Days 4-10: March 29-April 3
The plan: Take the train to London with Emma, meet Katherine and stay with her until we both head to Paris (she by Chunnel train, I by plane). Explore London solo while Katharine finishes a paper but simultaneously solidify plans for the rest of the trip.
The result: Failure on the "solidifying plans" part, but otherwise, success. This train reached its destination only 5 minutes behind schedule (as opposed to 6 hours) and gave us a lovely, comfy tour of the Scottish/English countryside. (Read: naptime.) And if you disregard the fact that I wasn't able to text Katherine at first because I'd forgotten that she'd lost her phone and now had a different number--which required me to go to Emma's cousin's house with her so that I could use my computer to look up Katherine's new number, which in turn required a long and fraught search for Emma's cousin's wireless key, and which culminated in me being able to contact Katherine long enough to arrange the vaguest meeting spot imaginable ("Just call me when you get to Waterloo Station"...which is like saying, "Call me when you get to Virginia")--then, yeah, everything went off without a hitch.
We successfully navigated the Tube and managed to find Katherine despite the mammoth size of the station, which was just a hop/skip/jump away from her housing. From then on it was smooth sailing.
Lies, you say. And yet, I can't think of anything that went wrong while I was in London. I didn't lose anything (this time....Did I neglect to mention that I left my birth certificate in Stansted Airport at the end of my previous visit to this lovely city?); I didn't get lost during three and a half days of trekking all over London alone (because the city is an idiot-proof Mecca of arrowed signage); and I successfully decided what to do, figured out how to do it, and proceeded to do it. (If these seem like unimpressive accomplishments, I refer you to the records of numerous politicians.)
I won't go into too much detail because it's been brought to my attention that I leave Ireland in less than 48 hours, and I want to have time to churn out a few more posts before I say goodbye to this hemisphere. So suffice it to say that I spent a lot of time walking and Tubing around the city, hitting up the places I missed (or didn't see enough of) last time and just generally enjoying the vibrancy of my surroundings. I've never been to New York City or anything else that comes close to London in scale, so it was really cool (and far less overwhelming than I would've thought) to be in the midst of that.
It was also tremendously empowering for me to be able to navigate a place like this and feel as if I was getting the most out of it. Before I started this trip I dreaded the prospect of having to travel alone, but once I was fending for myself in London I was able to appreciate the freedom that came with it. I could go wherever my fancy took me, stay someplace as long as I wanted, and indulge my nerdy side to my heart's content, all without worrying that I might be boring or irritating my travel companions with my whims. That said, I did find myself getting lonesome by the end of a long day of exploring, especially when I felt like the only lone visitor in a place that was inundated with tourists; everyone else seemed to be attached to a group of friends or a family. But it was impossible to be depressed when I was geeking out at the British Museum or gawking at Saint Paul's Cathedral or crushing on the costumed, role-playing tour guide at Hampton Court. And seeing so many families actually made me rather happy; I was glad that parents were taking their children to see things like the Tower of London. I kept thinking, "Lucky kids!"
Of course, I kept thinking that about myself too, in singular form.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Friday, May 20, 2011
Edinburgh: The Omnibus Edition
Days 2-4: May 27-29
The plan: Enjoy Edinburgh.
The reality: Success.
I am soooo tempted to end right there. But never fear, I will elaborate.
Highlights:
*Walking along the Royal Mile, the main street(s) of Edinburgh's Old Town. Cobblestoned streets, bookended by a castle at one end and a palace (Holyrood House) at the other end, with a plethora of gorgeous historic buildings and cute shops in between, made for a lovely stroll. (Plus there were free samples at an incredible fudge place where they were making fudge right in the front of the store...SIGH.)
*Climbing Arthur's Seat, the gigantic hill overlooking--well, pretty much everything. Scots like to think of it as a possible location for Camelot, hence the name. I wasn't expecting us to venture up there when we did, so I happened to be wearing my traction-less shoes at the time. That spiced up the 45-minute trek to the top and made the downward journey another example of how good my luck often turns out to be. (In other words, I made it unscathed despite the very steep quasi-paths.) The panoramic view was as amazing as advertised, and I didn't have to pay 9 euro for it (cough, Guinness Factory, cough).
