Want to go to [fill in the blank]?

My friend Corey wrote a blog entry a while ago about central meeting places; you know, those places in the sitcoms where everyone just kind of goes when they're not doing something else, like Central Perk on Friends. Corey was saying that generally, we really envy how the characters on these shows have a place where they can go where everyone knows their name, but sometimes we're actually doing the same thing, just we don't realize it.

This got me to thinking. Where would my central meeting places be in Dublin? There's not just one, I knew that, but the more I thought about it, I was able to pick out three of our most-loved haunts that just might qualify.

The Ginger Man: This is a pub just north of Merrion Square, about a block away from our apartment building. Jillian was the one to first discover it a few years ago on a previous trip to Dublin, and she was so eager to return to it this time around that we figured it must be be kind of special. The G-Man, as it is affectionately known, has been the site of many class-related bitch fests, several 'bombscares' and more than one petty theft (generally these coincided with the bombscares). Every night at the G-Man is worth a blog entry in and of itself, but suffice to say, there have been some good times there. Also, the drink is much cheaper than it is at Lombard's (across the street from us).

Lemon: Oh my god, Lemon. Lemon is a crepe place on Dawson Street, right outside the Nassau Street entrance to Trinity. Usually this is where we find ourselves the night after the Ginger Man or some other hangover-inducing night out, scarfing down a Vegetarian Power Plus (with Chicken), French Toast, or whatever else happens to look good that day. There's lots of rehashing the night before, talking about how much work we have to do that day, and just a general gathering of our collective energy and motivation before facing another day spent inside the Postgrad Reading Room. Also, they give you little squares of chocolate with your coffee, and many of the male members of the staff have Aussie accents. Yum.

The Italian Place: This is not its real name. We just never call it by its insanely long and Italian name (which is Il Caffe di Napoli or something like that). This is actually the sandwich place that guy in the laundrette recommended to me, and it makes the best and cheapest cup of coffee in the entire city, which is pretty impressive because there are several Starbucks(es?) around. This is generally where we go when we need a quick pick-me-up, are too lazy to make lunch and don't feel like another frozen pizza from Centra, or just need to get out of the freaking apartment already.

This place is adorable in every single way, especially when decorated for Christmas as it was when I left, and I am beginning to believe the coffee has actual magical powers. With Italian women baristas who look like they could kick your ass in a heartbeat, and killer ciabattas, this place's only flaw is that the main seating is outside. Ew.

There are other places we go, of course, but I would say these are the three best and also most-frequented. There should be another entry sometime on the best places to go if you're visiting Dublin, but that's going to have to be another post for another time.

Happy Christmas, everyone, and have a great New Year!

Ginger Man Pub photo courtesy of Amy.

An ex-patriate Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving is a hassle at the best of times. There's the freaking turkey, which involves lots of plucking, rinsing, gagging, and yanking of various organs out of various orifices. There's the stuffing, which involves a huge inside-or-outside-the-turkey debate, and then there's the question of pecan or pumpkin pie, who is bringing the yams, and how in God's name you're going to deal with the fact that your crazy uncle is bound to bring up either politics or religion at the table, and that your sister will probably go for his throat.

However, if you subtract the crazy uncle and add in problems like how to find and afford a turkey in the most expensive city in Ireland, whether to beg your mother to send canned pumpkin from home or just suck it up and get a fresh pumpkin, and where to get French fried onions, you'll get an idea of just how insane Thanksgiving abroad can be.

When we all started planning for our Irish Thanksgiving, Jillian and I knew all of this. We figured it would a nice way to introduce Thanksgiving to our non-American friends, and a good way to assuage the homesickness that would be brought on by spending this quintessentially Yank holiday in a country that hadn't heard of it. Lists were made, dishes were assigned, and guests were invited. We were ready to throw ourselves a Thanksgiving extravaganza.

Three weeks, five essay-related breakdowns and more than a few turkey-related arguments later, Jillian turned to me and said something along the lines of, "Screw it. Let's cancel Thanksgiving."

Of course, we didn't seriously cancel it. No matter how tired or frustrated we were, the fact was, it was still Thanksgiving, and we couldn't not celebrate it. Finally, after much thought and a power trip to the crepe place down the street for some brain food, Jillian, A and I came up with the best possible way to celebrate Thanksgiving abroad -- without ending up flipping our collective shit on our guests.

Thursday night, we found ourselves seated around a table in front of a fireplace in a nice bar, Christmas decorations all around and wine on the table. The three of us were joined by our law-student flatmate, A’s Irish flatmate, one of our Irish friends from our program, and two of the guys who live across the hall from us (one of whom was Canadian and kind of apathetic about the whole thing, and the other with whom we had had several heated turkey discussions in the preceding week).

“Here, will you tell us the Thanksgiving story now?” said A as the food arrived. I had promised her the kid-friendly version of the tale weeks ago, and began it now as everyone dug in.

“A long time ago, roughly in the sixteen hundreds, a group of people called the Pilgrims, motivated by a desire to worship freely and get away from the British, sailed to America on a big-ass ship called the Mayflower. The journey was long and hard…”

I continued the story, making sure to mention Squanto the Friendly Indian (whoops, Native American) who taught the Pilgrims to plant corn. “And that’s the story of the first Thanksgiving,” I finished triumphantly, practically expecting a round of applause.

Everyone stared at me like I had grown three heads.

“Here,” A said after a few seconds. “I thought Columbus was there.”

“Right, the Spanish came and settled it first,” added her roommate.

“Columbus wasn’t Spanish,” someone else said, which was followed by a comment about Vikings and quickly the whole table dissolved into one loud discussion over who, exactly, founded America and when.

“OKAY, OKAY, OKAY,” shouted Jillian a few minutes later. “Can I tell you all the real story now?”

This quieted everyone down, as they turned to Jillian to settle the score. She pulled out a few post-its and began to read.

“First, instead of one Thanksgiving, there used to be a lot of different celebrations of all the major massacres that the settlers inflicted on the Indians. Lincoln was the first one to proclaim one national day of Thanksgiving, so up until the 1860s Americans celebrated several Indian massacres during different times of the year.”

“Massacres?” A muttered.

“There was lots of scalping and beheading and the women and children were raped and thrown into slavery. After one such massacre, the settlers played soccer with heads of defeated Native Americans. Oh,” she added, “and Pocahontas was fat.”

