By Chance.

I feel like time has passed in a blur. Days flow together like a meaningless string of numbers our minds are programmed to divine patterns in and prescribe some greater purpose to. I think that it is a sign that I've achieved some sort of normalcy here. Fallen into a rhythm. I’ve been putting off posting because it felt like the same old song and dance. In reflection I realize loads of things have happened since I posted last. So here's another long one. See more pictures at: http://www.flickr.com/photos/96341639@N04/

There have been some really fascinating aspects to my job. I really enjoy the drum circle, art, gardening, current affairs, speakers we’ve had on achieving happiness or on addiction. But Biodanza was weird. A very friendly Spanish woman came in said we weren’t aloud to talk, but were to express ourselves with our bodies. It was supposed to be a creative outlet but there was just a bunch of sweaty-hand-holding, uncomfortable giggles, and watching the clock wondering when it would be over. We all just sat in chairs kind of swaying or holding hands but many of the client’s arms got tired quickly and frankly it was monotonous. She’d invite people to move around and express themselves but no one was expressing much but boredom and how uncomfortable they were with these touchy-feely foreign ways. The poor woman of course picked up on the vibe, so tried to be energetic enough for all of us, but to no avail.

I went to the globe bar with Mikaela, Alexandria, and Irish dancers and musicians that Alexandria worked with. We traded stories and got nerdy with sci-fi/fantasy references. I traded numbers with a beautiful Australian girl who is dancing in Riverdance. She told me about her time touring with Riverdance in New York. The Globe had a hip vibe. Maybe a bit too cool for me, but it was nice to see a different kind of place.

I went to Dublin gay pride parade with Kirsti, Will, Sean, and Alexandria. It was bright and multicolored- the city was painted rainbow. We saw Etsi, a Spanish woman who works for EUSA playing in a percussion group in the parade. Everyone was happy and friendly. There was a noticeable lack of angry protestors. It was a weekend full of dancing and j(/dr)unk food. 

We went on a Wednesday outing to St. Patrick’s Cathedral. There is loads of history/myth surrounding the place. My favorite, I think, was the Door of Reconciliation. The story goes:

In 1492 two Irish families, the Butlers of Ormonde and the FitzGeralds of Kildare, were involved in a bitter feud…In 1492 this tension broke into outright warfare.  The Butlers, realizing that they were losing, took refuge in the Saint Patrick's Cathedral. However, the FitzGeralds followed them into the Cathedral and asked them to come out and make peace. (Yeah right sure. Why can’t they make peace inside the Cathedral? {“Little pig, little pig let me in or I’ll take an axe to the door”}) The Butlers, afraid that if they did so they would be slaughtered, refused (smart). As a gesture of good faith the head of the FitzGerald family ordered that a hole be cut in the door (do it yourself, lazy) He stuck his arm through the hole giving the Butlers two options: they could shake his hand and make peace or cut off his arm. They shook hands through the door; the Butlers emerged from the Chapter House and the two families made peace (for like a day). This story also lives on in a famous expression in Ireland "To chance your arm".

It is also is where Jonathan Swift is buried, the madman he was. “Swift was a man who fought hard against what he felt were unjust impositions on the Irish people, despite the fact that he would have preferred an appointment in England.” His pulpit is there and it has wheels on the bottom so when he was giving like a 5 hour sermon, if someone fell asleep he would be rolled over to them and start yelling down at them. He wrote his own epitaph:

“Here lies the body of Jonathan Swift,

Doctor of Divinity and Dean of this Cathedral,
Where savage indignation can no longer lacerate his heart;
Go traveller and imitate if you can,

this dedicated and earnest champion of liberty
He died on the 19th October 1745, aged 78 years anno “

(I double checked my memory and got the quotes from www.stpatrickscathedral.ie)

After the outing I was wandering around and stumbled upon Dublin Castle. The castle itself is closed at the moment but I explored the outside and sat in a courtyard reading. My book ironically started talking about home. Sabine river, swamps, owls, Beaumont-oil-town.  To read about how exciting it is to reach my home, made me homesick. How bizarre to be sitting in the courtyard of Dublin Castle and miss a bayou. It got me thinking about appreciating where you are while you’re there. I shouldn’t wait to appreciate my little hometown till I’m gone and I shouldn’t be wishing for anywhere but this amazing city of Dublin while I’m here. I’m working at being in the moment more, and not always day dreaming about the next adventure when I’m smack dab in the middle of one.  

The next day was the 4^th of July. How strange to be in Ireland on America’s Independence day! I’ll admit, I make a big deal out of holidays at home. It’s a convenient way to break up the day to day. So for the 4^th I find a way to celebrate. Go to the beach or have a party. But there is always food, fireworks, friends, and family. Well here I am away from BBQ pits, fireworks, Bombshell Blonde, my friends and family, my dog, the smell of freedom, and fireworks, so I make do. Irish generally know that the 4^th is an American holiday, and Americans living here tend to go a bit wild with the red white and blue. My incredibly kind, thoughtful coworkers figured I would probably be missing home on Thursday and brought me a chocolate cake to celebrate the holiday. Over tea and cake I explained all about the Declaration of Independence and our history with Britain. I learned all about the Irish risings as well. We traded when-our-country-fought-for-independence-from-the-british stories. It was wonderfully patriotic and unique 4^th of July experience. After work I stopped at Donnybrook Fair, a gourmet grocery that I love, and bought burger patties (veggie patties weren’t hitting the BBQ fix (another aside: Irish tend to be much more responsible with where there food comes from and how it is farmed)), the fixins’, BBQ potato chips, potato salad, and American beer. American feast. 

