidcough--bus fare here depends on how long you're riding, instead of being a flat fee.) The jail was another of those deceptively pretty-on-the-outside buildings with a tragic story for every square inch of the inside. When it was originally built in the 1790s, it was meant to reform its inmates--as opposed to other jails of the time, which were like garbage dumps for people; anyone who was bothersome just got dumped in and forgotten, as space filled up and the smell got worse. Anyway, Kilmainham in its early years wasn't really much better (still overcrowded, still unsanitary, with the bonus of being freeeeezing in the winter because there were more windows to let in "fresh air") but eventually new wings were added and conditions improved somewhat--just in time for a bunch of famine victims to deliberately commit crimes so they'd be thrown in jail and get fed. But the most compelling stories came from the 1916-23 period. I could go on for hours about the people and events of that era, but I'll settle for just one anecdote--which, thanks to Maren, I was familiar with before my visit.


So this guy named Joseph Plunkett was heavily involved in planning the 1916 Easter Rising, which was supposed to be a widespread rebellion against the English and ended up being kind of like that group project where you're the only one who shows up to work on it because everyone else just decided to sleep in. E.g., it didn't go so well. The folks in Dublin briefly took over the post office (and to me, this didn't seem that impressive until I saw the post office--it's actually an enormous, very imposing building) but had to surrender a few days later. So all the leaders were arrested, including Joe Plunkett, who was engaged to an artist/political cartoonist/fellow revolutionary named Grace Gifford. (Their wedding date had been set for Easter, but obviously Joe had had a schedule conflict.) Anyway, at the jail, we saw the cell where he was held, as well as the chapel where he and Grace were married a few hours before Joe's execution, and the cell where Grace herself was held a few years later during the Civil War. (She was arrested without charge or trial because she spoke against the treaty with Britain that split Ireland into its current north/south condition.) In the museum attached to the jail, Grace's wedding ring (which she went out and bought after she learned that Joe had been sentenced to death) was supposedly on display somewhere, but we weren't able to find it. I could've wandered around that museum for a week at least, but we couldn't stay that long because Emilie had her heart set on seeing the Ireland/France rugby game that afternoon, and we still had to tour the Guinness Storehouse between now and then.


The Guinness Storehouse is one of those places you have to have a really good excuse not to visit if you go to Dublin, sort of like the Eiffel Tower if you go to Paris. The prospect didn't set my heart on fire, but I was really hoping that, against all expectations, I would find myself enthralled by the history and process of beer-making. Not so much. Still, it was entertaining to see the passion (or over-the-top marketing) behind the exhibits (seven stories of them!)...lots of "Here at Guinness, we really believe in what we do. This is a calling. Every pint we brew contains a little bit of our souls...OH MY GOD, ISN'T THIS THE MOST AMAZING BARLEY YOU'VE EVER TASTED? TRY SOME!" Yes, there were samples of barley. Along with samples of Guinness Draught, which turned out to be the only alcohol I consumed there; by the time we reached the top level, where we could redeem our tickets for free pints, it was almost time for the much-anticipated rugby game and we didn't have time to drink a whole Guinness. So we got soft drinks instead and admired the panoramic view of the city (along with the epic five-minute-long Guinness commercials playing on the TV screens...I swear, one was an only slightly condensed version of the Odyssey, but with Guinness as the hero). The thing that really struck me as I looked out at Dublin was that, after a point, it just stops. And beyond that, you can see untouched hills, instead of a gradual anticlimax of suburbs. It's the biggest city in Ireland, and yet it still hasn't completely taken over the landscape. The horizon is still green.


And we interrupt this philosophical musing to bring you a rugby match. We'd figured that the pub scene that afternoon was going to be crazy, what with all the French people crowding in with the Irish people to watch the game. Emilie aspired to be one of those French people risking the wrath of Irish rugby fans, so we rushed out of the storehouse and ducked into the first pub we saw. Which turned out to be dead silent and occupied by about seven people, all of them Irish and over 50. The match was on the TVs, but the rowdiness we'd counted on was nowhere to be found. It was too late to back out gracefully, so we ordered tea and sat through the first half of the match. (The owner was nice enough to bring us some biscuits to go with our drinks, so that made it a worthwhile stop.) As soon as halftime rolled around, we moved on to a more crowded and lively pub. To Emilie and Erell's disappointment, there didn't seem to be any French people here either, but they didn't let that dampen their enthusiasm. I returned from the bathroom to find that they had hung a French flag over our table, which made for a good conversation starter with the guy at the next table over. It must've been a good-luck charm too, because France squeaked out a victory, and we didn't even get attacked by the disappointed Irish fans.


