Travel Writing in Dublin

This site contains the collective writings of the students of the 2008 Temple University Summer Seminar in Dublin.  The seminar is an intensive four-week program that immerses students in Irish culture.  They study Irish history, literature, media, cuisine, geography, politics, arts and culture through a series of site visits, field work, lectures, discussions, readings, and guest speakers.  Dustin Morrow, a Lecturer in the Department of Broadcasting, Telecommunications, and Mass Media at Temple University, is the director of the program.  He has a long history of producing films and photo essays in Ireland, and writing on its art and culture for various publications.
Dublin is one of the fastest-growing, most culturally saturated European capitals.  In the last twenty years, it has become one of the world’s top tourist destinations, as more and more people come to the city to search their Irish roots (15% of Americans claim Irish ancestry), or simply to enjoy the city’s history, arts, and friendly residents.  The Irish are among the most gracious, wonderful people one could ever encounter.  It’s impossible to visit the Emerald Isle and not meet many larger-than-life personalities, all with a tale to tell – the Irish culture is one founded on the art of storytelling.
In the Seventies, Ireland began to depend less and less on Britain’s economy.  During that decade and on through the Eighties, Ireland started to exert an aggressive new political nationalism, fueled by the relentlessly explosive situation in Northern Ireland, the growing cultural popularity of the country throughout the world, the influx of Irish migrating back to their homeland, and the subsequent booming economy, known as the “Celtic Tiger,” which exploded in the Nineties.
During their studies in Dublin, the students come to grasp the modern Irish identity – what it is that makes the Irish who they are today.  Dublin is a city in transition, and that makes it a uniquely interesting location in which to study abroad.
In addition to a course on Irish culture and identity, the students also take a course in travel writing.  The course is about Travel itself.  What does it mean to travel?  Why do we travel, and how do we decide where to go?   Students examine the romantic sense of wanderlust that nearly all people experience at least once in their lives.   The course also explores the ideas of International Communication and Intercultural Competence.  How do we travel with cultural sensitivity?  What is the reputation of the American traveler, and what are the stereotypes of “ugly Americanism?”  Through the exploration of these concepts, the students discover what travel reveals about them and about their culture, and about the cultures they are visiting.
The students become travelers who can move beyond the superficial “tourist” experience of a place.  Their writings spring from their experiences of Dublin – its people, its cathedrals, its castles, its colorful pubs, its cobblestone streets and sidewalk cafes, its museums and galleries.  Their travel writing assignments have them visiting these places, and experiencing them as few foreign travelers do – with an eye and an ear to converting those experiences into something meaningful through active journaling and travel writing.
For more information on Temple University’s Dublin Program, contact the Assistant Director of International Programs in the School of Communications and Theater, Erin Palmer, at erinj@temple.edu.
All photos on this website were taken by Dustin Morrow, and are the property of International Programs in the School of Communication and Theater at Temple University.  Reproduction without permission is prohibited.

“The Traveling Identity” by Caitlin Gerrity

St. Augustine wrote, “The World is a book, and those who do not travel read only a page.” It was those words that ignited the wanderlust in me, the desire to see the world. People travel for any number reasons. Some travel to escape, some are seeking answers, a sense of freedom, and still others travel in search of themselves. The purpose of my travels was none of those—or so I thought. My Irish heritage links back to my paternal great-grandmother who immigrated to America. Other than my apparent Irish name, pale skin, and the Claddagh ring I sometimes wear, I felt little more connection to my Irish heritage than your average inebriated, leprechaun-clad Scrantonian at our annual St. Patty’s Day Parade. Coming to Ireland was a decision based on several rational factors.  Reasoning that my world travels had to start somewhere, I concluded that my first big travel experience should be to an English speaking country. Another persuading factor was that my home school offered a program in Dublin where the credits would actually count towards my degree. After expressing my desire to study abroad with the help of St. Augustine’s words, I excitedly announced to my parents that I was accepted to study abroad in Dublin, Ireland for four weeks in the summer of 2008.
I am extremely close with my immediate family, yet also believe that the people you consider your family depends less on the blood that flows through your veins then the relationships you create. I have a large extended family ranging up and down the East coast, yet my next-door neighbors serve as my grandparents and my best friends as the many sisters and brothers I have always longed for. I define myself through the values instilled in me through my parents, the education I receive, and the experiences I weather far more than a woman I never knew who immigrated to America from Ireland long before I was born.