*Visiting Edinburgh Castle, where, among other things, the Scottish crown jewels are on display in an exhibit that turns them into the plot of several James Bond movies with a historical flavor. Unlike the stolen Stone of Scone (aka the STONE OF DESTINY--big rock that the English stole and used as a prop for their coronation ceremonies), the jewels (aka HONOURS OF SCOTLAND) have managed to stay out of English hands since this set was first used in 1543 (for the coronation of Mary, Queen of Scots). They've been buried in a church to escape the clutches of Oliver Cromwell (on one of his many let's-destroy-something-valuable-now sprees), smuggled out of a castle under siege, and locked up in a forgotten chest in Edinburgh Castle for a hundred years, until our hero, Sir Walter Scott, undertook a "detailed search" of the castle (which was actually more of a "Hey, can we get the key to that room there? Thanks. Oh, look, the crown jewels. You're welcome.")....In any case, Scotty gets the credit for rediscovering them, and the British monarchy gets a grudging thank-you for finally sending back the STONE OF DESTINY in 1996, and everybody's happy. (Except perhaps Mary, Queen of Scots, who, by the way, gave birth to James I/VI in Edinburgh Castle in a room that is now rather tastelessly carpeted.) The castle was full of other gems (pardon the pun), from the war memorial to the giant cannon (one of the oldest in the world, with a range of almost two miles; also known--I'm not making this up--as a supergun) to the great hall (original hammberbeam roof; Maren, get excited) to Saint Margaret's Chapel (oldest building in Edinburgh, built for its sainted namesake by her son David I; again, Maren, back me up here). And everything is nicely subtitled with historical background info, which generally includes liberal use of the word DEATH in capitals.
*Stumbling upon various burial grounds. We are strange and possibly unhinged people, in that we find graveyards really interesting. Alas, we didn't think to look for the grave of the original Tom Riddles (senior and junior) while we were poking around the Greyfriars Cemetery, but we did stop by the nearby Elephant House for some J.K. Rowling homage. (That's the cafe where she drafted HP, which now advertises itself as the home of writers, sells T-shirts, provides computer access for the next generation of aspiring out-of-nowhere authors, and still serves coffee and tasty pastries on the side.)
*Checking out Calton Hill: another amazing view, complemented by various monuments (but none of Walter Scott, for once).
*Exploring the Museum of Scotland. Here at last the mystery of Sir Walter Scott's popularity was revealed to us. But I'm going to keep it to myself. ;)
Poking around some adorable bookshops. Each one was approximately the size of a dorm room, with a tiny narrow walkway--two if it was really spacious--and books crammed into every available space, including the ledge above the door frame. I've never see bookshops like that in the states; it's so hard for any business that tiny to stay afloat, especially if it caters to literate people. These places were like something out of a book themselves: cramped, quiet, asymmetrical, with that wonderful booky smell and the feeling that there really was no telling what treasures you might come across on the shelves. Emma got a really old book that struck her fancy for just 2 pounds. I didn't have room in my backpack (which already held my computer and as many clothes as possible) to buy anything bulky, but as usual, I enjoyed looking at the books more than I would've enjoyed actually buying one. Bookstores are my happy place, and these felt especially happy.
*Listening to traditional Scottish music in two very different, but (almost) equally entertaining pubs. The Royal Oak edged out the Whiski Bar (which, despite its name, was actually quite classy) on the strength of its atmosphere. It was tiny, homey, and full of regulars who knew each other well enough to riff on each other effectively. When we walked in we were greeted by the sight of four old guys singing barbershop quartet-style songs in perfect harmony. Shortly thereafter, the main act arrived: one fat man with a guitar and one skinny, ponytail-sporting, bored-looking young man with a violin (yes, violin, not fiddle; he didn't have the enthusiasm required for fiddling). "It's a little louder in here than it normally is," Fat Guy noted while he was tuning up. "I'm not gonna say anything about that. Except maybe shut your faces." He proceeded to attempt to sing with a sore throat and a less-than-flawless sense of pitch, while the ginger-haired bartender obliged his request for coffee. ("Hey, give me some alcohol in that!") The bartender seemed to know everyone there, including Hughie, an older fellow who reminded me (rather sadly) of the quietly sodden alternate-universe version of Mr. Gower in It's a Wonderful Life. Anyway, the dynamic duo actually played several Irish songs, and Fat Guy even attempted a "wee Galway accent" at one point that was a big hit with his audience. The bartender even chimed in at one point during a chorus, effecting a Cork accent (which, for non-Irishers, is different from a Galway accent or a Dublin accent or a Northern Irish accent). It was like a little taste of home. Later we moved on to the Whiski bar and got to sit at the last available table, right next to the musicians, who asked us if we had any requests when we sat down. I said we'd let them know if we thought of anything, but of course their selection was already excellent and didn't need any help from us. The especially nice thing about a pub like the second one is that people of all ages go there--probably more of the older crowd, but I still saw a few 20-somethings in the mix, and the whole gamut from 30 to 60+. That's one aspect of pubs that I've come to appreciate. Some are better suited for certain age demographics but there's never a point where you're too old to go out and have a nice time (and only 18 years when you're too young).
