Book of Kells

We were supposed to go to the Botanical Gardens this morning, but Betta decided that there wasn't enough time.  Instead, I went on my own to see the Book of Kells at Trinity College.  Next to the Guttenberg, this is one of the most famous Bibles ever printed. 

It is one of the few surviving texts from the Viking invasions in the ninth century when many monasteries were burned to the ground by the marauders.  The pages are exquisitely illuminated (a mixture of text, artwork, and text as artwork).  Monks literally spent their entire lives copying the text.  The designs are exquisite.  They sometimes even used flecks of real gold mixed in the paint to elevate the words and enhance their divinity.

 Part of the reason why they book has survived so long is because the pages are vellum, not paper.  Approximately, 185 calves were killed to create enough writing space (vellum is calf skin).  If PETA were around in the ninth century, they would have had a field day with that statistic!

Is it worth nine euros?  Absolutely not.  I still can't believe I paid the admission price.  And, yet, it would have been a crying shame for me to have stayed in Dublin for three months and never seen it.  So, I guess the admission price was worth it to ease my conscience.  And, while I'm continuing to ease my conscience, I must admit that I bought two books about Kells---I couldn't resist!

The entrance to Trinity's hallowed halls.  Trinity actually started as a Protestant college in 1592.  It was built by the Queen in an effort to enhance Protestant values and end debauchery.  No word yet on whether or not this has been acheived. 

When I got home tonight, I baked a cheesecake with Betta.  Uncle Harry's cheesecake definitely tastes better, but I made a passable attempt at his recipe.  I gave her my American cheesecake recipe and she is going to teach me how to make a pizza.  What a great trade! 

Rugby and Literature

We were supposed to go to Galway this weekend, but it was too windy.  Yes, the weather turned even uglier than usual (I felt like I was walking at a sixty degree tilt with rain pelting my face), but that really wouldn't stop me.  It would, however, stop my roommate. 

It would seem that we have a difference in personality.  I really love her, she has been an amazingly fabulous roommate---even better than I could have hoped for---however, she is more the stay-at-home type.  Whenever I come up with suggestions for things to do, she can think of a reason why we shouldn't do it. 

However, the Six Nations rugby tournament starts this weekend, and if we weren't leaving Dublin, then I definitely wanted to watch the game.  I convinced Betta that we should get the true atmosphere of the game. I wanted to smell the sweat, hear the grumbles and protests against the ref, and watch the guys get in each other's faces.  Would I do this at the stadium?  No.  I mean that I would go to a pub to watch the game.

Why?  Because -

At first we went to Old Gogarty's and the place seemed lively.  There were Irish jerseys everywhere (and some full grown men dressed as Hogwarts characters---it looked like a frat dare).  Ireland was playing Italy so Betta whispered her cheers so as not to start a riot.  There weren't any open seats and Betta didn't want to stand at the bar so we moved on.

We wound up going to the Old Storehouse.  The crowd was more subdued here but still riveted to the game.  We sat in a corner, literally a wall separated us partially from the rest of the bar.  I was hoping that the game would be a great way to meet people, but it looks like I'll have to do that on my own.  It was a very pleasant afternoon, and I enjoyed hanging out, but it wasn't quite what I had in mind. 

I still have no idea how rugby is played.  I gathered that you must pass the ball backward and you can score by running past the end of the field or kicking the ball through the post.  The rest, however, is beyond me.  Particularly confusing is when all the guys get into the scrum (what they call a giant bone-crunching huddle) and then kick the rugby ball around on the floor until it comes out one side.  Are they doing a sort of tug of war?  A hot potatoe dance?  A group hug?  Then, they lift a guy high into the air and throw the ball to him...and then they all proceed to tackle each other again.   I really really need someone to explain the rules to me. 

In the end, it was quite a close game - 11-10.  Ireland won, so there was slight disappointment back at the apartment, but nevertheless, a good time had by all.

Later that evening, there was nothing going on.  I didn't come all the way to Dublin to sit in my room staring at the walls - I wanted to do something new!  From various sources, I heard that Dublin's Literary Pub Crawl was amazing, so I decided to check it out.  I asked Betta if she would like to join me, but she declined, so I ventured out alone. 