Many students who travel abroad go in packs, travel with loved ones or best friends, and experience the foreign with the familiar. I wanted to enter into my first real travel experience not knowing any of my fellow travellers. There is something enticing in the challenge of getting to know a new country, while also getting to know complete strangers. I embraced the chance to get out on my own, and maybe if I was lucky, become a part of a new kind of family abroad. Certainly, my relationship with my Irish ancestors was the last one on my mind.
One of the very first things I noticed about Ireland upon landing, second only to the fact that the taxi was speeding down the opposite side of road, were the signs saying “Lisbon, The Undemocratic Treaty”, “No To Lisbon” and “Good for Europe, Good for Ireland. Vote YES” literally every two feet. My immediate impression that something major was happening in the political realm was correct.
Within our first week of class we had a discussion about the Lisbon Treaty, proposed to change many elements of the European Union in which every country had voted “yes” to, except for Ireland.  The rationale behind Ireland’s sole negative vote we discussed as a matter of Irish defiance.  As it was explained to us, the concept of Irish defiance comes from Ireland suffering years of oppression under British rule, resulting in their tendency to defy any expressed desire for cooperation or submission to others’ requests.
Something hit me during that discussion—I was reminded of myself. I have always had a stubborn streak that makes me defiant when people expect me to act a certain way, even if it is merely a suggestion. If the instruction is something I originally would have done had I not been given orders to do so, I lose interest and prefer to do the opposite.  In fact, I have marvellously and inadvertently spoiled past relationships based solely on requests like “Don’t forget to call” and “when will I hear from you?” Irritated, I think to myself, “You’d hear from me a lot sooner if you’d stop asking, for God’s sake” knowing full well that it is already it is too late, as I practically watch any original interest I had in calling fade away.
The most frustrating thing about this stubborn streak is that, when asked to explain myself, I can never seem to clarify that element of my personality. I never could quite understand why someone simply suggesting I do something turns me off from that very thing. But for the very first time, in a classroom thousands of miles away from home, I was starting to comprehend a part of myself that I had never understood before. I had begun to identify with my Irish heritage in a way that I had neither planned nor expected, helping me to understand a part of myself which had always been puzzling not only to other people, but to myself.
The second time I found myself inadvertently identifying with my Irish roots was before taking a day trip to the breezy seaside town of Bray with some of the people in our group. We got sidetracked by the sight of a crowd was gathered at the mouth of Grafton Street, the sun peeking in and out of lofty clouds whose presence seems to mock the forgetful few who left their raincoats at home.  The cause of the spectacle was street comedian, Dave McSavage, whose sarcasm and witty banter are the foundation of his routine. We laughed along with the good-hearted crowd as McSavage mercilessly preyed upon anyone naïve enough to walk across his line of sight without stopping to listen, with jokes brazen enough to earn him a black eye in America.
Our professor explained to us that a lot of the Irish have a very sarcastic, dry humor. Since I can remember I have had a similar way of joking with people. Sometimes at home, people take me seriously when I am attempting to joke with them. They don’t get it. Even my mother gives me the “are you being serious?” look that mothers tend to have, resulting in my exasperated response, “I was joking.”
While I have never necessarily had trouble identifying this part of myself, I have simply never been able to attribute why I have such a traits before. It is a unique experience to stand in the middle of a country you have never been to before, and to find a bit of yourself exemplified there. To see that there is an entire tradition of people with the same sense of humor, the same stubborn streak. To have stumbled unawares upon a part of yourself that you never expected to find. The original intent of my travels was not to find myself, but slowly I began to realize that just by coming to a place where I have my roots, I was beginning to understand myself in a way I never had before.
Identifying with my heritage is still a strange feeling. The first few times were an accident, but now I catch myself looking for other ways that I might identify with my Irish blood. A carbohydrate addict from birth—I have practically eaten my weight in brown bread while in Ireland. A big steaming bowl of potato and leek soup never comes without a thick slice of the moistest, most texture-rich bread imaginable. I could get used to the Irish diet of two types of potatoes per meal, not to mention grease-covered chips covered in enough salt and vinegar to make the healthy eater I tend to be in America cringe. I cannot help but laugh at myself, wondering if crediting my Irish heritage with my delicious discovery of, as one of my schoolmates termed it, the reverse-Atkins diet, is pushing it a bit too far in order to compensate for a completely unbalanced diet.