*Discovering that Victoria Street, the winding, sloping street near our hostel which I claimed as my favorite, had a second level. It was essentially a two-story street, with another sidewalk and row of shops on top of the first, overlooking the first layer. Coolest. Thing. Ever.
*Having a really nice time with Emma in a lovely city. Next stop: London!
The plan: Enjoy Edinburgh.
The reality: Success.
I am soooo tempted to end right there. But never fear, I will elaborate.
Highlights:
*Walking along the Royal Mile, the main street(s) of Edinburgh's Old Town. Cobblestoned streets, bookended by a castle at one end and a palace (Holyrood House) at the other end, with a plethora of gorgeous historic buildings and cute shops in between, made for a lovely stroll. (Plus there were free samples at an incredible fudge place where they were making fudge right in the front of the store...SIGH.)
*Climbing Arthur's Seat, the gigantic hill overlooking--well, pretty much everything. Scots like to think of it as a possible location for Camelot, hence the name. I wasn't expecting us to venture up there when we did, so I happened to be wearing my traction-less shoes at the time. That spiced up the 45-minute trek to the top and made the downward journey another example of how good my luck often turns out to be. (In other words, I made it unscathed despite the very steep quasi-paths.) The panoramic view was as amazing as advertised, and I didn't have to pay 9 euro for it (cough, Guinness Factory, cough).
*Visiting Edinburgh Castle, where, among other things, the Scottish crown jewels are on display in an exhibit that turns them into the plot of several James Bond movies with a historical flavor. Unlike the stolen Stone of Scone (aka the STONE OF DESTINY--big rock that the English stole and used as a prop for their coronation ceremonies), the jewels (aka HONOURS OF SCOTLAND) have managed to stay out of English hands since this set was first used in 1543 (for the coronation of Mary, Queen of Scots). They've been buried in a church to escape the clutches of Oliver Cromwell (on one of his many let's-destroy-something-valuable-now sprees), smuggled out of a castle under siege, and locked up in a forgotten chest in Edinburgh Castle for a hundred years, until our hero, Sir Walter Scott, undertook a "detailed search" of the castle (which was actually more of a "Hey, can we get the key to that room there? Thanks. Oh, look, the crown jewels. You're welcome.")....In any case, Scotty gets the credit for rediscovering them, and the British monarchy gets a grudging thank-you for finally sending back the STONE OF DESTINY in 1996, and everybody's happy. (Except perhaps Mary, Queen of Scots, who, by the way, gave birth to James I/VI in Edinburgh Castle in a room that is now rather tastelessly carpeted.) The castle was full of other gems (pardon the pun), from the war memorial to the giant cannon (one of the oldest in the world, with a range of almost two miles; also known--I'm not making this up--as a supergun) to the great hall (original hammberbeam roof; Maren, get excited) to Saint Margaret's Chapel (oldest building in Edinburgh, built for its sainted namesake by her son David I; again, Maren, back me up here). And everything is nicely subtitled with historical background info, which generally includes liberal use of the word DEATH in capitals.
*Stumbling upon various burial grounds. We are strange and possibly unhinged people, in that we find graveyards really interesting. Alas, we didn't think to look for the grave of the original Tom Riddles (senior and junior) while we were poking around the Greyfriars Cemetery, but we did stop by the nearby Elephant House for some J.K. Rowling homage. (That's the cafe where she drafted HP, which now advertises itself as the home of writers, sells T-shirts, provides computer access for the next generation of aspiring out-of-nowhere authors, and still serves coffee and tasty pastries on the side.)
*Checking out Calton Hill: another amazing view, complemented by various monuments (but none of Walter Scott, for once).