But wait. I wanted, nay- needed, strawberry pie. Like momma makes it. What I didn’t have: an oven, a pie pan, gram crackers for the crust, cornstarch to thicken the filling, measuring cups, or her recipe.

What I did have: A pot, stove, shortbread cookies (add honey and salt= imitation gram crackers), plain gelatin, sugar, strawberries, and American determination and innovation.

It was a highly questionable process, I bought some crème something that turned out to be sour cream instead of whipped cream, I just smashed the cookie crumbs around the sides of a pan and had no idea how much of anything to add. But it came out DAMN good! After stuffing my face with a couple slices I brought gathered up an assortment of forks and spoons and brought it down to a gathering of EUSA students outside our building who were playing “water” pong and missing Dixie cups. They were also impressed. 

That evening my granddad visited my mom’s house for dinner so I was able to FaceTime with him. He was wearing an adorable plastic red-white-and-blue hat and told me how he had marched in a Fourth of July Parade. I just missed his 89^th birthday. He still gets dressed in a suit to go to work everyday. He maintains a lake house he built up from a trailer to a large 2-story building on a huge hill, which he still mows with a push mower. I really admire and miss him, and was so glad to be able to talk with him. It made me sad when he said “Well I miss you, see you when you get home in August” and since he couldn’t hear me very well my mom had to explain that I wasn’t going home in August. “She’s not?! When is she coming home?” “Not until October or November.” He looked sad and just said, “Oh. That’s a long time from now.” It was a bittersweet but memorable holiday.

Friday, work was rough. If you consider only working three hours rough. Or if you even consider coffee, an exciting round of bowling, and lunch, working. We went on a outing to a bowling alley (a building not a literal alley- I’m sorry for any confusion) with the clients and they all thoroughly kicked my butt. By a LOT. But hey I got to were snazzy socks and practice my wiggle-with-it-granny-roll. 

In an effort to not waste my time in Dublin I went to see “Dublinia” a museum-y thing with Viking, mid-evil, and anthropology stuff. It was moderately interesting. I liked the replica of the “layers of Dublin”. 

It also connected to Christ Church Cathedral so I wandered around there and checked out the crypts. They smelt stale and it was very crypt-like.

I didn’t know what to do Saturday and the weather was sunny so I went to Dublin Zoo. Many of the animals were hiding in the shade but it was still something to do. I also wandered around Phoenix Park which is huge and beautiful. 

I found a new adventure hat. Deviating from my standard fedora- it is a bowler hat. As soon as I purchased it, put it on my head, and walked around the corner, a tan wrinkled man stopped me and complimented my hat. His name is Marco. He has lived all over the world. He was wearing a hat entirely covered in silver sequins. He has had his hat 3 months; he bought it in Italy. Italy is apparently famous for their hats. He is happy living in Dublin, and follows a routine of reading, writing, working out, yoga, guitar lessons, reading, and writing. He bought me an ice-cream cone from a convenience store.  We walked around and wound up back in the courtyard outside of Dublin Castle and sat on a bench. I told him about reading about home there.  We asked each other philosophical questions like what makes you happy, what makes you sad, do you think people meet by chance or by fate, do you think fear is real or perception, are our perceptions real, what is your purpose in life, is circular logic meaningless or just singular in meaning, what is the craziest thing you did as a child? (He tried to kiss his monkey when he was 8 and the monkey bit his lips because he thought they were a banana.) I told him I was going. He said he was staying to read.

That night still in my adventure hat I went out solo to The George. When I arrived there was a Karaoke contest finishing up that was being hosted by two fabulous drag queens. They half praised- half mocked the contestants. The winner got a bucket of beer. After the show, a super friendly blonde guy complemented my hat, and we became best friends. But I don’t remember his name. I was supposed to meet him as the “'illuminous' pink building: The Candy Lab”, the sweet shop where he works on Sunday. He told me all about his life, growing up in the country, moving to Dublin 3 months ago, finding himself, finding the confidence to go out on his own, and his dream of moving to Australia. When we parted ways I went to dance. It was liberating realizing that I knew no one there. If I look weird they’ll assume it’s because I’m American. I could dance as crazy as I wanted. So I did. I jumped around, stomped, did who-knows-what with my arms, screaming lyrics I didn’t know, eyes closed, feeling it. I was drenched in sweat. It was exhilarating. I danced until 3:30am in the morning. Then went to the smoker’s area outside to cool off. I talked to a girl named Kate who thought I was brave for going out and dancing on my own. She dreamed of going to Australia. She told me placed to go out in Dublin. Another girl over heard and agreed. It was her birthday. She was leaving for Australia in two weeks.  She is a garda or a police officer and she told me stories about when she got a gun pulled on her (normal garda aren’t allowed to carry weapons) and the mocking and jeering she gets for being garda, apparently they aren’t respected by the Irish and are treated like they’re monkeys. I walked half way home then caught a taxi. The sun beat me there. Today, Brendon, a sweet old man and one of my favorite clients told me that he loves everyone. Americans, New Yorkers… everyone except Australians. Australians and their stupid accents. 

MacKenzie had the beautiful idea of doing the Brays Head Cliff trail. The sun was doing its sunny warm thing, and the views were incredible. I am kicking myself for not doing this more since being here. We finished the trail on a rocky beach, where the water was clear and cold. I got strawberries and ice-cream at a small seaside café. We took the train back to Dublin along the route we had hiked. The train perfectly fit through the stone tunnels that we saw from the trail. I didn't make it back in time to go to the sweet shop.

 

 

I have finished with my French class with an A. I have less than 2 weeks left in my internship!