Another way I have begun to feel connected to my Irish roots is through my academic pursuits. As an English major, an obvious appeal of studying in Ireland is the history of brilliant writers that have been inspired to write some of their greatest works here. I knew that Ireland had a number of famous authors undoubtedly celebrated within the culture, but I hardly expected to be constantly surrounded by the evidence of their influence on the country. The house we are staying in for the month we are here is located on the prestigious Merrion Square. If entering our vine-covered Georgian manor with its high ceilings, crown molding, and sparkling chandeliers for the first time was not overwhelming enough, then realizing we live just down the street from Oscar Wilde’s former abode certainly made the experience surreal.
On any given day I can stroll down the path in Merrion Square that smells of damp earth, flora, and a hint of tobacco from the sauntering, hand-holding couples who decided Ireland’s air is far too clean for them, past the statue of Wilde. His is posed languidly, coolly, with a smug, knowing smile directly across from his former residence. A monument across the path is inscribed with some of his famous, witty quotes. “Who, being loved, is poor?” it asks and I wonder, “Who could argue with that?” A short walk past the prestigious Trinity College where boys dressed all in white play cricket on the green, perfectly manicured lawn brings me to Davy Byrne’s café, to enjoy a cup of coffee where James Joyce frequented.
The constant presence of literary giants of the past and the way they live on in present day Dublin has an astounding effect on the way I perceive myself. Solely to be in a city with such reverence to literature makes me feel more confident in my decision to major in English—a choice I was apt to doubt in America, where how much money you will make with your degree is valued more than whether or not the career it leads you to will truly make you happy. Here, I am reminded of my love of literature on a daily basis, and comforted in my decision to pursue what I truly love by those who’s work inspires me—and with whom I happen to share my heritage .
For me, travelling began as a way of putting myself out of my comfort zone; to do things I would never do at home, take in all the sights and smells, see things in a different way.  Perhaps that is the reason I began to understand, to connect, to become more in touch with those small parts that make me what I am. I came with the intention of learning about Ireland, and in that process, Ireland caused me to learn about myself.
This must be true of travelling anywhere; you learn a bit about yourself when you would least expect it. It is not something you can try to do, or schedule into an itinerary, but something that happens in the process of travel. I never thought that a political treaty or a street comedian could help me to identify with my Irish roots, but I am confident that I was able to understand more of my relationship to this place through my experiences within the confines of Dublin alone than I could have ever discovered buried somewhere in a family history archive.
Italo Calvino wrote “You take delight not in a city’s seven or seventy wonders, but in the answer it gives to a question of yours. Or the question it asks you, forcing you to answer, like Thebes through the mouth of the Sphinx” (Calvino, 44). Of all the sights and sounds I have experienced in this city, the most wonderful of all was the way it forced me to look at myself in connection with my environment. Arriving in Ireland, there was no charm in the fact that my great-grandmother lived here a little over a century ago. Now as I look back, my memories have become a collage of experiences captured in small moments. A sole monument sending shivers down my spine, lively conversations over livelier music, the familiarity of the lightness of the fleeting rain; in photographs, and flowers I picked, songs that got stuck in my brain for days, and times I laughed until my sides hurt.
I think of my experience in Dublin over the span of four short weeks, and cannot help but wonder if they will ever matter to anyone but me. As my great-grandmother left this place, did she feel the same? While her experiences remain unbeknownst to me, I am gladdened in my realization that parts of who she was lives on in my decision to learn this place and to let it show me more of myself. Every time I savor the last bite of brown bread, crack a joke without cracking a smile, or stubbornly stand my ground, a part of my Irish history shines through. I came to Ireland with an open heart and an open mind. My heritage crept up on me unawares and has ignited an interest in learning more. To be blissfully unaware, and in a state of complete vulnerability is the best way to find exactly what you didn’t know you were looking for—and that is the best keepsake of all.

Works Cited
Calvino, Italo (1997) Invisible Cities Vintage. London. [trans. WilliamWeaver]

“Searching for Something” by Alison Hoban

“A pint of Guinness!” I yell across the dark counter, embarrassed that my voice cracked.  The bartender, busy and only bearing one front tooth pours the beer and slops it on the bar.  It is only my fourth night in Dublin, Ireland, but I know a good Guinness is not poured all at once.  The toothy bartender takes the next man’s order.