Immediately after the match ended, I spotted Katherine and co. walking past the pub and ran out to catch them. (They'd spent the last three or four hours at the Jameson Factory. Enough said?) So we all teamed up again and walked back to the city center for dinner, with Claudia sporting the French flag as a cloak. On the way we stopped along O'Connell Street to get a look at the post office (where the bullet holes from the 1916 Rising are still visible in the pillars) and, at the opposite end of the significance spectrum, the Millennium Spire, which is just a giant needle pointing skyward that means pretty much nothing--the Irish equivalent of the Bean in Chicago. After dinner, when looking for a good pub, we followed the advice of a friendly Irishman and ended up finding two nice places--one where we behaved like the unabashed Yanks we were by dancing to the music (something Irish people don't generally do), and another where we got to hear a trad session (traditional Irish music) and where Katherine was propositioned by one of the musicians. Oh, and this whole time, Claudia still had the French flag draped around her shoulders.


Before I wrap up, I should just mention that the London contingent was very impressed by the openness and warmth of the Irish people we encountered. That's something I appreciate too. From the guy sitting by us during the rugby match, who graciously congratulated Emilie on France's victory, to the guy who offered us pub suggestions ("What kind of scene are you after?"...and when we thanked him, "Ah, don't be daft!") to the lady who checked us in at the hostel the first day (before the Portuguese/Italian/mystery people took over), who was clearly overwhelmed by her hectic day but still managed to be personable, everyone had been more than pleasant to us. One of many things that makes Ireland special.


Whew. Three days down, one to go. Writing about it is almost more exhausting than the experience itself! (I hope reading about it isn't as much of a challenge. I know I ramble, but you were all forewarned....) At this rate I should finish up the Dublin recap just in time to head to London next weekend!

A Dose of Dublin, Part Two of Four

First, some sidenotes: There's a huge general election coming up in Ireland in the next couple weeks--one of my professors, who's in her sixties, said she expected this to be the most important and interesting election of her lifetime--so Dublin was completely plastered with campaign posters. I counted at least five different parties, some of them embellished with amusing graffiti. Also, Dublin was hosting a very important Ireland v. France rugby match on Sunday, so tons of people--specifically tons of French people--had poured into the city to see it. We had breakfast at the hostel with a group of middle-aged French guys who, according to Emilie, made immature jokes the whole time. And everywhere we went, we kept hearing people speaking French. ALSO, to our amazement, the weather for the next three days was unusually sunny and spring-y (if we don't factor temperature into calculations of spring-y-ness). I kept wanting to take pictures of the sky to prove it could be that clear here.

I think that sets the scene properly. Moving on...

Our first stop on Day 2 was the National Gallery, where three or four centuries of Irish (and English--shhh) art were available for our (free!!) viewing pleasure. I'm not much of an art connoisseur, but I really enjoyed wandering through the chronologically organized rooms. First there were portraits and landscapes, which I found inexplicably fascinating--mainly because the really good ones are lifelike enough for me to imagine what it would've been like to see these people in the flesh or see these places in person. We're always saying how photographs can't do justice to real life, and neither can paintings, of course, but I'm constantly amazed by how much they do manage to capture--and to think that someone started with a blank canvas and managed to create an image that looks real, a guy that looks like he could sneeze at any second, or water that literally seems to be reflecting its surroundings--is just incredible to me. Of course I got a little more leery as we progressed into the more avant-garde eras. I like realism. I don't find it boring. I'm not crazy about random shapes. But I couldn't help liking Yeats (Jack Yeats, brother of William Butler "I can't actually write dialogue for normal people so I'll have Lady Gregory write it for me and take the credit" Yeats)...his paintings managed to evoke moods and emotions even though they got more and more abstract as he got older. Plus the colors were just pretty.

Next we moved on the history/archeology branch of the National Museum (also free!). Highlights included...