There was a stunned silence as the non-Americans at the table tried to process this information. The Pilgrims weren’t so nice to the Indians? Pocahantas was FAT? What is this freaking holiday? I could see them wondering.

Finally, A broke the ice. “I knew there had to be rape and pillage,” she said, grabbing the wine bottle out of the bucket in the middle of the table and waving it around. “Can I top anyone up?”

The rest of the evening, needless to say, is a bit of a blur. I remember a text message to Jillian saying, “Abt to bombscare must leave”, more than a few drinks at The Ginger Man (the pub down the street) where we toasted America and bombscaring Thanksgiving, and a long conversation about my chest that lasted long after the bartenders had kicked everyone else out but us and a woman who looked like she had been bombscaring for about 100 years.

Then there was the peanut butter and jelly party back at my apartment where somehow I ended up with peanut butter everywhere, and collapsing into bed only to wake up the next morning and wonder, “Crap, did I really tell the story about how I was flat-chested until college?” Which, in fact, I had.

Turkey, pillage and bombscaring notwithstanding, I’d have say that my second Irish Thanksgiving was a major success. :)

Words, words, words

I had a weird turning point in my life abroad today. I was packing up my backpack to go to the supermarket when I noticed a little tag near the bottom, on the part that keeps the waist buckle out of the way. This label informed me that the little part was called a "Buckle Garage."

That's not the weird part. The weird part is that, in my head as I read the tag, I said "Buckle GAR-age" as opposed to "Buckle Guh-RAHGE," in a complete rejection of the 22 years of my life that I have been speaking American English.

So far, in my time here, I haven't quite gotten over how different pronunciation is. Sure, there are words like "queue" (line) or "tin" (can) that I have started using. I will always, and without thinking, use the term "half" after an hour to tell time, such as "half six" rather than "six-thirty." I have also enthusiastically embraced the phrase "taking the piss," which does not involve a bodily function, but rather means making fun of something, usually good-naturedly. But pronouncing certain words "tom-AH-to" or "ore-GAH-no" has been out of the question thus far.

One thing I have half-heartedly gotten on board with is this nonsense of calling everything that's sweet or dessert-like, "pudding." It's in Ireland that I first learned what was meant by "plum pudding," by the way -- it's this little round sort of fruitcake thing with plums in it that you're supposed to cover in brandy sauce and set alight, apparently. Usually it comes out around October, wrapped up in red cellophane right next to the Cadbury Milk Trays, just in case you're getting your Christmas food shopping done early. I'm not positive what they call American-style pudding, then, unless they do as they do for pancakes or brownies and simply put "American-style" in front of the name and leave it at that.

Because I talk more with the Amy, queen of Scots, than I do many of the Irish people in my class, I've found myself picking up strange Scottish phrases that will be completely incomprehensible to people back home. Words like "jammy" (an adjective meaning "lucky when you don't deserve to be") and phrases like "get yourself to fuck" (pretty self-explanatory) just pop out when I least expect it.

One such word is the word "bombscare," which will not only be incomprehensible, but completely inappropriate back in the States. It means, roughly, a disaster, but usually that a person is a complete disaster, i.e., "I drank so much last night, I was a total bombscare," or "Look at her hair, she's a bit of a bombscare, eh?" It can also be used as a transitive or intransitive verb, as in, "Ugh, I was totally bombscaring last night" or, "We're totally going to bombscare C next week" (C being the roommate who regularly leaves the country without letting us know, and who we would love to see drunk some night).

Apart from the buckle receptacle anomaly and the vocabulary additions, though, I despair of ever losing or even softening my Buffalo-Canuck-Cali accent. Though I have gotten to the point where I feel like no one picks me out as American based on looks alone (after all, most of my clothes were bought here), the second I say "Hi," they know I'm a Yank.

My new goal, admittedly small, is to be able to order coffee entirely in an Irish accent - "Hi, small latte for takeaway, please? Thanks a million." I know it's going to take some practice and dedication, but that's a sacrifice I am totally willing to make...no matter how many times I have to go to that amazing coffee shop down the street in order to get it right. How does one say "croissant" in Irish?

Election Night in Eire

Courtesy of xkcd.com*

"Oh my god," said my apartment mate. "This is like, Katie's porn."

To be fair, I was on the edge of my seat, fingernails in my mouth, shouting at the TV for more, and practically having a political orgasm every time more polls closed. But it must be said that this was a night I would remember for the rest of my life -- the night America stepped up, chose the best man for the job, and voted Barack Obama not only for president, but as the first black president of the United States.

The day didn't start out well. I had been nervous and jumpy all day, trying to get reading done while frantically refreshing the New York Times webpage. It was around 2 p.m. Greenwich Mean Time when I finally did the math and realized that the earliest we'd hear anything was 11 p.m., and even then the results would be spotty at best.

It was like waiting for Christmas -- except this time, there was a chance that Santa would decide to bomb Iran, overturn Roe vs. Wade and amend the constitution to ban gay marriage before croaking and handing the country over to an unknown maverick-y maverick from Alaska.

I tried to keep myself occupied. I read. I went to lunch. I went to class. I did laundry. But it was hopeless, as all I could really concentrate on was the voice in my head screaming, "I WANT TO KNOW WHO WINS." I became more bitter over the five-hour time difference than ever before.

Finally, around 10 p.m., my apartment-mate J and I decided to head over to the Graduate Memorial Building, where we had heard that the College Historical Society (or The Hist) would be broadcasting the election results all through the night. The Graduates Memorial Building is absolutely beautiful, and to spend the night there with about a hundred other political dorks and Americans was pretty much the ideal situation, as far as I was concerned. And since we didn't have a TV and our only friend with a TV was otherwise occupied, it seemed like our best bet.

When we arrived, the lights were off and the door locked, without a political dork in sight. J and I looked at each other, crestfallen. Then one of us brokered the typical Irish solution:

"You want to try to find a bar?"

There are about four typical 'old-man bars' around our apartment, all of which would be quiet on a Tuesday night and all of which would be happy to accommodate two young American girls who just wanted to know what was going on in their country. That is, they would have been, had they had televisions, or had they stayed open past 11:30 p.m.

First we tried Kennedy's: No TV. Then the hotel bar: No TV. Then Foley's. There was a TV, but they were only open until half eleven, the barman told us, and suggested we try the Shelbourne Hotel bar down the street.

"Sure, there'll be lots of Americans there," he said, "and if you sneak in, they should turn a blind eye to whether you're actually staying there or not."