“A pint of Guinness,” the man says smoothly in a deep Irish accent.  The bartender nods approvingly and pours the drink with care, taking extra time to make sure the thick foam does not spill over the edge of the glass.  Slightly hurt, I sink away from the bar and find a seat along the opposite wall. O’Donoghue’s is packed.  The warm light and dark wooden hues are comforting, though.   The smell of spilt beer and wood hangs above the sea of bobbing heads and yellow smiles. Amidst the jostling crowd there is a small group of wrinkled men playing the kind of music that moves even the heaviest of joints.  After four days of welcome dinners, walking tours, unpacking, jet lag, getting lost, and the constant motion that comes with being thrown into a strange city I am finally warm, welcome, and even relaxed.
While applying to study in Dublin, I imagined myself in a pub like this one, drinking whiskey, listening intently to some wrinkled Irish man recount the loves and hardships of his life.  When asked why I wanted to study in Ireland, the words were always hard to find. The classes offered in the program don’t go toward my major in theater and the trip itself, including program costs, living expenses, and plane tickets would surely put me even more in debt.  During the application process the ‘why’ question started to feel like more of an interrogation.  When asked, however, I always somehow mustered a quiet, “well why not?” Maybe followed by a, “I’ll find out when I get there,” added to make myself sound more confident.  Visiting a foreign city while learning first hand about the country my ancestors came from simply sounded like a fun way to spend a month of summer. I also enjoy listening to people, and the Irish have a long history of storytelling that is quite enticing to a theater major.  Overall I did not have any deep motives or brilliant intentions for traveling, I just wanted to have some good conversations and see what would happen.  The question, “why do you want to travel?” and the fact that I couldn’t really answer it, however, still constantly lurks in the back of my mind.
While sitting against the long wall of O’Donoghue’s scanning the faces in hopes of a good conversation with a stranger, a man passes and winks.  He has the kind of face expected of old Irish men, with white hair, bright blue eyes, and laugh lines across his forehead.  I raise my glass in his direction when a very sad looking man emerges from behind him.  His thinning white hair is in great contrast with his dark eyes and blushed skin. The Look on his face is catching.  His sad eyes seem to gaze someplace far away and also deep inside himself at the same time.  He sits close at the long, dark table.  The man who had winked surely would have talked for hours, but instead something about this man draws the words out of me.
“Hello,” I say before thinking. We continue the awkward beginnings of polite conversation.  He reveals he is a traveler from New Zealand.  Less surprised that he is a New Zealander than by the fact that he calls himself a traveler at his age, I ask him why he is in Dublin.
“I came to find out where my grandparents came from with the little time I have left,” he says and then takes a gulp of Guinness.  At first it seems the questions may be bothersome to the sad looking New Zealander, but that idea is quickly proven wrong.  Within minutes he is reliving the tumbling events of the journey he and his daughter, Justine are on to discover their ancestry. They had just been in London where, “one day was enough.” Then they went to Paris where he says, “It was so exciting I didn’t want to go to sleep!” shaking his fists and smiling broadly.   With little time to think, I am looking over his shoulder at a slideshow on his digital camera.  From his pictures, it is apparent that this is a man who loves talking to people and sharing experiences; A man whose heart is so young it is a wonder his body even aged at all.  I realize then that the sadness circulating in his eyes was perhaps not sadness at all, but rather an inner contemplative quality of a man who has been somewhere.  It is a quality I would soon recognize in fellow travelers along the road.  After he finishes his slideshow he points the camera at my friend John and me.  I briefly imagine being a part of the next story he tells to a traveling stranger.
“These are the two students I met in Dublin,” he would say, maybe even referring to me as “lovely,” as he had described some of the people in his photos.  But the lights of the bar flicker off and then on again, sending those thoughts into the sticky air.  Before the pub closes I ask why he decided to travel to Ireland now, wondering if he would have as much trouble answering the question I do.  He describes the feeling of wanting to see where he comes from as “instinctual” with a look like he had just realized the fact and is proud of it.  The words slipped from him so easily, I wondered how the thought had never crossed my mind when people asked me why I was traveling.
“John Troy,” he says, when I ask his name, a question that seems absurd after sharing travel moments and family histories.