The crawl is a tour delivered by two storytellers/actors.  The duo takes you around to some of the most famous pubs in Dublin where some of the great writers gathered ideas and characters for the stories.  James Joyce, Oscar Wilde, W.B. Yeats, Samuel Becket, George Bernard Shaw, and Jonathan Swift (just to name a few) all frequented the same places.  Although the facades of the buildings have changed, the nature of them has not. 

I know what you are thinking - dork!  Learning about literature at pubs?  Rubbish!  Why would you do that?  But the tour is actually rated one of the best in the city.  And, since Dublin has the title of one of the world's Cities of Literature designated by UNESCO, I figured that I might as well take it all in.  One author, Brendan Behan, is quoted as saying, "I am a drinker with a writing problem," and I suppose that sums up the tour.  Only in Dublin, I think, can you learn about literature through a tour of its pubs.

The tour started at the Duke, a quaint establishment you'll find it nestled on a small street off of Grafton. I got there a little early, so I watched the end of the Manchester United soccer game.  The match played on every television, and I was excited to watch with a crowd who cheered (at home, crowds usually snore instead).

We travelled around town and stopped at four pubs altogether.  At each spot, the tour guides would explain a bit of the history about the pub and about an author.  They would also often act out a scene from whatever piece of literature they were discussing.  I got a taste of Ireland's legendary storytelling ability, the gift of the gab.  The duo weaved stories together linking the past and the present and the entirely make-believe. 

In one bit, they enacted a scene where they played two beggars from the 1750s.  As the play goes, the two decide that, to get some money, they will sing tunes for Protestants or Catholics.  The trouble is that they often choose the wrong song and are left without a dime in their cap.  What makes the bit more interesting is that this whole scene is taking place on the steps outside in the middle of the public!  So when they flip off a passerby for not giving them any change, it happens both as part of the play and for real!

I was lucky enough on the tour to be adopted for the night by a family.  Three of the group were similar in age to me (they were taking their dad on the tour for his birthday).  I started talking to them as the tour wore on and we hung out together at each of the pubs.  Thankfully, they didn't mind me tagging along even though they were there as a family event. 

At the end of the night, we all stayed at the last pub and shared a drink.  Despite my worry that I would overstay my welcome, the family pulled up a chair for me and Emer (the girl with whom I had chatted most of the night) even bought me a cider.  No one else on the tour stayed, but then again, no one else on the tour was Irish.  The family seemed quite surprised that the everyone else had gone home straightaway - why wouldn't they have stayed for a drink and a laugh? 

I'm trying to learn to appreciate these chances, to use these times to get out there and meet new people.  You have these brief moments with people, times when total strangers have the chance to come together for one night.  It is still awkward for me (often like a bad first date where you chat for awhile and then eat something quickly so your mouth is occupied while you think of something to say), but every day offers a new opportunity.

  Chillin with James Joyce

Hanging with Oscar Wilde

Good News!

?Awe shucks!  I'm in Dublin, all the way across the Atlantic.  Sorry I can't come in for an interview.  I'm really bummed about it."

That's what I thought I could say.  I got all of my applications sent out before I left, but then I figured that I would be safe from the interviewing process. 

I was wrong.

Bank Street sent me an email asking if I could interview, and no worries, I can do it over skype.  I could not escape!  In all honesty, however, it was actually really amazing that I could conduct an interview across thousands of miles and a five hour time difference.  Technology can be an incredible thing! 

In the past, I would have been incredibly nervous, but now, I've had to adapt to meeting so many new people in such a short time that an interview didn't seem so bad.  I surprised myself by how little I actually worried. 

The interview went exceedingly well.  I was shocked when, at the end of the conversation, the director asked me, "So where should I send your acceptance letter?" 

Really!?!  I still can't believe that I have already been accepted to the program!  I had to hold my hand under my jaw to keep my mouth from gaping open.  I can start in June---I don't even have to wait until the fall semester.  I fell in love with the school's educational philosophy and I think that I could definitely fit in.