*Exploring the Museum of Scotland. Here at last the mystery of Sir Walter Scott's popularity was revealed to us. But I'm going to keep it to myself. ;)
Poking around some adorable bookshops. Each one was approximately the size of a dorm room, with a tiny narrow walkway--two if it was really spacious--and books crammed into every available space, including the ledge above the door frame. I've never see bookshops like that in the states; it's so hard for any business that tiny to stay afloat, especially if it caters to literate people. These places were like something out of a book themselves: cramped, quiet, asymmetrical, with that wonderful booky smell and the feeling that there really was no telling what treasures you might come across on the shelves. Emma got a really old book that struck her fancy for just 2 pounds. I didn't have room in my backpack (which already held my computer and as many clothes as possible) to buy anything bulky, but as usual, I enjoyed looking at the books more than I would've enjoyed actually buying one. Bookstores are my happy place, and these felt especially happy.
*Listening to traditional Scottish music in two very different, but (almost) equally entertaining pubs. The Royal Oak edged out the Whiski Bar (which, despite its name, was actually quite classy) on the strength of its atmosphere. It was tiny, homey, and full of regulars who knew each other well enough to riff on each other effectively. When we walked in we were greeted by the sight of four old guys singing barbershop quartet-style songs in perfect harmony. Shortly thereafter, the main act arrived: one fat man with a guitar and one skinny, ponytail-sporting, bored-looking young man with a violin (yes, violin, not fiddle; he didn't have the enthusiasm required for fiddling). "It's a little louder in here than it normally is," Fat Guy noted while he was tuning up. "I'm not gonna say anything about that. Except maybe shut your faces." He proceeded to attempt to sing with a sore throat and a less-than-flawless sense of pitch, while the ginger-haired bartender obliged his request for coffee. ("Hey, give me some alcohol in that!") The bartender seemed to know everyone there, including Hughie, an older fellow who reminded me (rather sadly) of the quietly sodden alternate-universe version of Mr. Gower in It's a Wonderful Life. Anyway, the dynamic duo actually played several Irish songs, and Fat Guy even attempted a "wee Galway accent" at one point that was a big hit with his audience. The bartender even chimed in at one point during a chorus, effecting a Cork accent (which, for non-Irishers, is different from a Galway accent or a Dublin accent or a Northern Irish accent). It was like a little taste of home. Later we moved on to the Whiski bar and got to sit at the last available table, right next to the musicians, who asked us if we had any requests when we sat down. I said we'd let them know if we thought of anything, but of course their selection was already excellent and didn't need any help from us. The especially nice thing about a pub like the second one is that people of all ages go there--probably more of the older crowd, but I still saw a few 20-somethings in the mix, and the whole gamut from 30 to 60+. That's one aspect of pubs that I've come to appreciate. Some are better suited for certain age demographics but there's never a point where you're too old to go out and have a nice time (and only 18 years when you're too young).
*Discovering that Victoria Street, the winding, sloping street near our hostel which I claimed as my favorite, had a second level. It was essentially a two-story street, with another sidewalk and row of shops on top of the first, overlooking the first layer. Coolest. Thing. Ever.
*Having a really nice time with Emma in a lovely city. Next stop: London!
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Six cities, one passport, 80 blogposts: Go.
Day 1: May 26
Our story begins in Edinburgh, where all good stories (or at least seven of them*) do.
The plan: Fly from Cork to Edinburgh solo, meet up with the lovely Emma Gershun-Half, and spend a few days tooling around this gorgeous old Scottish city, of which I'd heard only good things (which all turned out to be true).
The reality: Amazingly, despite my nervousness about traveling by myself, I made it to Edinburgh without a hitch. (I was actually quite alarmed at the complete lack of anything resembling a customs experience. Because I was flying within the EU, nobody cared. For all they knew I could've left my passport on the plane. Which, fortunately, I hadn't.) Emma was not so lucky; her train got stuck in York due to mechanical issues, so she didn't arrive until 10:30 pm. While I was waiting for her, I occupied myself thus:
--Strolled/sat in the Prince's Street Gardens and another adjacent park, which had a great view of Edinburgh Castle (though honestly, most places in the city have a great view of Edinburgh Castle. It's on top of a cliff that's fairly centrally located, so it's hard to miss). Watched children playing soccer/football/games with no discernible rules. Saw a man sitting on a bench with his dog--as in the dog was sitting up there next to him, and he had his arm around it: cutest couple award, hands-down. Saw the monument of Sir Walter Scott, the first of what turned out to be manymanymany indications of the special place he holds in his countrymen's hearts. The man is essentially a Scottish superhero, for reasons that may or may not become clear later. Left my purse on a bench for three minutes (officially the stupidest thing I did during the whole trip, and it happened within half an hour of getting to Edinburgh), realized my mistake, dashed back, and found it still there, with nothing missing. Decided that anything else that might go wrong, short of gruesome death, would be a fair exchange for this abundance of good karma.