As we leave the pub we exchange goodbyes and briefly stand facing each other on the street.  Then without any warning he waves a hand, turns on his heels and gingerly walks down the dark street, looking as if he would willingly embark upon an unexpected adventure if given the opportunity.
After talking with John Troy I realize I want to have conversations with other travelers as well as with local Dubliners.  If I could not describe my urge to travel perhaps others would be able to describe it for me.  I continue my trip to Ireland with a new mission: to find other travelers, listen to their stories, and ask them why they travel in hopes that I may unlock the mystery that inspires millions of people to visit foreign countries every year.  Maybe I would even find my own reasoning in their answers.
While walking around Dublin I often think about John Troy and his idea that traveling is instinctual. Wanting to get lost in a city full of strangers actually feels like the exact opposite of instinct, but it is my first time outside of the United States, and also my first time feeling like a foreigner.  Dublin is unlike the monstrous cities of the United States with their reaching skyscrapers and reflective windows.  The highest building is the size of an average Philadelphia office building, and the curving streets lend themselves to strolling rather than the angular power walks one might take in New York.  Coming from cities where it is acceptable to go to the store in a sweatshirt, it is easy to feel underdressed while walking past St. Stephen’s Green or down the stylish Henry Street.  While Dublin is the capital of Ireland, it is not the stereotypical Irish town with tiny pubs set into rolling hills.  A growing metropolitan international city, Dublin’s skyline is dotted with hanging cranes and the air is full of foreign languages.  To see a different side of Ireland than the noise and never setting sun of Dublin I decide to take a weekend trip.  Hoping I will get to have another exciting encounter, I pack my bags for the west coast.
Galway looks like a postcard.  Pastel colored, cookie cutter shops line cobblestone streets.  The walkways are filled with loud tourists, but no one seems to mind.  The yellow sun almost paints smiles on every person’s face.  The grass around the bay is lined with lounging students and the air smells faintly of salt and fresh leaves. Strolling around the bright and lively streets to find someone interesting to talk to, something small twists within my chest.  Searching for strangers makes for some lonely walks.  Continuing I find myself at the bay across from the Long Walk.  The row of colorful houses sleeps in between the water and the sky.  The scene is quite picturesque, and judging by the droves of people basking in the rays of the sun, it is apparent that the weather is not always this nice.  I feel a little silly walking around alone in my long beige raincoat, but despite the sun, the wind is too chilly to let me remove it.  Suddenly the swans come into focus.  There must be hundreds of white swans balancing on the ripples of the bay and walking along the dirt.  Among the swans squats a lone photographer, sneaking closer and closer to get the perfect shot.  A few people stop to watch the large birds and then continue strolling.
“What’s with the coat,” a man’s voice breaks the pristine imagery.  He speaks with a thick brogue and a slight lisp.  I look over and see an older Irish man wearing a bright blue Hawaiian shirt.  He sits on a long stone bench next to a stroller.
“It’s all I have against the wind,” I say, “although it is sunny today, I guess I should take it off.”
“Where are you from?” He asks the same question everyone asks after they hear me speak.  I answer and continue looking out over the bay.
“You remind me of someone,” he says bluntly, starring at my face.  His gaze wanders to my hands and his eyes light up.  “Do you know what that ring is?”  He motions toward the gold ring I wear on my left hand.
His smile widens when I correctly respond, “It’s a Claddagh ring.”
“That’s right! And this little town behind me is Claddagh.” Everything is said with a no-nonsense, matter-of-fact tone.  He continues, “I see you looking at the swans here.  You know swans mate for life.  And they find their mates by swimming up to each other and touching heads.  If the match is right, they stay together for the rest of their lives, and if it is not they just swim away.”  He looks back at my hands, “You know the symbol in your ring, the heart?  It comes from the shape made by two swans’ necks when their heads are touching. The shape made when they have found their soul mate.”  His skinny fingers trace the shape of a heart through the air.   The swans float delicately in front of us. “You really do remind me of someone, now.  Who is it?”  He stares at me for a few moments again.  I laugh and ask the man if I can sit down next to him.
“I never knew that,” I say, looking at my ring.
