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!