I probably won't hear back from the other universities until April.  I don't know where I will end up going---but it's nice to know that I already got accepted somewhere ;-)

Locked in the Crypt

The end of the day was fast approaching and I still needed to get some packets together for a school group the next day.  I raced down to the part of the crypt where the worksheets are kept.  The small wooden door under the major stairs unlocks to lead down another narrow stone staircase.  Swing open an iron gate, flip on the lights (no windows down here), and enter a cold, giant stone room with nothing but dust bunnies to keep you company.  I am told, "Never, ever close the door all they way.  Bring your mobile with you just in case because, once that door closes, you're stuck."  

But it's the end of the day, and I only have to make a few packets.  I'll just run down real quick.   I close the door behind me just enough so that the public doesn't know that it's open, but not far enough that it shuts.  Everything goes according to plan, and after about an hour, I sludge up the stairs carrying my finished boxes.  But wait, I no longer see a light coming through the gap in the door.  I put down my boxes and yank on the handle.  No luck.  Someone has unintentionally shut me in!

I try pulling harder, using my foot against the wall as leverage.  The lock holds.  I consider banging on the door to see if someone will hear me and get an attendant, but just as I raise my fist to start pounding, I pause.  The noise would probably scare the living daylights out of some passerby visitor. 

Can you imagine?  You are walking down the hall, enjoying your visit the museum when, suddenly, you hear a banging noise soming from beneath the stairs.  "Help!  Let me out!" you hear a scream emanating from below as the wood creaks from the thudding.  It's some trapped soul, locked away in the dark bowels of the museum!

That would be enough to give some elderly lady a heart attack.  I decide to wait before knocking and use it as a last resort. 

Instead, I peer through the keyhole.  The lock seems to work both ways --- could I try my key in reverse?  I poke and prod and twist and turn.  "The museum will be closing in five minutes." the loudspeaker announces to the public.  I poke and prod and twist and turn even faster now.  My palms are getting sweatier and I roll up my sleeves.  The key just twirls in circles and doesn't seem to do anything. 

Finally, I feel the key click with a special flick of my wrist.  I give one last pull on the handle, nearly slipping off the stair ledge in the process.  The door swings open nonchalantly, hinging open easily as though it never had a problem.  Stupid door.

By now, the museum has closed and I am unexpectedly greeted by another door.  The attendant must have sealed off the hallway while I was stuck downstairs.  I leave the boxes where they are---I'm not carrying them through this maze.  I have to exit through different exhibits, climbing my way through the Egypt room, manuevering through blockades in the Medeival corridor, and finally finding the main staircase to lead back to the offices.  I felt like Lara Croft, tomb raider, or Indiana Jones.  All I need know is a giant boulder to roll my way.

Later that night, I had the same thing happen to me in the bathroom of my apartment.  No joke, the key got stuck in the door, and while balancing a towel atop my head, it took me 10 minutes to jiggle it just the right way to loosen the lock.  Really?  Again?  Maybe if the museum gig doesn't work out, I can get a job as a locksmith.

When I get home, I hope to never use a Victorian-era stylized key again.  I don't think I even want to use a key.  Maybe I'll just get swipe cards for everything. 

interesting store combo

At this store, you can actually buy real beer goggles.  

Depressing Afternoon, Lovely Evening

Betta's friend Helen joined us for lunch this afternoon at our apartment, and then we headed to spend the day in the city center.  We stopped into Penney's, a local department store much like Kohl's - fashion for half the price.  Just like Kohl's, you can find some amazing deals, but you also have to weed through some junk.  Betta and Helen claim that they can point out what a person's nationality is based on what they are wearing.  There is a British style, Italian style, etc. which is unique and often opposing to one another. This is all lost to me because I really don't have an eye for fashion....and I think it shows based on what I usually wear. 

Just like in New York, everyone seems so well put together here: matching accessories, scarves and knit hats, and most importantly, cool shoes.  Every girl, and I mean every last one, is rocking the hippest flat boots (rarely do they have a heel) with skinny jeans.  I have only seen a handful of people wearing sneakers.  Even when people are not working, they are still wearing dressy shoes.  It makes me feel a little inadequate in my reeboks.