“You know they say the men and women who die here, in Claddagh I mean, that their souls turn into these swans, and that is why they always stay here in this bay.”  He suddenly chuckles to himself.  “You know it’s funny.  You’re wearing an Irish ring, and I am wearing a Native American ring.” He points to the giant silver and teal ring that rests on his right middle finger.  His eyes lift from our hands and out toward the bay with that quiet reflective quality I had seen in John Troy.  The man introduces himself as Padder.  “Like Ladder with a P.” He points to the sleeping child in the stroller to say that he is his grandson.  Before long I am reliving the journey he took nine years ago where he hitch hiked through the mid west of America.  “That is where I got the ring,” he adds.  Enjoying his stories, I sat with him and his sleeping grandson for over an hour.  Padder left for America after separating from his wife, with whom he had six children.  When I ask him why he decided to travel to America he answers, “Well why are you here?”
“I’m not sure,” I answer without realizing it.  Disappointed in myself, I try to answer the question again.  “I like talking to people,” I respond, finding my sentences not nearly as eloquent as Padder’s.
He smiles to himself knowingly and looks bemusedly at the swans.  “You know most people who travel, like yourself there, are searching for themselves, whether they know it or not.”
At a loss for words, I submit to gazing at the bay for a moment.  We share the white swans and the blue sky, me in my heavy raincoat, and Padder in his bright blue Hawaiian t-shirt.  Suddenly his phone rings bringing the quiet perfection to an abrupt end. We walk back along the bay together and say goodbye. Perhaps Padder is right.  In searching for other travelers and their reasons for traveling I am indeed looking to identify with them, or searching for myself.  What that means, I am still not quite sure.
That night I ask the young man at the front desk of our hostel the name of his favorite pub.  “The Crane,” he says without hesitation.  He leans over the counter and points to a street on the little map of Galway.  “Great music there, great music,” he taps the map with his pen and hands it to me. The pub is easily found even though it is located away from the loud shouts Quay Street. The rooms look as though they are carved into the hollow of a large oak tree.  Everyone inside is laughing, drinking and swaying.  Upstairs the musicians are lined along the stage with various Irish instruments.  There are seven of them, all but one male, mostly with long frizzy hair.  One man is wearing an Allman Brothers Band t-shirt.  It is apparent they are playing for the music and not for the show. Downstairs there is also a rousing session being played by five young looking people crowded around a table in the corner of the room.  If they were not playing instruments it would look as though they were just sitting down to have dinner.  I came with a small group of people but decide to grab a stool away from them to get closer to the music.  The lights are low and everyone in the pub is getting drunk or already there.  I pull my stool in between a boy my age and an older couple who are clapping with the fiddle player.  Our line of stools is directly behind the circle of musicians. The music is lively and so are the players.  One man cannot stop smiling and often sings by himself when the others are taking a break.  The musician I am quietly sitting behind has shaggy dark hair and a furrowed brow I can see in his profile over his shoulder.  He is easily playing an instrument that looks like a cross between a banjo and a mandolin.  While I normally like to watch the hands of musicians I am instead looking at the side of this man’s face.  His eyes are dark brown and wet, and he can only be a few years older than I am.  I recognize the look on his face again as the same one I had mistaken for sadness on John Troy’s.  It is the same distant expression that drew Padder’s gaze away from me and out to the swans.  The song’s end startles me and I clap my hands for them.  The musician in front of me takes a swig of his beer and then leans back to me and asks where I am from.  He must have seen me looking at him.
“Philadelphia!” I say, leaning my chin toward his ear.
He shakes his head, “I don’t know the States very well.”  His accent is light and easy to understand.
“Were you born in Galway?” I ask, wondering if he is from a different part of Ireland, his accent being much lighter than Padder’s.
“Yes, but I’ve been traveling around for the last three years.”  He is still speaking over his shoulder and releases the fact as if he has been dying to tell someone all evening.  I ask him where and he responds, “everywhere.  It doesn’t matter.  It’s like the Tom Waits song, ‘I never saw my home town until I stayed away too long.’  It’s good to be back.”  Then without warning the smiley singer starts clapping his hands rhythmically and begins playing a song on his guitar.  My brown-eyed musician turns to face his friends and joins in jovially.