We thanked him profusely, and turned to head out. But he called us back, shouting, "But do you want me to tell you the results now?"

J shouted back, "Sure, what do you think?"

The barman smiled, utterly confident. "Obama. It's definitely going to be Obama."

It was around this point that I started praying that the Irish confidence in America's ability to choose the right man for the job wouldn't somehow jinx the results.

We pressed on, down the three blocks or so to the Shelbourne. It's important to know that the Shelbourne is where all the old, rich, American tourists stay -- a huge, really nice and extremely expensive hotel right on St. Stephen's Green. Naturally, we were intimidated, and a little apprehenisve about sneaking in. J decided that the best way to do it would be to keep cool, smoke a cigarette in the little smoking area, then walk into the bar like we belonged there.

We were putting this plan into action when an extremely drunk businessman walked by, blearily gave us the eye and muttered something that might have been, "Hello there" but also might have been a lewd invitation, before walking straight into the hotel bar. This was not looking good. Still, we had nowhere else to go, really, and so J finished her cigarette and we sauntered into the bar, trying to look as though we could totally afford to stay there.

Immediately, two things became blatantly clear: one, that there was not a TV, and two, the bar was full of lewd old men. Our friend from outside even made a detour in order to brush against J on his way to order what must have been pint number ten. I am pretty sure that we never really stopped moving; we just walked to one end of the bar, turned tail, and walked out.

For a while after, we weren't sure what to do. How could it be possible to not be able to find a late-closing bar in Dublin on election night? We decided to wander up Grafton Street and into Temple Bar, figuring we were sure to stumble on something there, what with all the tourists up that way. Surely some pub would be open late, and would be kind enough to put on the election for the American expatriates.

There was one bar that was, but sadly they were only open until midnight, and we were forced to continue our meander through Temple Bar until I spotted something in passing --

"Wait! Is that Hungry Harry's with the election on?"

It was. Hungry Harry's is a delightful little fast food place where the food is decent, but really fantastic after a few pints. For the moment, it was completely empty, and we ordered mounds of greasy food and planted ourselves in front of the BBC coverage of the vote. So far, it was Obama's 8 to McCain's 3, which (while I felt it was too close to call as of yet), seemed to exhilarate anyone who passed by.

Except, of course, the mad bunch of Italians who barged in, blocked our view, and began speaking very loudly about something I couldn't understand. Soon they were joined by five high-school-aged Irish boys, who (as Irish boys do), started to get a little rowdy. I was beginning to consider just going home and gluing myself to the New York Times web page, when suddenly--

Beep beep. Beep beep. J's phone, with a message from our Scottish friend A: "Hey ladies! U can come watch the election if you want cos the boy is gone and ill be up 4 ages yet!"

Within the half hour, we were happily installed on A's couch, where I was trying to explain the electoral college to both J and A. Not very effectively, I might add, as I'm a little shaky on the concept myself, but that didn't really seem to matter.

"Here, explain something to me," said A. "The whole middle of the map looks red, yeah? Which means McCain, right? So how is it possible for him not to win?"

I explained that it was based on population, and that in essence, California's 55 electoral votes combined with New York, the rest of New England and the Pacific Northwest, was enough to carry Obama. A lively discussion of states, populations, the likelihood of McCain winning, punctuated with a rehash of A's date that night and a rousing round of the States Game (during which A learned that Cincinnati was not, in fact, a state), lasted us until almost 4 a.m., at which point, I interrupted the festivities with a shout --

"WAIT. CALIFORNIA'S ABOUT TO CLOSE."

"What does that mean?" cried a startled A, while J responded with a laugh and the porn comment.

"It means we'll know who the president is in maybe fifteen minutes," I answered. I had barely gotten the sentence out before CNN blasted their "breaking news" theme, blocked out all the graphics that had been up with a big blue screen, on which was written: "CNN PROJECTON: BARACK OBAMA WINS PRESIDENCY."

I am pretty sure you could hear our screams on the other side of the River. After we settled a bit, we flipped to BBC to see them announce it, then to ITV to see them tell Ireland that America had elected their first African-American president.

I can barely remember what happened after, except that we waited forever for McCain to concede, and when he finally did, his speech was so dripping with condescension that even if I had wanted him to win before, I was now certain that Obama was the one for the US. (For the record, McCain is not my friend, and he might as well have just said, "Thanks for letting the black man win for once. Way to go, guys.")

We didn't stay up to watch Obama's speech. It was 5 a.m. by the time I got to bed that night, and I watched the speech on YouTube the next morning. But even though we didn’t technically see it through to the bitter end, I feel like we truly lived the expatriate election to its fullest, early-closing bars and empty fast-food restaurants just being part of the whole experience.

(* Cartoon above courtesy of xkcd, an awesome webcomic that you should all check out. Above image is cropped: full cartoon can be viewed here.)

Bright Lights, Big City

Sometimes I forget how huge a city Dublin is. It's easy to do, since most of it is fairly walkable and it takes me approximately the same amount of time to get from my dorm to the train station on the outskirts as it would to get from my dorm at Canisius to the center of Buffalo. Size-wise, it's not that big.

But otherwise? It's DUBLIN. Apparently this is a big deal. I forget that it's the capital of Ireland, and also the largest city, so naturally it's inherently important. Since Trinity is also one of the biggest and most well-known universities around, that makes where I'm living roughly like the New York City of Ireland.

Which is why I shouldn't be surprised when people like Patrick Stewart just pop on by for a quick chat with the historical society -- which he did, on Halloween, sweeping in to the room wearing a black Dracula cape and then talking about acting, Star Trek, and his love of Shakespeare for an hour and a half. (That's him to the left -- sorry, it is a little hard to tell, but that's him at Trinity.)

Similarly, I shouldn't be surprised when the Dublin City Marathon, which I expect to include maybe 50 people dressed up as werewolves and restaurants, turns out to include over 11,000 participants, all of whom run right by my front door on the way to the finish.

I shouldn't be surprised to find a kebab place next to a noodle house across the street from a pizzeria and a tandoori restaurant. And all this right down the street from a Mexican restaurant called The Alamo that serves Buffalo wings alongside fries with garlic mayo and cheddar cheese on top.

I've been here a month now, and I have only just felt like I am starting to fully appreciate this city. Sure, it still scares me, and sure, I'm irritated that I can't just walk to bars and clubs like I used to be able to in Galway. Yeah, I hate grocery shopping and having to schelp my purchases in an ostentatiously American backpack about a mile through crowded streets to my apartment.