--a 5000-year-old gold jewelry that any celebrity would kill for (imagine the red carpet interview: "And where'd you get the jewelry?" "Oh, just an ancient Celtic hoard, you know, it was buried in the third century BC to keep it safe. And the dress is Victor & Rolf.")

--items that had been preserved in bogs for hundreds and even thousands of years, including clothing and tools from medieval times all the way up through the 1800s, the frothy remnants of butter (which people used to store in bogs to keep it from going bad), and  human corpses from the Iron Age in various degrees of completeness (one upper body, including displeased face and fancy hairdo; one lower body with very buff arms, etc)

--objects from the everyday lives of medieval Irish nobles (with the Fitzgeralds and Butlers making yet another cameo)

--and much, much more! (Just ask Rick Steves)

After a quick lunch break, we checked out St Stephen's Green, which happened to be right by our hostel. 'Twas lovely, and--thanks to the unusually mild weather--packed with adorable children, snogging couples, and swans. Oh, and statues. Lots of statues of republican martyrs.

Me: Ah, Robert Emmet. (takes out camera) 

Emilie: Who's he?

Me: I have no idea. I'll google him when we get home. (snaps picture)

Robert Emmet, by the way, was quite a fascinating fellow. Tried to start a rebellion in 1803 with two of his friends. Guess how that turned out.

My favorite part of the day was our stop at the Georgian House at Number 29 Fitzwilliam Street--my personal addition to our itinerary.

Erell: What's special about this house?

Me: (with look of despair) It's just...old...

It was built in 1794, as a matter of fact, as part of a new wave of upper-middle-class houses sprouting up on what were then the outskirts of the city (not that far from the poorest section of Dublin, ironically). For just two euros, we were treated to an entertaining video about the house's background and its broader historical context (narrated by the ghost of Olivia Beatty, the original owner) plus a tour of the house that gave us a step-by-step overview of what it was like to live there in the late 18th century. Claudia was deeply opposed to time travel by the end; once she found out that women slept sitting up in bed to avoid tussling their hair, which they washed once or twice every six weeks in the hope of attracting a husband so that they wouldn't have to become governesses and spend the rest of their lives sewing and teaching rich children grammar...it was understandably a turnoff. But SO INTERESTING. (I was relieved that the others thought so too, or I would've felt guilty about dragging them along on such a nerdy quest.)

On the way home we stopped long enough to take a token picture of the Oscar Wilde House, which is basically a house with an "Oscar Wilde was here" plaque. Then we reunited with Katherine and her roomies for dinner, but of course it had slipped our minds that A) It's Dublin, B) There were a ton of people in town for the rugby match, and C) It's Dublin....e.g., we should've made reservations. After a few no-goes, we managed to get into a restaurant, and then we decided to venture to Temple Bar, hub of Dublin nightlife and a prime example of why no one ever got an Irish temperance movement off the ground. See the aforementioned conditions for an explanation of why we only stayed there long enough to take a picture and get beer spilled on us. 

So we got home at a reasonable hour, which was a good thing, because we had a full agenda for the next day....

Discovering Dublin, Part One of Four

Last weekend, the search for bloggable material--er, that is, meaningful life experiences--led me to Dublin. I'll be writing about it piecemeal, due to lack of patience and a possible word-count ceiling for the length of a blog post. And I'll be arbitrarily highlighting things in green to make the chunks of text more festive.


The plan: wake up at 6:45, catch the bus at 8, meet up with latka-buddy/fellow Muppet fan/honorary King's College-er Katherine Steir, and have fun. Some of these goals met with better success than others, but the last was definitely accomplished in full.


