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.