But still, it's nice to be in a CITY for once, a huge one, where you could see anything, meet anyone, and anything could happen. That being said, I may go for a walk...I hear Jonathan Rhys-Meyers is in town?

It's all political

The last time I was in Ireland, there was no major political debate. We were in the middle of the Iraq War, but we had elected Bush two years before, and the only elections in sight were Senate elections. As a result, I only once was asked about my political leanings, and that was more about the average American's view on the War than anything else.

This time, though, it's a different story. There are Irish students in my program who are more informed about the issues and the candidates' respective stances on them than the majority of Americans I talk to. They've watched the debates, they have studied the political terrain, and they have made their decisions. And they want to know yours, as well.

The Irish and other international students view the declaration of candidate loyalty as a perfectly acceptable icebreaker; Hi, you're American, right, Obama or McCain? I had a very drunk 18-year-old Irish boy lurch up to me in a friend's dorm, declare that Jack Kerouac was an amazing writer, and then slur, "So, Obama or McCain?" The odd part is, he knew which one he wanted to hear.

Ireland has made up its mind about the presidential race, and it should come as no shock to anyone that they want Obama to win. Keep in mind that this is coming from a country where there is a deep-seated inherent racism, and that black jokes are not only accepted here, but considered hilarious and repeated over and over again in pubs to anyone who will listen.

Yet, I've heard nothing about Obama's racial background over here, only that they think he's smart and will have a positive impact on the rest of the world. It says something about the comparative tolerance and political savvy of the rest of the world that neither Obama's race nor Sarah Palin's gender has been an issue in any discussion I've had thus far: it's always about the issues.

I am, of course, generalizing, and I am sure that there are Irish people who would prefer McCain to Obama or who don't care either way. There are also Irish people who don't understand American politics or the American mindset but pretend like they do, and shoot off uninformed and offensive opinions at every turn (i.e. the girl in my class who felt that her visit to San Francisco last year made her qualified to say that America was raping other countries for oil and that she doesn't get why Americans feel proud to have relatives or friends in the military).

For the most part, though, if an Irish person engages you in a poltical debate, they are informed and eager to learn what they can about your opinion and your reasons for that opinion. And good for them; I know quite a few Americans who are not that willing to educate themselves on the political scene of their own nation, even though the outcome of this election will, in some way, change the world.

Sicko

There is nothing worse than being sick while overseas. All the old familiar remedies like chicken soup and Vicks Vaporub are either harder to come by or actually impossible to find. So there you are, in a strange room in a strange city, sick with no way to comfort yourself short of bundling up in a few layers of sweaters and running to the Centra convenience store for some Halls Soothers.

I managed to stave off the typical study abroad cold with the large supply of Cold-eeze I had stockpiled for such an occasion. I remembered my last Irish cold vividly: three and a half months of snivling, coughing, phelmy mess, leaving me feeling half-human and sending me running to the pharmacy for a new remedy every week or so. Luckily, with the help of the lovely Australian pharmacists and some sort of amazing Irish cough syrup, I was able to heal myself enough to drag myself to class.

So this time I arrived in Ireland with two boxes of Cold-eeze. When the first symptoms hit, I popped those pills like they were candy. Two days later, there was no cold in sight, and I congratulated myself on being so proactive as to stave off the disease that could have made my first semester an absolute hell.

I began to worry about my self-congratulations, though, at some point -- could I have jinxed my health for this semester? I am a supersitious person by nature, and so I began to worry that I would, in fact, get another cold, a BAD one.

I was wrong. Instead I was suddenly hit with flu-like symptoms: the fever, the exhaustion...and possibly the nausea, which has yet to occur but I'm sure will be coming along shortly. So let this be a lesson to you: Karma kills.

(I promise, you will get all the aforementioned blog entries once I pull myself together -- but right now I am going to curl up in bed with some tea and Oliver Twist and hope I can chase this off before it gets worse.)

Home Cookin'

(Grilled cheese with vintage Irish cheddar and 'red sauce' or ketchup -- American food, Irish style!)

Most college students eat very differently when we are at school versus at home -- even if school is technically our home for that academic term or whatever. School food consists of things in cans, in plastic packages...things that you may need to boil water for, but that's it. There's a lot of spaghetti, a lot of Ramen, and a lot of whatever the dining hall is serving.

Naturally, Irish school food is even stranger. There's the usual switch to the school-type pasta, but I find myself doing things with it that I would never do at school, probably due to the fact that the food Irish people eat, not even including the traditional pub fare and blood sausage you're thinking of, is very different from what Americans choose to eat.

Here, for your pleasure, is a description of some of the most different things I eat in Ireland, most of them with pictures:

Heinz Beans -- They say they're baked, but that's a lie. It's really kind of hard to describe the difference between these beans and baked beans back home, but imagine the sauce from Spaghettios mixed with just the beans from baked beans -- no bacon, no fat, no weird smoked flavor. The Irish and British eat this type of bean on toast for 'tea', a meal I have yet to figure out.

Kraft Light Herb and Garlic Dressing -- Picture ranch on crack. God, it's good. It's like a combination of ranch and maybe ceasar, which they recommend to put on potato salad with 'streaky bacon'. I discovered this in a search for something to dip my pizza crust in, and now I eat it on potatoes, pasta, rice....anything with a starch, and I pull out the dressing. Awesome.

Cadbury Bournville -- I have to admit that the first time I came to Ireland, I thought Green and Black's chocolate was the absolute pinnacle of chocolately goodness. And it is, but the fact that you can actually get it in the US and I just didn't know it has somehow taken the shine off those five-euro bars of organic chocolate. So I've switched to the two-euro Bournville, which is dark chocolate. Just that. Nothing else. A massive 200 gram hunk of marvelous Cadbury heaven. Yummm. It also comes in a drinking chocolate version. :)

Nutella -- I never eat this in the States, and I don't know why. It's really pretty easy to get and not that expensive. Here, though, it's cheaper than peanut butter (which the Irish and apparently the British don't get, by the way -- my Scottish friend demanded to know the other day why in God's name anyone would put peanut butter on a sandwich). It's really best when served on the next thing on this list or crepes, not bread, though you can do it.