At 7:08, my vibrating phone brought me Claudia's text: "I'm up!" I wasn't. Nor had I finished packing, reclaimed the load of laundry I'd left in the washing machine the previous nigh,t or made myself the sandwiches I planned on taking along for the 4.5 hour bus ride. Twenty-seven minutes later I had stuffed my backpack with everything I could remember needing, thawed and cream-cheesed a bagel, chugged a glass of orange juice and abandoned my laundry to a weekend of collecting mildew. For the first time in about eight years, I wore my glasses in public, since I didn't have time to change into contacts and anticipated sleeping on the bus anyway. At 7:48 I called Claudia to tell her I was at the bus station...to which she replied "I'm on my way"...which of course meant she hadn't left her apartment yet. Fortunately both she and Emilie made it there in time. I then proceeded to stare out the window of the bus, doze fitfully, and attempt to text Katherine. This last endeavor was hindered by the fact that the phone number she'd given me had 11 digits in it and no country code. I seemed to remember that the UK's country code was 044, but various attempts still weren't getting me anywhere. Even though we'd all booked the same hostel, I was starting to worry that I wouldn't be able to contact her. Almost equally distressing was the realization that, as usual, my packing hadn't been quite as thorough as I'd hoped. I always forget to pack something whenever I go anywhere; this time it was my toothbrush and toothpaste. On the other hand, the Irish countryside is gorgeous (as viewers of Leap Year always tell me with great authority). There's so much undeveloped land (even a terrible economy has its advantages?) and most of the towns are so small that they seem to nestle naturally into the landscape without disrupting the natural beauty.


When we got to Dublin, we met up with Emilie's friend Erell, a native of Brittany like Emilie who's been working in Ireland as an au pair. Then we set off in search of our hostel, trying not to mind that the weather was, well, Irish. Along the way we passed an archway with "Dublin Castle" printed on it, so we walked through and beheld the most anticlimactic castle in this hemisphere. I kept saying, "Are we sure this is THE Dublin Castle? Maybe it's just called Dublin Castle," you know, the way there's a place called Paris in Idaho. We took a picture just in case and then moved on. (Later we established that it was indeed THE Dublin Castle. Good thing we took the token picture, because we never went back for the "fairly boring tour" mentioned in my Rick Steves guidebook.)


Eventually we found the hostel. I took the opportunity to put in my contacts, thinking this would solve the weird depth-perception issues my glasses were giving me. Instead it just gave me different depth-perception issues, since my eyes had just started to get acclimated to wearing glasses. Besides that, I happen to be just generally hopeless at life, so I got lost on the way from my room back to the main lobby. A cute guy walking past saw my confusion and pointed me in the right direction, and as I was thanking him and heading the way he pointed, I immediately tripped over another cute guy, whose leg was the victim of the aforementioned depth-perception issues. Awkwardness quota for the day = met.


After dropping off our stuff at the hostel, we went to meet Claudia's friend Vanessa at Trinity College, where she's studying for the year. Trinity is pretty, though not as pretty as UCC in my opinion. On the other hand, UCC doesn't have the Book of Kells, a famous illuminated manuscript containing Latin copies of the New Testament and illustrations that some poor 9th century Celtic monk must've spent years of his life creating. Vanessa was able to get us in for free, so we got to wander through a whole exhibit on ancient manuscripts--how they were made, their historical context, and so on. The time-consuming nature of the whole process and the level of intricacy involved confirmed my Gregor Mendel-based theory that members of religious orders who have nothing more exciting to do with their time can accomplish some very impressive feats. We also got to go upstairs and view aptly-named "Long Room" of the Old Library, where the college's oldest collections of books and marble busts are on display. (Display only, mind you. The shelves, arranged in identical alcoves with aesthetically positioned ladders, are roped off.) As I looked down the row of busts, I saw several chaps whose names I recognized. (John Locke wasn't that bad looking, actually. Nor was Isaac Newton. I found myself feeling sorry for all these reasonably attractive geniuses with no sex lives.) Ireland's oldest harp is also there, restrung (just in case the vigilant security guards get bored some night); it probably dates from the 15th century and is named after an Irish king who died long before that.


Next, we went to see Saint Patrick's Cathedral, getting a good glimpse of Christ Church (Dublin's other medieval church) on the way. Built in 1192 on the sight of a holy well where Saint Patrick allegedly did some cool stuff, Saint Patrick's is the largest Church in Ireland. These days (aka post-1530s) it's Church of Ireland, not Catholic, which none of us realized until later when I checked my guidebook. Remember that for later. Anyway, we paid a slightly exorbitant fee to look around the church and take pictures of the lovely stained-glass windows, the patterned floors, the rehearsing choir, and the Reconciliation Door. This was the door of the cathedral's chapter house where Black James Butler (member of a powerful Irish noble family) took refuge while fleeing from his enemies, the Fitzgeralds (the Butler family's main rivals). The leader of the Fitzgeralds, the Earl of Kildare, had the place surrounded but told Black James he wanted to make peace. Black James was like, "Yeah, right," and refused to come out, until Fitz cut a hole in the door and thrust his hand through to shake hands with James--a risky move, since James and his men inside were armed and could've chosen to cut off Fitz's arm. Instead, James shook the hand and agreed to a truce. Hence the phrase "chancing one's arm" which I hadn't heard before but for which I am happy to take credit on behalf of my forebears.


