What Rick Steves Doesn't Know: An Ode to Cork

Preface: At least 2/5 of my family are in love with Rick Steves. The consequences of this can range from the disturbing (those pictures are still plastered to the walls on my sister's side of the bedroom, I believe) to the shockingly convenient (want to navigate the London's National Gallery without buying a floor plan? Just flip to the appropriate page of his guidebook). But Rick Steves has absolutely no appreciation for Cork. He doesn't even mention the city in his Ireland guidebook, except to brutally bash the Blarney Stone and opine that the Jameson distillery nearby is better than the one in Dublin. Well, he's missing out. Nor is he the only one; when we visited Dublin, people seemed to think we must get really bored in Cork as there was obviously nothing to do here. False. And lest you followers of mine (hmm, makes me feel uncomfortably like a cult leader) think that my only interesting experiences are happening elsewhere, I thought I should sandwich a Cork-centric post between my epic foreign adventures.


It's true that a typical day for me doesn't involve anything incredibly exciting. I go to class, run errands, and spend time with friends, which often just involves making/eating food, watching movies, and hanging out, just like at home. But I've also been to plays (the aforementioned Lady Windermere and a combo performance of three Samuel Beckett one-acts, which lived up to Beckett's reputation for being next to incomprehensible), seen bands (the wittily vulgar and eccentric RubberBandits, who performed for a very enthusiastic crowd at UCC, and the alt rock group Fight Like Apes, who brought down the house--for free--at one of our favorite pubs), gotten a taste of the local pub culture, attempted archery, experienced Saint Patrick's Day, and just generally soaked up my distinctive surroundings. 


Last night some friends and I went to a pub to listen to a trad session (traditional Irish music); the trio of ordinary-looking guys, whose ages ranged from thirties-ish to sixties-ish, plays at that place every Sunday evening, and it was clear from their rapport with the patrons that they've established a fan base. I really like this kind of pub atmosphere--warm, relaxed, and calm without being dull. The livelier places, which draw a younger and wilder crowd, are certainly fun for a night out, but it's really nice to be able to just sit and listen to music and people-watch. We probably went a little overboard on the people-watching; the group sitting in front of us doubtless would've been mortified to know that we were extrapolating their pasts, futures, and personalities based on the interactions we were witnessing. (Blue-Shirt was a sleaze and a fake who thought he was way cooler than he actually was; Guitar-Playing-Boy was painfully awkward but adorable, and fully deserving of our sympathy as it became more and more obvious that the girl he was serenading during the intermission was going to soul-crushingly reject him...Siren-Girl was too much under Blue-Shirt's thumb to behave decently to her earnest suitor, because Blue-Shirt was obviously sitting back and watching Guitar-Boy's implosion with amusement, and rubbing salt in the wound by suavely chatting up Pink-Dress-Girl just to prove he could, and Siren-Girl cared more about what he and Pink-Dress-Girl thought of her than about the heartache of Guitar-Playing-Boy...etc.) Anyway, the music was wonderful. There's something about traditional Irish music that always makes me feel as if it's taking you on a journey--sometimes a happy journey, sometimes a sad journey. Either way, it moves you. It's not music that would ever lull you to sleep, even when it's quiet and slow and mournful. It always engages you fully and makes you want to follow it wherever it's going. 


So that was a nice night. Nothing dramatic happened (except at the neighboring table, and even that owed most of its drama to our imaginations). Blue-Shirt did decide to talk to us on the way out, though we'd all conceived such a strong, possibly unfounded, dislike for him that we were practically oozing go-away vibes. So we didn't even come away with any good flirting stories, as sometimes happens (not to me, alas) on more eventful nights. Even so, it was a night I'll remember--one that could never be duplicated in the States.


Ditto with Saint Patrick's Day. I'm sure Dublin was a madhouse last Thursday, but Cork achieved just the right level of mayhem, without being overwhelming. The parade (which our Cork friends assured us would bore us to death) actually really impressed me, as much for its diversity (so many ethnic groups that I never would've expected to find here--Hungarians? Congolese? Bagpipers?) as for its creativity (a giant chicken float? Dancing eggs? Aliens of various shapes and sizes? All the extras from the opening scene of The Lion King?)...and although the streets were crowded, we managed to stop off at our favorite pub for green pints and to make a few memorable purchases from street vendors (a leprechaun beer-belly for Jessie...don't ask) without being trampled by hordes of drunken Irish people or, worse, tourists. We spent the rest of the day making and consuming food (and beverages), watching The Wind That Shakes the Barley (Maren, you did forewarn me; I was prepared), and celebrating Ian's birthday. (He turned 27--yes, that's not a typo, 27--that day. Did you know it was possible to buy packages of letter candles that spell "You're Old"? Handy.) Again, nothing outrageous--which will doubtless disappoint a few people who expected me to suddenly turn a corner into epic territory on this day...but it was still a great experience. It was especially nice to see how Cork's citizens approached the festivities. Paddy's Day (as most of them call it) isn't nearly as big a deal in Ireland as it is in, say, Chicago. It's a bank holiday, a day off of work and school, a chance to sleep in, an excuse to wear silly green hats (which we saw in abundance), a treat for little kids who like parades (and we saw tons of them, as spectators and participants, all exponentially cuter than any American child I've ever seen), and an occasion to  meet up with friends for a pint a few hours earlier than usual. It's not the leprechaun apocalypse, and I appreciate that.