Digestive biscuits -- Okay, first know that a biscuit is usually a word for cookie. Now realize that these are not really like cookies, either, but kind of like sweet crackers -- like a graham cracker, actually, but round and thicker. A close relation is the tea biscuit, which has the same concept but I think it's made with white flour and isn't brown. Again, eaten for 'tea', whatever that is, though I usually eat them with Nutella for breakfast or as a study snack.

Walkers Sensations -- Only the best potato chips in the world. These are, as my Scottish friend calls them, 'posh crisps' that come in flavors like Roast Chicken and Thyme, Cheddar and Red Onion Chutney, and my favorite, Caramelized Onion and Balsamic Vinaigrette. And since they don't come in the 'prawn cocktail' variety many other chips here do...I'm all for them.

Ethnic Food -- I don't know whether this is because we're closer to Europe/Asia or there's a greater immigrant population here, but Uncle Ben's (of the rice?) makes bottled Indian and Chinese food sauces like Sweet and Sour and Tikka Masala. And it's not just Uncle Ben's -- it's even in the generic store brands. It throws me, because while usually we do have ethnic food of this sort, it's not really as mainstream (except at Wegmans, but even there you just have bottled soy sauce and satay sauce sometimes, never anything as complicated as Tikka Masala). And they keep it next to the tomato sauce like it's totally normal...but you can't get Mexican food, like salsa or chips, for anything. Go figure. Maybe it's a hemisphere thing.

Good thing I am doing all this walking, or else I'd weigh four million pounds by now. Next time, actually going-out-and-eating-real-meals food :)

Commenting

Hey, everyone --

Apparently there were issues with being able to (or not being able to) comment on the blog. Sorry, I had the settings a little stricter than normal because I had trouble with trolls on my literature blog -- but now everyone should be able to comment, whether you have Gmail or not!

Look for posts coming up about my favorite streets and neighborhoods to explore, as well as eating my way across the city. Any excuse to go out for food, ya know? :P

-- KT

Coming Clean

Today was laundry day, which was a new and interesting challenge. See, not only are the washers and such a little different over here, the fact that I am still a little discombobulated makes even the most ordinary task seem complicated.

Still, I was running out of clothes, and was determined to somehow 1) find the laundrette on campus 2) have enough change to do at least two loads of wash and 3) do it all without embarrassing myself.

The thing to remember about Trinity is that the whole place is overrun with tourists. TCD houses both the Book of Kells and Ireland's oldest harp, as well as being 400 years old and super gorgeous. Almost anyone who comes to Dublin comes to see the Book of Kells at some point, whether they know what it is or not (admittedly, I didn't know until two days ago what, exactly, its significance was). The amount of people wandering around makes it quite difficult to smuggle your dirty clothes across campus without accidentally displaying it to at least 20 tourists.

But I had prepared for this, packing my clothes in a small duffle bag and my trusty Dunnes Store shopping bag (Always Better Value!). Sure, together they weighed approximately 50 pounds, but no problem, I thought. I'm tough, I carted sewing machines around all summer for my job, surely I can carry two bags of wash across campus.

Have I mentioned how large the campus is?

Have I further mentioned that, being 400 years old, it's hard to find anything in a timely manner?

Twenty minutes later, I found myself wandering through the Atrium looking for something, anything, that resembled a washer or dryer. The Atrium is a large building near the front of the campus, older than my home country, and which houses the bank, two dining halls, the coffee shop, and a large room where I think fancy dinners are held. This is not the place you want to be wandering with a bag full of dirty sweat socks.

On my second pass, I got desperate and approached two students in Philosophy Society sweatshirts who were probably flirting with each other and were not going to be pleased with my interruption. Still, I thought, Philosophy Society? They were definitely fellow geeks, and more likely to be sympathetic than the girl with a fake tan and faker Gucci bag using the ATM. Trying my best to hide the contents of the shopping bag, I took a deep breath, and made the approach.

"I'm sorry, excuse me, sorry, but could you possibly tell me where the laundrette is, please?" I stammered. I tend to compensate for my accent and my stupidity by being over-polite, which generally leads to more confusion. Both students stared at me for a second, during which I could see the wheels turning in their heads as they tried to translate my American English babble into something comprehensible.

"Oh sure," said the one after a few moments. "Go out that door and turn right, there's a gap in the buildings, then turn left and right and go through those three doors before you hop the hedge and mind the barbed wire, if the dragon's not grumpy you'll be fine."

Or something like that.

As always when I get directions from an Irish person, I find myself forgetting them, or unable to follow them in any form. Still, I thanked them and hefted my duffle higher on my shoulder, determined to make the journey and come back with clean clothes.

I turned right. There was, in fact, a gap in the buildings. I'm not sure how to convey the narrownness of this gap to you, except to say that I doubt Jonathan Swift (who, by all accounts, was a rather portly man) could have fit through this gap. Somehow, I managed it, only to be faced with a series of gates and swipe card acces points, which I also managed to navigate.

"What do they keep back here," I muttered to myself. "I hardly think the washers are worth guarding this strictly." I began to worry that maybe I had heard right, that there was a dragon, and Trinity's resemblence to Hogworts wasn't just in my mind.

Finally, after another narrow channel, I found myself in a gravel courtyard, facing a tiny little building labelled "LAUNDRETTE." At last! I practically skipped to the door, turned the handle, and --

Nothing. I rattled the door. Nothing. It was locked. But wait -- was there someone --

With a suddenness that startled me beyond reason, a large male face with what might have been a smile but I read as a grimace, appeared at the window. The disembodied head jerked itself to the right, indicating that I was to go around for access. After picking my dignity and my socks off the pavement, I did so.

"Hi!" said the guy, once I finally managed to get into the room. He regarded me sympathetically, with more than a hint of condescension, and added, "Hangin' in there?"

Excuse me? I thought. Just--what? Hanging in? I'm fine. Why would I be otherwise, jackass?

I didn't say this, of course. Instead, I laughed charmingly and said, "Yeah, trying to!" before turning to the washers.

"You know, washer 12 doesn't work, but I just used number 13, so it's fine," Laundry Man helpfully added.

"Thanks," I responded, opening washer 14 in what I hoped was a rather final manner.

"Soo...where are you from?"

Ugh. I hate this question, because it's such a complicated answer, more than I really want to share with random laundrette customers. Besides, I thought, could he have come up with a less original line? Why didn't he just open with, "So, come here often? What's your sign?"

But, in the spirit of being friendly, I responded, "Originally Buffalo, New York, but my family just moved to California."