--Stopped by the train station long enough to be overwhelmed by its size, echoey announcers, and convoluted state of under-construction-ness. Saw that Emma's train was delayed, texted her for confirmation, and snagged a free map, the salvation of all under-prepared tourists.
--Ducked into the (free) art gallery for a visual history lesson in the form of portraits, landscapes, and even a family tree to rival Sirius Black's.*
--Found the hostel, which was right off of the Grassmarket, originally an actual market, and now just a nice square with, you guessed it, a great view of the castle. On the way there (cough, when I was wandering around in search of it, cough), discovered what would become my favorite street in Edinburgh, a winding, sloped avenue of beautiful buildings day-jobbing as shops and restaurants.
--Got pounds (Scottish pounds, by the way, look a bit different than English pounds; they feature their own cast of obscurely famous people) and then used them to buy groceries at Sainsbury's, the UK's favorite supermarket.
Eventually, Emma's train showed up, six hours behind schedule. I met her at the station, brought her back to the hostel, and made sure she got a late dinner before we called it a night. I was amazed at how quiet Edinburgh was even on a Saturday night, in an area that was pretty well-stocked with pubs. (Also, the women's outfits didn't even come close to the specimens I've seen in Ireland.) It felt very peaceful and safe and quietly welcoming. Emma declared, "I like this city," mere minutes after she stepped off the train, and I agreed with her wholeheartedly.
*Harry Potter references will abound throughout Edinburgh posts. Just go with it.
**So that was day one. More to come, but for now, mischief managed.
Our story begins in Edinburgh, where all good stories (or at least seven of them*) do.
The plan: Fly from Cork to Edinburgh solo, meet up with the lovely Emma Gershun-Half, and spend a few days tooling around this gorgeous old Scottish city, of which I'd heard only good things (which all turned out to be true).
The reality: Amazingly, despite my nervousness about traveling by myself, I made it to Edinburgh without a hitch. (I was actually quite alarmed at the complete lack of anything resembling a customs experience. Because I was flying within the EU, nobody cared. For all they knew I could've left my passport on the plane. Which, fortunately, I hadn't.) Emma was not so lucky; her train got stuck in York due to mechanical issues, so she didn't arrive until 10:30 pm. While I was waiting for her, I occupied myself thus:
--Strolled/sat in the Prince's Street Gardens and another adjacent park, which had a great view of Edinburgh Castle (though honestly, most places in the city have a great view of Edinburgh Castle. It's on top of a cliff that's fairly centrally located, so it's hard to miss). Watched children playing soccer/football/games with no discernible rules. Saw a man sitting on a bench with his dog--as in the dog was sitting up there next to him, and he had his arm around it: cutest couple award, hands-down. Saw the monument of Sir Walter Scott, the first of what turned out to be manymanymany indications of the special place he holds in his countrymen's hearts. The man is essentially a Scottish superhero, for reasons that may or may not become clear later. Left my purse on a bench for three minutes (officially the stupidest thing I did during the whole trip, and it happened within half an hour of getting to Edinburgh), realized my mistake, dashed back, and found it still there, with nothing missing. Decided that anything else that might go wrong, short of gruesome death, would be a fair exchange for this abundance of good karma.
--Stopped by the train station long enough to be overwhelmed by its size, echoey announcers, and convoluted state of under-construction-ness. Saw that Emma's train was delayed, texted her for confirmation, and snagged a free map, the salvation of all under-prepared tourists.
--Ducked into the (free) art gallery for a visual history lesson in the form of portraits, landscapes, and even a family tree to rival Sirius Black's.*
--Found the hostel, which was right off of the Grassmarket, originally an actual market, and now just a nice square with, you guessed it, a great view of the castle. On the way there (cough, when I was wandering around in search of it, cough), discovered what would become my favorite street in Edinburgh, a winding, sloped avenue of beautiful buildings day-jobbing as shops and restaurants.
--Got pounds (Scottish pounds, by the way, look a bit different than English pounds; they feature their own cast of obscurely famous people) and then used them to buy groceries at Sainsbury's, the UK's favorite supermarket.