The musician, Padder, and John Troy all share the almost indefinable yearning to travel.  They also share that same expression that could be described as the reflective stamp of a person who has been on a journey.  While one went searching, one went running, and one left only to find his home again, they all carry their stories with them.  I came to Ireland expecting to hear those stories, not expecting to keep the storytellers with me, but I know I will.  The question, “why do I travel?” can be answered with any number of reasons, depending on the person, or the time in a person’s life.  Perhaps we travel just to experience the feeling of being alien.  Maybe that feeling makes us appreciate the sensation of belonging we experience when we come home.  Perhaps we travel to find that sense of belonging in those places that would otherwise be described as alien.  Now I know I came to Ireland to sort of make my own map of the country, filled with the stories I heard, the feelings I experienced, and the places I saw. My Ireland is the mousy woman who ate her square sandwich under the overhang of the National Library, the little white flowers that miraculously grow on the windy edges of the Cliffs of Moher, the man who stopped while he was walking in the park just to lean his face toward the sun, and the stories of fellow travelers searching for something along the road.  After realizing that I was indeed looking for myself within all these things including my fellow travelers, I wonder if any of the people I met were doing the same.  Perhaps that is why I reminded Padder of someone.  Was he at one time the foreign traveler, looking for something on a strange journey?  The idea of meeting my Irish, male counter part while taking a stroll in Galway is quite cosmic, but at least it could make for a good story to tell to some strange traveler I may meet in years to come.  Or, perhaps no one will look at me, recognize that distant look in my eyes, and ask to hear my story, but I’ll keep these memories of Ireland with me, just in case.

“Travels with Dad” by Meghan Butler

To tell the truth I guess, might sound silly to everyone else. Finally realizing what I was looking for seemed silly even to me. Almost five years later and sometimes I still feel like I’ve made no progress at all. Still stuck in the same spot, still the little girl searching for something I will never find again. But to tell the truth I started this journey to Ireland to find something I had lost.
I was immensely proud of myself when I finally handed in the application to study abroad in Ireland. It was an easy application, nothing too tedious or time consuming. But for the first time in awhile I felt like I took a step in the right direction towards something that was good for me. Normally I spend my time lying on the coach pondering things I should be doing but never actually doing any of those things. Master of Procrastination, I have made it into an art, amazing my friends at how long I can actually put things off. So accomplishing something for once, let alone a trip across the ocean to study in a different country, justified some of my couch dwelling. But why did I choose Ireland? A simple answer to that would be because I am Irish. A more complex answer has a story attached to it.
When my parents were married in 1981, my Mom began to save money in a separate account that my Dad never knew about. This account accumulated money through out the 22 years that my parents were married. My mom had one idea and one idea alone that she would use this money for and that was Ireland. She planned to surprise my Dad with a trip to Ireland on their 25th anniversary. My Dad was 100% Irish and his mother was actually born in Kilkenny, so it would have been a real experience for him to return to the country of his roots. Unfortunately my Dad passed away in 2003 when I was seventeen and my parents had been married for 22 years. I feel as though I am one the trip that my parents never had. I can hear my mom’s voice in my head saying, “Tell me everything, every little detail”. Every little detail of my experience here was riddled with my search. I looked everywhere and in everything for traces of my Dad. This was the country of his roots. A place he had taken his mother back to 30 years earlier. Not knowing exactly what I would find, I was sure that at some point there would be something, some moment that I would feel as though I found him in this distant yet familiar place.
Arriving in Dublin feeling overwhelmed by my perilous flight across the ocean, I kept my quest in the back of my head. Dublin, my first city in Europe, and the stomping ground for my new converses. A city so full of bustle and color. Colorful characters, colourful streets, against the colourful backdrop of a magnificent landscape. It is nothing like I originally pictured in my head, being so diverse and fast paced. The streets packed with all shapes and colors that make up the allure of a big city. But there is more allure here in Dublin than in most other cities I have ever been. The constant rain makes all the colors run together into a mosaic of beautiful uniqueness. Umbrellas pop as the rain starts to pour on Grafton Street, the main shopping center and all around party in Dublin. I don’t know how all of these people and all of these umbrellas can fit in such a crowded area, and they don’t really fit at all. Umbrellas hurtle into each other and spin upon contact sending beads of rain flying in all directions. The sidewalk below you, made of slippery squares, was not designed with the rain in mind, or maybe they just weren’t designed for tourists with unsure footing. Fabulous Irish women styled to perfection pound on the squares in stilettos putting my converse to shame. Certain squares I step on are not cemented to the ground and they sink into the water that seeped below them making the most wonderful SHOMP sound as the water bubbles up. Then the rain ceases as unexpectedly as it started and the July sun reminds you that it is summer somewhere else in the world. Walking swiftly down these busy streets I picture my Dad walking in front of me. He hated to walk slowly and would frequently leave me and the rest of my family in the dust. The image disappears slowly into the crowd as I am distracted by the often sight of pregnant women here. They appear as often as wildflowers on the streets of Dublin. Both are unexpected and expected at the same time, not to mention expecting. The flowers and the women are blooming and spring from the sidewalk with exotic beauty. I have never seen a city with so many palettes of wild flowers growing out of the bland sidewalk. I have also never seen so many pregnant women in one city either. There is something comforting about the delicacy of them.