This was a mistake.

"Oh, California! I've been there, yeah, my company used to send me to Santa Barbara all the time, until I told them they'd either have to transfer me or keep me in Maine, that's where I'm from, Maine, but my family is from the North, you know, the North of Ireland, though I've been in the South off and on for about fifteen years now..."

"I thought your accent sounded a little Irish," I offered politely. This was apparently ego-stroking to the highest degree, as he puffed up immensely and launched into another monologue, this time with an exaggeration of the accent.

"Oh, sure, it's being back here, it is. I've been back two weeks now, lots of craic, I live in the suburbs, I do, lived there for years, and you know it's hard to find places to eat in the city? You live near Pearse street? There's a great sandwich place -- you like sandwich places? It's Italian, great food, sure, what kind of food do you like?"

Oh geez. I prayed this wasn't headed the direction I thought it was.

"Italian's fine, but I'm not picky," I said. "So long as it's cheap, I guess." Silently, I cursed myself for saying I wasn't picky, on the off chance he might think that applied to other areas of my life...but thankfully, he let this one go.

"Have you found the grocery stores? You should get a Dunnes card, you know, not Tesco, because Dunnes is really a better deal and Tesco is so far away, and you know they give you vouchers so you end up saving 25 percent overall so it's really better than Tesco, you should really do that, and have you registered with the Garda yet? You know, you don't need a letter from student records, get one from your department, it's so much faster and it'll be much easier for you, what program are you in?"

"Popular Literature?" I managed to say. He stared at me for a moment, which I took as an opportunity to pull The Blind Assassin from my laundry bag, as if I could not wait to get my hands on a book. I had him pegged as a business major, and figured the book would not go over well.

"Oh. Well." More silence. Never had I been so glad to belong to a relatively obscure master's program. As he stood up and went over to his stopped dryers, I cracked open my book and read and read and read as if my life depended on it.

I have never seen a kid fold towels so fast. Never. Two minutes later, he gone, with a quick, "Good luck," and a slam of the rickety door. I heaved a sigh of relief and offered a silent prayer of thanks that I had not had to either go eat Italian sandwiches with this kid or reject him somewhat awkwardly.

I spent the rest of my time buried in my book and staring at the clothes going around in the dryer. Finally, 90 minutes and 8 euro later, they were all fresh, clean, dry and ready for folding. I happily folded everything, packed my bags, and prepared for the walk back to my dorm.

It was then that I noticed it was raining. Figures.

First Day in Dublin: A Timetable

7:00 Awaken to sounds of friend’s roommates making three-course breakfast. Notice that noise is particularly jarring and food smells induce nausea.

7:03 Convince self that killing said roommates would not be helpful. Roll over and attempt to fall back asleep.

8:30 Awakened by alarm. Try to convince self this is only a dream; fail.

8:31 Attempt to stand up, but fall over. Speculate if dizziness/weakness could be result of last night’s shenanigans.

8:32 Decide last night was not the night to try hard cider for the first time. Further confirm that it was not the time to try it for the second and third, either.

8:35 Manage to stand up and shuffle to bathroom; shower and attempt to feel human.

9:00 Make mental list of everything that needs done (packing, catching train, saying goodbye, trying not to vomit).

9:01 Stare blankly at suitcase, then pile of clothes, then suitcase again.

9:02 Decide to go for coffee.

9:10 Experiment one: Latte. Despite possible hangover, latte is accepted by stomach with little complaint. Sigh with relief.

9:20 Experiment two: Croissant. Meet with mixed results, but continue, determined to ingest calories.

9:30 Results of croissant experiment worsen; dizziness and shaking fail to abate. Begin to suspect symptoms are not solely due to aforementioned shenanigans.

9:45 Return to apartment. Friend, who is leaving for class, confirms that symptoms could be due to nerves, not cider aftermath. Suggests a little hair of the dog.

9:46 Debate hair of dog, but realize there is no alcohol in the apartment. Begin to pack instead.

10:00 Pack

10:30 Cry

11:15 Friend returns to apartment in middle of shaking/crying/packing session. Suggests staying in Galway forever rather than going to Dublin.

11:16 Seriously consider this option; cry harder.

11:21 Calm down enough to sit on couch and talk with friend while staring at suitcase. Friend offers to help take suitcases to train station, as shaking has continued. Accept gratefully.

12:00 Head to train station, ignoring the stares of passersby who wonder what all the luggage could possibly be for.

12:05 Finagle suitcases up stairs; curse airport baggage handler who broke handle on largest suitcase.

12:10 Tearful goodbye and back-breaking hug with friend. Friend leaves; do not run after.

12:11 Attempt not to lose it completely in front of ten middle-aged Irish people, small family, and confused-looking German student.

12:26 Realize train is not boarding for another half hour and that train door is approximately eight inches off platform. Will have to lift luggage into train rather than gracefully roll.

12:27 Curse to self using best and most colorful vocabulary; resist cursing out loud and frightening middle-aged Irish people.

1:03 Train finally begins boarding. Struggle with suitcases.

1:05 Efficient Irish couple takes control of suitcases and helps lift onto train in two seconds flat. Thank them in broad American accent.

1:06 Try not to cry because the Irish are just too freaking nice. Settle into seat with large book.

2:10 Wake with start. Realize still on train and book is unopened. Nerves have shrunken bladder to approximate size of hazelnut and strange American man is staring through crack in seats.

2:15 Decide that American man is asleep, not staring, as eyes are hidden by sunglasses.

3:00 Freak out about possibilities if office is closed on arrival: sleep on street? Find hostel? Curl up in Molly Malone statue’s barrow?

3:20 Gaze falls on strange, possible Gypsy passenger making odd gestures, as if calling forth spirits from coffee cup. Quickly look away and wonder if train ride will ever end.

3:50 Train arrives in Heuston station; jump out of seat like a shot and head for luggage rack.

3:51 Hold up entire car trying to retrieve luggage. No Irish couples come to rescue; strange American man no help whatsoever.

3:54 Exit station and search desperately for a taxi. Find nice Indian driver speaks excellent English and heaves suitcases into back of cab with no problems.

4:05 Worry more about accommodations office closing. Polite driver conversation starts to turn awkward.

4:06 Driver asks if homesick. Answer, “A little!” Do not cry.

4:07 Driver asks if have family in town. Answer, “No, just me!” Do not cry.