I also appreciate that Cork isn't heavily frequented by tourists. Apparently Rick Steves has scared them all away--steering them to Dublin, where performers and vendors attract crowds of wide-eyed visitors on every major street, and where you'll see hotels and restaurants with names like "Blarney" simply because the owners know that'll ring a bell with foreigners, even though Blarney is four hours away in freaking CORK. Which is not to say that Dublin isn't a lovely city, because it is. But Cork is just as lovely and is free of much of that hype. Here, a street performer causes no more of a stir than a roving dog (of which there are plenty). On my way from my flat to the supermarket, for instance, I regularly pass at least three people playing instruments or singing (or at least attempting to do so). Some days there's a middle-aged guy with a pseudo-operatic voice. Some days there's a woman with a banjo singing folksy stuff. Some days there's a cute guy with an accordion. My favorite is the guy who'll sometimes be on the bridge with a tin whistle, playing wistful old ballads that I remember from my toddlerhood. Passersby occasionally drop change into their hats, but there's nothing ostentatious about these people. 


Nor, by the way, is there anything ostentatious about those who choose to just sit cross-legged with the hat in front of them or a Styrofoam cup in their hands. I usually see them on bridges, less frequently along the side of the street (where they're more likely to be shooed away by the garda, as I saw happen once). Sometimes one will say, "Got any spare change, love?" or something to that effect, but more often they just sit. It's a subtle but powerful contrast to my memories of Chicago, where panhandlers are apt to shake their cups of coins or hold signs explaining their predicament or just generally be more aggressive about getting your attention. Here they make themselves very small--as if they'd really rather not be noticed. 


Now might be a good time to note that Ireland is in the middle of a massive recession. I don't get too many daily reminders of that, aside from those unobtrusive presences and the occasional political flyer taped to a traffic post. One day, though, I happened to be in Tesco when an employee brought a whole cart of food over to the "reduced to clear" shelves. While she was sticking new price tags on each item, a crowd quickly gathered around her, waiting for a chance to peruse the marked-down offerings. Over the course of the next ten minutes, the crowd kept growing, and a couple of other employees drifted over to keep an eye on things and--I assume--make sure the waiting customers didn't get out of hand. They didn't; most of them were older people, standing motionless and grim-faced. When the girl finally finished relabeling the items and setting them out on the shelves, the onlookers silently swarmed in. By the time I drifted over a minute or so later, only a handful of items were left. Everyone had been quiet and orderly, but there was no mistaking that they meant business. While I'd been idly thinking, "Oh, hey, it'd be nice to get some cheap deals," they were thinking, "What can I afford to buy for dinner tonight?" 


That's something I wouldn't have witnessed if I'd just been visiting Cork for a day or two. And there are so many other moments--some sobering like that one, but most just interesting--that add to my overall sense of what this place is like. Of course I don't presume to say that I'm having a more "authentic" experience in Cork than I would if I were in Dublin or Galway. I hate the word "authentic"--and yes, Mom, Rick Steves occasionally uses it too--because really, how does one measure what's "authentic"? I can't claim I'm having an "authentic" Irish experience because the fact is that I'm not Irish and am only here for a few months...but have I even had an "authentic" Indiana experience? I was born there and lived there for 18 years but I never had any close encounters with a cornstalk. I never watched the Indy 500. I never voted Republican. Sooo...am I an authentic Hoosier? It's a moot question. I'm me, and I see the world around me through my own eyes, and my experiences are mine. My experiences in Cork have been meaningful and memorable for me (even though I haven't documented each and every one of them). Cork itself is fun and beautiful and special, and I'm glad I came here. I honestly think that, given a chance to make the decision again, I wouldn't choose to study abroad anywhere else.


That said, I do plan to resume my Belfast recap shortly, because Belfast was fantastic and fully deserving of two more blog-chapters. (They really are more like chapters than posts, aren't they? Dear me.)