Eventually, Emma's train showed up, six hours behind schedule. I met her at the station, brought her back to the hostel, and made sure she got a late dinner before we called it a night. I was amazed at how quiet Edinburgh was even on a Saturday night, in an area that was pretty well-stocked with pubs. (Also, the women's outfits didn't even come close to the specimens I've seen in Ireland.) It felt very peaceful and safe and quietly welcoming. Emma declared, "I like this city," mere minutes after she stepped off the train, and I agreed with her wholeheartedly.
*Harry Potter references will abound throughout Edinburgh posts. Just go with it.
**So that was day one. More to come, but for now, mischief managed.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Coming Back from Belfast: Part 3 of 3
Our last day in Belfast was actually only about three hours long, because we had to catch a morning bus to Dublin. So Natalie took us to the botanic gardens and to one of those cheesy and ubiquitous souvenir shops (which was blaring "Galway Girl"...see Part 1) before seeing us off at the bus station.
During the bus ride, I sat next to a girl in her mid-twenties who was doing a few months of traveling in Europe while she sorted out her quarter-life crisis. We talked for the latter half of the trip to Dublin; I got the feeling that it had been awhile since she was able to have a face-to-face conversation with anyone. While I admired her gutsiness for traveling alone, I was also glad not to be in her position. Sharing my experiences with other people is one of my favorite parts about traveling. I would've been so lonely and frustrated if I were roaming around by myself.
The other memorable part of this trip was when the bus was stopped so that the garda could do a passport check. Claudia hadn't brought her passport with her (and in fairness, no one checked us when we were coming in), so there was a moment of deer-in-the-headlights glances as we all wondered if she'd get kicked off the bus. "I will leave you here," Jessie declared. "I'm going home." Fortunately, her student ID card was sufficient proof that she wasn't a renegade vigilante, and the bus continued on its journey. (By the way, the bus had cameras monitoring its back and sides, which I haven't seen anywhere else and can only attribute to a security precaution. I'm sure they were helpful when someone had to get out and throw up.)
A few hours later we were in Dublin, wandering around in search of the spot where we could pick up our connecting bus. Turned out there was no need to rush, because so many people were waiting for that bus that it filled up (after Jessie and Kelsie got on, but while Claudia, Emilie, and I were still in line) and they had to send another one. "Ten minutes," the driver of Bus #1 promised us. He even gave Emilie the phone number of Bus #2's driver, Brendan, so she could call him if he didn't show. ("I have Brendan's phone number now!" she gloated.) Twenty minutes later--after Jessie had fulfilled her earlier promise to leave others behind in her eagerness to get home--Brendan rolled in and we (the original Dublin Three, as I noted) were on our way to Cork.
I'm sure I slept at some point during the next four hours, but what I remember is looking out the window and marveling at almost everything I saw. It was that rare and precious Irish phenomenon, a sunny day. Ireland is hard to surpass, beauty-wise, on a sunny day. I thought about that, and I thought about trying to answer that constantly recurring question of "Why Ireland?" Everyone asked me that before I left (except my relatives who assumed I was going because of my Irish ancestry) and people here still ask it. (People in England ask it a lot, in a way that makes me feel a little standoffish. Sour grapes much?) To be honest I don't think I had a good reason for coming. But I can think of lots of reasons that I'm glad I came. (If my introspective ramblings are of minimal interest, you can pretend this post ends here.)
Initially I felt a little guilty about my choice--an English-speaking first-world country with a border separating it from even the ghost of violence--as if I were taking the easy way out, while other Macalester students were going to war-torn or poverty-stricken regions where different languages and different customs could make for real culture shock. But for someone who, before coming here, had never used an ATM or booked her own flight or boiled rice for herself, this was as much a leap out of the comfort zone as going to the Antarctic. (No one ever thinks to study abroad in the Antarctic, do they? It's criminally underrepresented in those information packets you're supposed to pick up during sophomore year before you've even declared your major....) I'll freely admit that I'm about as sheltered and lacking in self-sufficiently as a middle-class white girl can be (i.e., very). And I didn't go abroad with the illusion that the experience would completely change my life or transform who I am or suddenly crystallize where I fit in the larger world. This isn't Eat, Pray, Love. ("Self-acceptance, check. Spiritual enlightenment, check. Hot Brazilian, check..." Do not get me started.) What I did hope for was a chance to see things I never could've just imagined, and to touch things I hadn't even known about. And on a selfish level, I did want to prove to myself that I could thrive in a different environment--that it was possible to pick myself up and set myself down in a new place without vaporizing. (Yes, just like beaming technology from Star Trek. Someone needs to get on that, by the way. Why stop at cell phones?) So, ta-da, I haven't vaporized (though much of my parents' money has), and I've also developed an appreciation for the history and landscape and people of Ireland...and other places too, but now I'm getting ahead of myself.