After Penney's, we continued on from the commercial to the historical.  Everyone at work told me that I must see Kilmanham Gaol, and this is where the afternoon began to get depressing.  The jail is now aa restored museum.  Every year, thousands of tourists and Irish alike visit the monument because it is a pivotal place for understanding how Ireland gained its independence from England.  In school, I have learned a lot about British history, but very little about Ireland, so this was all an eye-opener for me.  The jail had been used since 1796 and was home to criminals and beggars (during the famine years of 1845-50, many people purposefully commit crimes so that they could get into the jail to eat).  It was a send-off point for convicts to go to Australia.  And, most importantly, it held held political prisoners from the United Irishmen in 1798, and from the 1916 Easter Rising. 

According to our tour guide, many Irish initially opposed the revolution because so many men were already fighting in World War I and people felt that the timing was bad.  Innocent people and soldiers alike were being killed, so the leaders of the rising turned themselves in to end the fighting.  The public tide turned against England, however, after they learned what happened to the men and women in the jail.  The treatment of the prisoners was brutal and all of the leaders were executed for treason.

During the tour, you could actually walk inside the cells and we stood where men had died from the firing squad.  Talk about living history!  The jail is made from huge rocks and limestone so it was somehow even colder inside than it was outside.  I generally have a hard time believing that ghosts exist, but if they did, then I'm sure that Kilmanham is a place filled with restless spirits.  I can't even begin to count the amount of people that must have died within those walls.  The place stinks with misery, and although I'm glad that I went, I was definitely very happy to leave.

We took a bus back to the Temple Bar area and met up with G.  The four of us went to a pub to listen to some music.  Trad Fest was still going on, and every pub had a different set of musicians.  The evening proved to be a much more joyful affair than the afternoon, and the music definitely lightened the mood.  We sampled different places, and wound up eating dinner at the Old Storehouse.  Aside from my fish and chips, this was the first time that I ate out at a resaurant, so it was definitely a nice treat.  I ordered lamb stew and a cider, a traditional meal. 

Helen summarized the night nicely, "Good food, good friends, good music...this is exactly what I think of when I pictured Dublin."  Everyone sings along to the music half the time or sways in their seats.  It's easy to see why people can lose track of time in a pub.  We spent the evening eating, laughing, and trying (and failing) to attract guys. 

I only interacted with one guy....and that was because he spilt beer on my jacket.  "No worries," I said as I brushed down my coat. 

"Oh, you're Canadian," he replied, "I frickin hate Canadians." 

"I'm not Canadian, so you're in luck," I said in return. 

"I'm just joking, just joking.  You can be Canadian....but I don't like maple leafs."

He continued to believe that I was from the great white north for the rest of the evening.  I'm pretty sure he was too drunk to notice.  I still need to get used to Irish sarcasm.  So far, I have yet to hang out with any actual Irish people.  It's definitely hard to meet people in a new place, but I'm glad that I can spend time with my roommate because the pub is a place for friends. 

  This is a horrible picture but this is a circle of musicians.  They are playing the fiddle, the guitar, the penny whistle, the uillean pipes, the violin, the harmonica, and the bouzouki)

 

Four Frenchmen and a Baby

Betta really loves her artwork (she is a conservationist so I can't blame her), and she wanted to visit the Irish Museum of Modern Art (the IMMA) this morning.  I am not a fan of modern art.  Maybe I'm not cultured enough, but I just can't see the "underlying meaning" to paintings with a single line of blue paint on a giant white canvas or scribbles that are supposed to represent the inner turmoil of the human soul.  Nonetheless, I still went with Betta since we sometimes have to make compromises in any relationship.  I am happy to go anywhere new.

The museum was much as I expected, but it was nice to walk around and experience a new part of Dublin.  We had the surprising treat of finding an Italian stylized garden and ate lunch sitting amidst the shrubbery.  The clouds threatened to rain all day, but it was all bravado.  They simply hung ominously overhead without shedding a single drop, so the weather was great.  Chilly, but not unpleasant - about as perfect as you can get in Ireland.