Once we'd walked around to our hearts' content, we sat down to absorb the ambiance and were soon beckoned to come forward into the front pews, which were semi-enclosed and had their own doors. Evensong was starting. We weren't quite sure what evensong was (it still hadn't hit us that this was an Anglican church) but we figured we might as well stick around and find out. It turned out to be a 45-minute combo of scripture readings and very pretty but very monotonous hymns. One of the readings lasted literally 15 minutes and taught me all about how to properly sacrifice a cow to cleanse my soul of sin, including what kind of clothes I should wear on the occasion. The choir director (who had earlier greeted his colleagues with a bright "Hi, guys") wore a bright purple robe that reminded me of Snape's outfit in the Harry Potter movies (and his hairstyle was reminiscent of Snape's as well, though less greasy). And people kept standing up at random times (which I suppose weren't actually random). All this, combined with the slightly different wording of the prayers, should've clued us in, but we were all too tired to put the pieces together at the time. As I said when we left, "Just like old times--falling asleep in church." Erell dozed off completely, though she tried to position herself in a prayer-like pose to cover it up. The rest of us just nodded in and out. We'd had a long day, after all, and we didn't really need to be taking notes on animal sacrifice.


With the church out of the way, we reunited with Vanessa for dinner at a historic bar/restaurant called O'Neills. It's been around since at least 1755 and is still serving great food (and strawberry beer, a rare and tasty delicacy, found in only one other Dublin location). This is starting to sound like a brochure, so I'll move on to what I know everyone's wondering: Did I ever find Katherine?


Wellll, after dinner and a quick stop at another pub, we were "wrecked," as the Irish would say. So we returned to the hostel and I asked at the reception desk if Katherine Steir had checked in. Now I encountered an unexpected problem: a language barrier. All the staff on duty that night (and indeed all weekend) were non-native English speakers. (We couldn't decide if they were Italian or Portuguese.) So whether it was through a communication problem or some other source of confusion, I was told that there was no Katherine staying there. The next morning I checked again and after about 15 minutes came away with much the same result. I was starting to think I'd get through the whole weekend without finding her, but just as we were about to leave the hostel, who should come down the stairs into the lobby but Katherine and her two roommates! Hugs and squeals ensued, and we figured out that each of us needed to remove a zero from the front of each other's numbers in order to call each other. 


With this issue resolved, all I needed now was a toothbrush and toothpaste. (Which I picked up shortly afterward; don't worry.) Katherine and her crew had gotten tickets for a bus tour, so they split off from us to do that while we embarked on foot for our own adventures. 


To be continued...

[Insert Witty and/or Profound Title...]

Just to clarify, yes, I'm still alive. Sorry I've been remiss in my blog updates lately. I shall try to make up for it with a wildly entertaining and riveting post. Starting with...


Cookies
Now I know you're all on the edge of your seats. 
The mission: Contribute to the menu for Thursday's dinner/hangout session and repay the kindness of everyone who's been sharing their amazing food with me by baking that rare delicacy among the Irish, chocolate chip cookies. 
The advantages: chocolate chips mailed to me by my ever-zealous mother, other baking supplies obtained successfully at Tesco. 
The oddities: Eggs in Irish supermarkets aren't refrigerated. Perhaps Salm O'Nella feels at home in Ireland? Also, baking soda is labeled "sodium bicarbonate" so it's a good thing I guessed correctly on that one. 
The disadvantages: We had only one (liquid) measuring cup, so estimation was the rule rather than the exception. Cookie sheets are fun-sized here, i.e., I could only fit nine cookies on a tray and had to make half a dozen mini-batches rather than be done in one or two rounds. Oh, and our oven hates the world; it likes to burn edges while leaving centers mushy. 
The result: moderate success. The products of Batch #1 were lovely if a tad on the small side. The products of Batch #2 were rather crispy dwarf-cookies, perfect for bite-sized snacking, not so perfect for the cover of a Betty Crocker cookbook, but even so they were all eaten by the end of the night.