4:08 Driver asks if parents are coming to visit. Answer, “I hope so!” Refrain from simultaneously strangling driver and bursting into gut-wrenching sobs.

4:15 Arrive at Trinity’s front gate; unload luggage in front of dozens of gawking tourists.

4:17 Wheel luggage through quad; hit cobblestones. Curse school, country, self, campus designer, and Jonathan Swift.

4:23 Find accommodations office. Pump fist in mini-triumph.

4:24 Try to lift 100 pounds of luggage into office. Struggle valiantly, but outcome is clear.

4:25 Two strapping Irish boys appear from depths of office and suggest leaving luggage outside door. Thank profusely, and wonder if all students at Trinity are attractive as well as intelligent, or if it’s just these two.

4:30 Check in with desk clerk, receive swipe card and instructions for use. Also receive directions to dorm, which immediately fly out of head.

4:35 Exit office in daze and prepare for long walk to dorm with suitcases.

4:36 Aforementioned Irish boys offer services as luggage carriers and general guides.

4:37 Realize boys are being so nice that self must look like death warmed over. Smile tiredly and thank them so effusively that both look a little startled.

4:38 Clamber into van as boys load suitcases in back. Try not to stare at bulging muscles, especially on boy number one, who climbs into driver’s seat. Try even harder not to be impressed that he can drive standard.

4:40 Boy number two suddenly remembers other pressing errand and deserts van.

4:44 Informed by boy number one that some “eejit” is blocking the road, so luggage must be walked the rest of the way to dorm. Hearing “eejit” in real life almost makes up for walk.

4:50 Discover dorm is right next to commuter rail station. Grimace and expect a great deal of noise.

4:53 Enter apartment. Discover apartment looks like cell block/men's locker room. Smile gamely at boy as he gives short tour.

4:56 Ask about laundry facilities in attempt to prolong visit. Boy leans in to show on map. Begin to wish own breath did not smell like zinc lozenges, train air, and onion chips.

4:57 Boy leaves. Stand in center of room and gaze around, lost.

4:58 Completely lose it. Stand in center of room surrounded by suitcases and weep uncontrollably.

5:05 Realize that there is no toilet paper in apartment and shopping centers might be closing. Text Dublin friend desperately trying to get directions to nearest grocery store.

5:10 Friend is actually walking to grocery store now; offers to meet you. Accept gratefully and wonder when you are going to stop being such a dependent person. Agree to meet in ten minutes.

5:11 Leave apartment. Have no idea how to get back to main gate. Begin to wander aimlessly.

6:05 Find main gate, and friend. Apologize for being such a disaster.

6:15 Arrive at grocery store. Remember why going to grocery store while already overwhelmed is a bad idea.

6:20 Stand in bread aisle and debate merits of wheat vs. brown vs. barm brack. Try to figure out what barm brack is. Fail.

6:21 Try not to cry when faced with five different frozen pizza choices.

6:25 Somehow manage to check out, despite complete lack of comprehension regarding currency denominations in new country.

6:45 Arrive back at apartment; ditch friend.

6:50 Put away groceries and make bed, weeping all the while.

7:30 Collapse into bed; pray that construction outside window does not begin too early in the morning.

And that's Dublin! Or, what it was a few days ago...look for another post later today on the joys of old books and doing laundry in a foreign country.

Galway Love

You never really remember everything you loved about a place until you go back. Sure, you miss certain things, but there are always other things that you rediscover and realize how amazing they were.

I was in Galway for a week before moving into Trinity, and it was everything I needed in every single way. I forgot how many of my favorite things are so easily accessible here, and even though my internet access is shaky and as an American I very clearly do not belong here, I have to say, I could get used to this.

First, my absolute favorite thing in the world is to sit in a coffeehouse with a book, a latte, and a baked good, and not be disturbed. I could never do this in Buffalo. All of our coffeehouses are either Starbucks or Tim Hortons, which do not lend themselves to this sort of thing, or Spot, where the clientele is…I don’t know, too artsy and too fast-moving to really let me feel comfortable sitting alone with a book.

But here, there’s a coffeehouse that is my dream café. The coffee is strong, the muffins are amazing, and no one cares if I sit there and read – or pretend to read while listening to the Irish couples next to me discuss how Sally is dealing with going away to school for the first time. (Better this week, thanks.)

My second favorite thing in the world is to walk along some sort of body of water—not go in it, but just walk and listen to the water. There is no water in California, except the trickle they call Castaic River or creek or whatever, and the ocean is an hour away if the traffic isn’t bad.

Here, the entire city is cut in half by the River Corrib, this amazing, rolling river that runs straight into the bay that’s named after the city. The whole city is defined by the water; there used to be lots of fishermen here that sold their wares in Fisherman’s Market, which is now a common gathering place on weekends, the old sailboats here are famous, and people have been pouring into and out of this little port city since the Vikings. I can walk ten minutes in one direction and collect seashells on the bay, or I can walk in another and follow the river all the way to Salmon Weir Bridge, where it’s bordered by stone walls covered in overgrown ivy.

My third favorite thing is to grocery shop. Oh, not the part where you get to the register and realize you’ve spent your life savings, but the part where you wander the aisles, checking out how the carrots look this week, or figuring out what you could make with the mushrooms that are on sale.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. “Katie,” you’re saying, “you grew up in Buffalo, land of Wegmans. California can’t even compare to New York, so how is a tiny backwater city in a tiny country going to do it?”

And you’re right, in a sense. The selection isn’t as good here, no, and I can’t get cantaloupes in December. But what I can do is get blocks of real, vintage Irish cheddar for the American equivalent of $3 a block, whereas at Trader Joe’s, it would cost me twice that, and the cheese would be kind of stale. And though Dove Cream Oil body wash might cost me more for a smaller bottle, and Ben and Jerry’s is about $8 a pint, the fact that I can even get them here has a certain charm to it that makes me happy in a way.

Oh well, too bad I had to leave so soon! Hopefully I'll have the chance to come back often...or I'll find my own things to love about Dublin.

Woulda Coulda Shoulda

What kills me about being here is that I so easily could not have been here. At any given point during a period where I’m adjusting to change, I find myself thinking about all the things I could have—or should have—done instead of being so stupid as to put myself in the current situation.