After lunch, we explored a little.  The area is a little unsavory - perfectly safe during the day, but not a place you would want to be at night.  This is namely because the of the major factory located only a few blocks away which happened to be our next stop. 

I truly had a taste of Dublin life today - a taste of Guinness at the Guinness factory.  The tour is one of the most expensive in Dublin, and yet if I had to guess, it probably has the most visitors.   The National Museum is free, and yet, Guinness probably attracts more people by virtue of its flavorful exhibit.    People qued in lines going out the door to witness the brewing spectacular. 

We met Betta's friend G, G's housemate, and also another friend who was visiting for the weekend.  This made me feel a bit out of place because everyone would slip into Italian frequently, but everyone tried to speak English around me.  It's always a little awkward when you are the only newcomer to a group and everyone else has known each other for years; however, everyone was welcoming and I'm glad that they let me tag along.

In my opinion, the factory is a bit overrated, but it is a required tour while in Dublin. I'm pretty sure that you are not allowed to leave the country if you don't get a special stamp on your passport that you visited the factory.  On the tour, you basically talk a walk through the brewing process, starting with the gathering of the hops, barley, and wheat.  You continue through to the germination of the seeds and the adding of the water, which does not come from the River Liffey, contrary to popular belief (thank goodness!).  Then you proceed through the yeast mixture and onward to heating, cooling, and straining (to get all of the yeast particles out). 

You can taste the roasted barley before it is added to the brew.  It had a nice mocha sort of flavor (I realized later that tasting a grain from this pot was a bit like eating the open peanuts at a bar, so I hope that the added flavor wasn't ecoli).  Every ingredient has to be at the perfect temperature and given just the right amount of time before it is used.  The process is actually extremely complicated - making a Guinees take a lot more steps and a lot more time than I realized. 

There is a section of the factory where you can pull your own pint, which is really a cute novel idea, but everyone in my group was more interested in the gravity bar so we made our way upstairs.  Your ticket for entry also provides one "free" pint of Guinness (I put "free" in quotation marks, because you already paid 15 euro for the ticket so I don't know how "free" is really was.)  I gave my ticket to another member of the group, because despite my newfound appreciation of the drink, I still really didn't like the taste (although I couldn't say that very loud in the factory...it would have been blasphemous).  I did, however, take a picture with a pint just so I could have the photo :-)  

The best part about the gravity bar, however, was definitely the view.  It is situated at the very top of the factory, seven stories high and every wall is made of glass.  The circular panorama gives you a unique outlook on the entire city.  We went to the top at sunset - perfect timing for spectacular scenery.

After the tour, Betta and I walked back to our apartment to grab some food.  G had invited Betta out to a birthday party later that night, so I was going to go do something on my own.  At the factory, G wound up inviting me too.  I didn't want to impose since I figured it was kind of a pity invite, but she insisted, so I agreed. At first I thought Betta might be upset that I was coming with her friends again, but I think that she appreciated having a partner to walk home with late at night.  It was unbelievably nice of them to include me.

Betta and I were under the assumption that the party was going to be a big house party type situation.  We were supposed to stay for 20 minutes so that G could make an appearance and then go out to a pub to hear some music.  We were told that there was no need to bring anything.  This was completely incorrect...which brings me to the title of my post - "Four Frenchmen and a Baby."

In the apartment, English was the spoken language because there were four French guys, a French woman and her child, the three Italian girls and one Italian guy....and me.  It turned out that the woman had been cooking dinner for a few hours and the night was supposed to be a sit-down affair.  I felt so embarrassed that I hadn't brought cookies or a bottle of wine (although I'm pretty sure that any bottle of wine that I brought would have been scoffed at anyways).  We were all welcomed into their apartment with a double cheek kiss and everything, even though Betta, Helen, and I were complete strangers. 

The little girl was 2 years old, and I wound up playing with her for a little while.  We played ping pong (or rather, we played "Kristin fetches the ping pong ball after the girl throws it around the room"). I am always so much more at ease around kids than around adults.  I don't have to analyze what I'm saying or worry that my words are being judged.  I know that I should just be myself and I shouldn't fret about these things, but knowing is different than doing. 

