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.

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?