The situation being that I have moved to Ireland. It’s completely crazy. It’s even crazier for me to have moved to Dublin, a world capital, especially as I truly believe I am a small-town girl at heart and city living, while exciting and nice to imagine myself doing, is not exactly comfortable. It’s almost psychotic for me to have moved here for a full year, and it’s absolutely barking mad of me to have enrolled in a fairly useless master’s program at one of the world’s toughest universities.

And so, I find myself creating little scenarios for myself that include some of the benefits of my nutty situation and none of the flaws. In Galway, I found myself thinking that the perfect way to still have been “my exotic friend Katie” would have been to take a short trip to Ireland, in which I packed light and lived rough and slept on couches, for all of about two weeks before returning to my home.

It sounds perfect. I’d still get to see Ireland, less pressure, more excitement, no schoolwork, no moving, and infinitely less luggage. It would be so easy, so easy!

But then I think, where is this ‘home’ I’m returning to? I can’t live with my parents in this scenario, as I would have been job-hunting all summer with the intent to move to some flourishing publishing metropolis where I would work in an unlit basement office slaving over unspeakably horrible manuscripts. I wouldn’t have the money to travel anywhere with that kind of job, let alone another country. And most of all, I am certainly not exotic. The premise is totally flawed.

(This line of thinking does, however, ignore the fact that I don’t have the money to be here, not really. I might have money in my bank account, but I am actually $45,000 in debt, thanks to my non-EU status and the lack of fellowships for students in taught programs.)

Then I start to think again (oh boy) and decide that what I could have done was go to school in Boston. I’d still have loans, but they’d probably be less, and I would get to teach and live in an actual flourishing publishing metropolis. I’d have a two-year master’s under my belt from a pretty respected school, and someday, I could get a good job and revisit Ireland as a two-week tourist.

But that’s no good either. Moving to Boston has its advantages, of course, such as being able to load all of my things into a U-Haul and settle down for the long haul in my own apartment, all with the help of my self-sacrificing mother, who had already promised to drive down with me.

I think the flaws of the Boston scenario can best be summed up by saying that I would have to drive the U-Haul into Boston (Jesus, I’m breaking out into a mild panic attack even now, four thousand miles away), but for those of you unfamiliar with the tenth level of Dante’s hell that is the I-95 near Boston, let me give more relevant examples.

The program is longer than the one at Trinity, which means more permanence, but also means more commitment. If there’s one thing I hate in combination with change, it’s commitment (which is possibly why I’m still so glaringly single). Boston is larger than Dublin, and also scarier because of the Red Sox fans (as much as I love them). Rent would be more expensive, and did I really want to live in Boston? I’d have to get a job right away to afford the rent, and the possibility of working a job while trying to learn two languages and master the nuances of critical theory was not at all appealing.

But then I start to wonder why I’m not staying in Galway, and that’s a much harder question to answer. Yes, it would be moving still, but the programs were shorter than Boston’s and rent is somewhat cheaper. I love this city, I have a really super friend here, and I know I’d make more easily with the type of school Galway is.

I suppose the real reason Galway wouldn’t do is because it’s too easy. I could fall right back into life here, no problem—well, with only the tiny, frustrating problems of how to get the dryer to work and how to work the hot water heater. Moving to Galway, in a way, would be like staying in Buffalo, in the way that it would be just settling back into a place that felt like home in between visits to my family in California.

Right now, though, that doesn’t feel like a good enough answer. I guess I’ll have to wait until I get to Dublin and see what kind of perspective that gives me.

When Irish eyes are...crying?

The thing everyone has been asking me is, "How was your flight?" as if this plane ride was somehow different than any other extended amount of time in a vehicle of mass transportation. I mean, it was a flight, it was long, but it was fairly uneventful, almost anti-climactic. It was really only notable for the amount of times I totally lost it before I even got on the plane (three, at last count).

Can I just say that I am not a graceful crier?

There is a picture of me somewhere at the age of two or three, peeping between the bars of my crib with my face screwed up, eyes bright red and marvelously puffy, just screaming my poor little lungs out. My crying face has not changed a bit since then.

Faced with the possibility of crying myself through five airports in a week, I imagined myself getting quite good at crying, maybe even being able to control it. I would shed a small, graceful tear in Buffalo before breezing through JFK and Shannon Airport with aplomb, making little jokes with the immigration officers and generally conducting myself with dignity.

Instead, I found myself openly weeping at Burbank, Chicago Midway, Buffalo-Niagara International, JFK and Shannon. I did the full face-screwing not once, but three times in Buffalo: once when saying goodbye to my father via phone, once when leaving my mother, and once in the restroom while trying to convince myself that now would be as good a time as any to completely lose it.

And on top of it, my brain had disappeared. I considered myself a fairly smart kid, resourceful, able to get myself through various situations with something approaching competence. But that day in JFK, I was barely able to pay my overweight luggage fee and find the right gate. My luggage seemed overly complicated, full of straps and hooks and wheels that all must be configured in very specific ways in order to keep the bag rolling, upright, and closed. I’m actually a little surprised that my large case didn’t fly open in the middle of terminal 4, sending underwear and other necessities scudding down the concourse.

Somehow, I did manage to pull it together and get through customs dry-eyed and with some semblance of maturity. No doubt there'll be more tears as the week passes and as I'm forced to actually move to Dublin (next Wednesday, actually) -- and aren't you lucky? You get to hear all about it!

I promise, the next entry will be somewhat more cheerful, but I feel like I should write down everything, you know, not just the positive. Moving is hell in itself, but moving to a foreign country? Even scarier, even if I have been on this side of the pond before.

In Dublin's Fair City

Hello, and welcome to my blog! Odds are, if you're here, I know you, or at least know of you, so please feel free to comment and let me know you've found me! Here is where I will be chronicling my year at Trinity College, along with all the travel and silly Irish quirkiness that naturally will come along.

The first time I went to Ireland was in the fall of 2006, where I studied for a semester at the National University of Ireland at Galway, a small town on the west coast. I was writing for the school paper at the time, which gave me the chance to write about the entire experience. It even prompted me to do things I would not have ordinarily tried (like eating macaroni and cheese out of a can -- yuck).

The purpose of this blog, then, is a double one: to continue to reap the benefits of writing for the paper without actually writing for the paper, and to share my experiences with my family and friends in a more detailed way.

I will be in the country on September 18th, and actually in Dublin by September 24th. Check back regularly, though I'm sure if you follow this blog, you'll learn more about Ireland, the trials of living abroad, and my personality flaws, than you had ever hoped to know. Slainte!