Can't have that, can we?
Yup, another cliff-hanger. You're used to that by now.
During the bus ride, I sat next to a girl in her mid-twenties who was doing a few months of traveling in Europe while she sorted out her quarter-life crisis. We talked for the latter half of the trip to Dublin; I got the feeling that it had been awhile since she was able to have a face-to-face conversation with anyone. While I admired her gutsiness for traveling alone, I was also glad not to be in her position. Sharing my experiences with other people is one of my favorite parts about traveling. I would've been so lonely and frustrated if I were roaming around by myself.
The other memorable part of this trip was when the bus was stopped so that the garda could do a passport check. Claudia hadn't brought her passport with her (and in fairness, no one checked us when we were coming in), so there was a moment of deer-in-the-headlights glances as we all wondered if she'd get kicked off the bus. "I will leave you here," Jessie declared. "I'm going home." Fortunately, her student ID card was sufficient proof that she wasn't a renegade vigilante, and the bus continued on its journey. (By the way, the bus had cameras monitoring its back and sides, which I haven't seen anywhere else and can only attribute to a security precaution. I'm sure they were helpful when someone had to get out and throw up.)
A few hours later we were in Dublin, wandering around in search of the spot where we could pick up our connecting bus. Turned out there was no need to rush, because so many people were waiting for that bus that it filled up (after Jessie and Kelsie got on, but while Claudia, Emilie, and I were still in line) and they had to send another one. "Ten minutes," the driver of Bus #1 promised us. He even gave Emilie the phone number of Bus #2's driver, Brendan, so she could call him if he didn't show. ("I have Brendan's phone number now!" she gloated.) Twenty minutes later--after Jessie had fulfilled her earlier promise to leave others behind in her eagerness to get home--Brendan rolled in and we (the original Dublin Three, as I noted) were on our way to Cork.
I'm sure I slept at some point during the next four hours, but what I remember is looking out the window and marveling at almost everything I saw. It was that rare and precious Irish phenomenon, a sunny day. Ireland is hard to surpass, beauty-wise, on a sunny day. I thought about that, and I thought about trying to answer that constantly recurring question of "Why Ireland?" Everyone asked me that before I left (except my relatives who assumed I was going because of my Irish ancestry) and people here still ask it. (People in England ask it a lot, in a way that makes me feel a little standoffish. Sour grapes much?) To be honest I don't think I had a good reason for coming. But I can think of lots of reasons that I'm glad I came. (If my introspective ramblings are of minimal interest, you can pretend this post ends here.)
Initially I felt a little guilty about my choice--an English-speaking first-world country with a border separating it from even the ghost of violence--as if I were taking the easy way out, while other Macalester students were going to war-torn or poverty-stricken regions where different languages and different customs could make for real culture shock. But for someone who, before coming here, had never used an ATM or booked her own flight or boiled rice for herself, this was as much a leap out of the comfort zone as going to the Antarctic. (No one ever thinks to study abroad in the Antarctic, do they? It's criminally underrepresented in those information packets you're supposed to pick up during sophomore year before you've even declared your major....) I'll freely admit that I'm about as sheltered and lacking in self-sufficiently as a middle-class white girl can be (i.e., very). And I didn't go abroad with the illusion that the experience would completely change my life or transform who I am or suddenly crystallize where I fit in the larger world. This isn't Eat, Pray, Love. ("Self-acceptance, check. Spiritual enlightenment, check. Hot Brazilian, check..." Do not get me started.) What I did hope for was a chance to see things I never could've just imagined, and to touch things I hadn't even known about. And on a selfish level, I did want to prove to myself that I could thrive in a different environment--that it was possible to pick myself up and set myself down in a new place without vaporizing. (Yes, just like beaming technology from Star Trek. Someone needs to get on that, by the way. Why stop at cell phones?) So, ta-da, I haven't vaporized (though much of my parents' money has), and I've also developed an appreciation for the history and landscape and people of Ireland...and other places too, but now I'm getting ahead of myself.
Can't have that, can we?
Yup, another cliff-hanger. You're used to that by now.
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