For much of the night, I probably looked wide-eyed with knitted eyebrows like a nervous deer.   I tried talking a bit with some of the other people, but I felt separated between the two groups - one side of the room speaking Italian and the other side speaking French, and me in the middle with a ping pong ball and the little girl.  Although English was their second language, many of the French guys already had a great understanding of the double entendre.  Being witty is difficult; being witty in a second language is unbelievable!

We sat down for the first course: foie gras, pate, and bread.  All of the French guys kept looking at me in anticipation, wanting to see my reaction to the food. 

"Don't worry.  We'll tell you what it is after you eat it.  Just try it."  

Too late for that....I already knew what it was: duck liver.  I thought about maybe pretending to be a vegetarian.  Instead, I decided to give it a whirl.  I felt embarrassment rise up my neck and redden my cheeks as every eye watched me take a bite.  "Well, what do you think?"  It was actually pretty tasty.  The pate was beautiful with a richness of spices and a creamy texture.  The fresh baguette was a perfect blend of crunchy crust but soft and warm wheat on the inside.  With a glass of red wine, the first course was stereotypically French...and delicious.

I had a hard time eating, however, because the little girl decided to sit in my lap the whole time.  Her mother had taken her to the table to feed her, but the girl cried out (in French), "No.  I want to sit with Madam!"  She crawled over to me and proceeded to eat half the food on my plate, but it was so cute that I didn't mind at all. 

After the first course, almost everyone went outside to have a smoke, and then we sat down for the main meal: roasted lamb with garden vegetables in a dark, lamb sauce.  The asparugus was tied together into little bundles with a bow of grilled proscutto.  Again, everyone watched as I took a bite and seemed satisfied after I nodded my approval.  

There was probably a lot of sublteties going on around the table that I didn't quite understand.  I overheard someone joking that I didn't understand the wine - "Do you think she swirls her coca cola?  Mmmmm1999, nice vintage....perfect amount of bubbles and sugar."  I thought that this was pretty funny but since it was said to another person and not directed at me, I'm not sure about the intention of the joke.  

Humor is the hardest thing for me to understand here.  The Irish tend to be extremely sarcastic, but they say these comments as if they really mean them.  Without a sarcastic tone, I don't know if they're being serious or joking.  The French and Italian jokes are a whole other mystery for me to solve.  

After a while, I was able to talk with some of the guys and have an actual conversation.  I found a common ground that we could speak about - sports.  They were all big fans of rugby, and the five nations tournament is coming up in Dublin soon, so we had a really nice, animated chat for a while about the games.  I know absolutely nothing about rugby so I was happy to learn more about it from people who grew up playing it. 

At the end of the night as we were leaving, the French guys said that I would have to cook some American food for them.  "I have a wonderful cheesecake recipe!" I said with excitement.  However, my excitement turned to dismay when they said loudly in reply, "Keep your fucking cheesecake!  What a disgrace!  This is horrible!" 

What did I say wrong?  Oh my goodness!  Why had I offended them? I just stood there looking terrified.  It turns out that they thought I was jilting them.  They wanted a full meal. After much uproar, the room quieted and one of them said as an afterthought, "but a cheesecake at the end is nice.  With strawberries." 

I don't know if I will ever see them again, but if I do, I will apparently have a lot of cooking to do.

During this time, I also learned that I was not the only one in the room who was feeling uncomfortable.  Betta sat int he corner for some of the time, and when she was not there, she was tied to Helen's side and she didn't speak much at all through out the night.  It turns out that she is more shy than I am in new social situations.  "I didn't know anyone so how can I join in the conversation?" she said on the way home.  "I prefer to just stay with the people that I know.  I don't like being in a new group of people."  I simply nodded my agreement and told her that I understood.  I don't think that she realized that I was even more out of place than she was!

All in all, the day offered many new cultural experiences.  I hope that I have not given France and Italy a bad impression of Americans.  I know that I need to loosen up quite a bit and be more assertive.  Baby steps, baby steps.  This trip is becoming even more than a great learning experience for work....I am also learning quite a bit about myself.