Art
The Crawford Art Gallery in Cork is one of those buildings I walk past all the time and which, finally, I got to actually walk into this weekend. Art is by no means my forte, but I couldn't help being impressed by what I saw. First there was the collection of sculpture casts--copies of famous classical Greek and Roman statues, which King George IV of England regifted to Cork's Society of Fine Arts in 1819, after he got them from the Pope. It's really amazing to look at sculptures up close and realize that someone chiseled the folds of that cloth or the strands of that hair out of a shapeless chunk of stone. Then there were photography exhibits, and portraits of dead people (and, let's face it, dead people are my forte), and some lovely old landscapes, including a painting of Cork from the early 19th century. It was so surreal to look at the image of the city--to recognize the slope of the hills and even a few landmarks--and know that I was in the same place that was depicted in the painting. But my nerdiest moments came when we reached the Cooper Penrose Collection--an exhibit of paintings, furniture, books, dishes...you get the idea...that had belonged to a very prominent 18th century Cork family. Your man (as they say here) Cooper Penrose was a "Merchant Prince" and had the material trappings to back up the nickname. This was where I really lagged behind the others. I just had to stop and look at the family portraits and the bookcase/desk contraption from the 1700s. I wasn't too intrigued by the display of dining china until the weird avante-garde-y sound-based exhibit in the next room started causing some of the pieces in the display case to vibrate. Here's this 17th and 18th century dinner plate shaking from the vibrations of some artist's experimental electrically generated sound waves....very trippy. To an overactive imagination it seemed almost ghostly. And then I decided I should probably catch up with everyone else before they left without me. 


Churches
On the way to the art gallery (this post is not even remotely in chronological order) we stopped to peek into "Saints Peter and Paul's" Church (one saint apparently isn't good enough for some people), which was built in 1866 and is ABSOLUTELY GORGEOUS INSIDE. I'm pretty sure I actually went "Whoa!" when we walked in, which wasn't very reverent of me. We didn't take any pictures because there were a few people in the pews praying, and in any case I always feel awkward about taking pictures in churches. (Earlier in the week I popped into South Church, the oldest Catholic Church in the city--built 1766!--and I snapped a couple of shots and then sort of glanced up and whispered, "Sorry...You don't mind, do you?") Anyway, this place was beautiful. It was a really gloomy gray day outside, but somehow the stained glass at the otherwise-shadowy front of the church still looked incredibly bright and sunlit. Someone who works there has really mastered the lighting. A little later, we trekked over to Saint Finbarre's Cathedral and finally had a look in there too. It was grand (in all senses of the word), though not as breathtaking as SS Peter and Paul's. On the other hand, the priest, who was getting ready to close down the building, let us know that we had about five minutes to look around, and he saw me looking sheepish with my camera he said, "You can take as many pictures as you want, love, there's no problem." So I did my best to make the most of the next five minutes. Once I figured out how to control my flash, which is the bane of my existence.


"Cinema"
The other weekend I succumbed to the temptation to re-view two movies I'd already seen, Tangled and The King's Speech. Thus I learned that, at Irish movie theaters (or theatres, to be more precise), your ticket is just a printed receipt printed on the kind of flimsy paper I'm always inclined to lose instantly. The ticket guy in front of each individual theater makes a little tear in this all-too-easily-torn piece of paper, and then you're all set. One of the girls who went with us to the The King's Speech was German and was surprised that we didn't get assigned seats; that's how they do it in Continental Europe, apparently, just as if it were a concert or a play. Also, you get to keep your 3D glasses. I wonder if I'd get a discount for bringing mine with me the next time I go to see a 3D movie. (I mean, what else are they really charging me for? Enhanced dizziness?) Also, for the first time in I can't remember how long, I saw a blank screen when I entered the theater; there was no "First Look" nonsense, and we only got a few commercials and previews later. (Favorite line ever: "What goes through a sheep's head when it's watching rugby?") 


Now I think I'd better start writing the paper that's due tomorrow. (It's 10:52 my time. Some things are constant.) Next time on Amy's Occasionally Interesting Blog: weekend trip to Dublin and other episodes of nerdy excitement. Probably some more churches too, if we're being realistic. And more cookies if we get really lucky.