My first walk through St. Stephen’s Green ruins every park I have ever seen before. Certainly a spiritual experience could be found here. When the elusive sun appears people sprawl themselves out all over the park to soak up as much of it as they can before it hides away again. Exotic birds I have never seen before trot regally on the green. I see a little boy doing somersaults on the pristine grass no one is supposed to walk on without inhibition or fear of reprimand. I don’t think even an overseeing Garda would dare to stop him anyway. The twangs and tongues of many diverse languages hit my ears and blend together in the wind, the most prominent being the Irish accent carries a little more girth. The warm grass smells the way grass is supposed to smell that is watered by raindrops. Some of the popcorn I am eating is taking from my hand by the wind and given to the pigeons. Why do none of the exotic birds eat food from the ground, what do they eat? As I walk through this labyrinth of imagination I almost expect David Bowie to appear and lead me into a knowing tree.
I giggle at the thought of David Bowie as the people on the park benches all turn into fathers and daughters. Depending on one’s life experiences, certain things stick out in your mind. My good friend recently lost his brother, I wonder if he sees pairs of brothers everywhere he goes.
Walking around the less touristy parts of Dublin you can also learn many things about this city. Not all of Dublin is as fancy or flourishing as Grafton Street or St. Stephen’s Green. Like any large city it has areas that could be considered seedy. But these places hold a deep seeded charm not held in the other areas. One thing that really stuck out in my mind was something so small and insignificant that I don’t even know why my mind lingered on it. One of the houses in the poorer areas had a bunch of colourful clothespins hanging on the clothesline outside. I was just staring at them thinking about how pretty they looked. I thought about the person that bought them and how they went to a store to buy clothespins and were faced with the choice between bland wooden ones and colourful plastic ones. And I felt like at that moment that I really began to understand the soul in this city. Everyone always says that Dublin is a colourful city but it was like the colours were staring me in the face. It made me sad that I never noticed small details like that in my own city but also excited that this experience might allow me to go home and seek them out. I may now be able to find new life in a city that I am used to, because of the life I found in a new city I have just been exposed to. Maybe looking for my Dad, heightened my senses and made me notice little things I wouldn’t normally notice in my own city.
During class one day we took a walk to St. Patrick’s Cathedral. The cathedrals of Ireland are a staple of culture and history, medieval against a modern backdrop. Walking into St. Patrick’s Cathedral I find it weird that there is a gift shop as soon as you walk in. Though it is surprising it doesn’t take away from the reverence of one of the most famous churches in the world. The inside looks like a carved out cave because of its color. A mix of greys and browns chalked together on the walls. The floors brown, red, and gold mosaicly placed in geometric shapes and styles. Small little shapes tiny enough for children to tip toe from one shape to the next. The color warms the temperature with tepid pools of dark hues being lit up by the sunlight radiating through the stain glass. I would say the primary color of this church is red. The smell of the incense reminds me of my church at home. Except this incense doesn’t make me cough. It instead smells like an ancient recipe for incense only known to those who care for really old churches. It stores up in your nasal cavity somewhere between your nose bone and your eyes and sits there and induces memories. The memories of incense smelled on Christmas, the incense smelled at Easter, the incense smelled at weddings and baptisms. And then the incense smelled at funerals, the most pungent kind. Smell is your strongest memory sense. Maybe they use such on strong scent on certain days to mark them in your memory, somewhere between your nostrils and your brain, as a constant reminder that your life was different from that smell forward.
I can hear the shuffle of feet and the labored breathing of humans who by condition know a church should be a quiet establishment. Does anyone else get the urge to scream in a place like this? I found myself sitting alone in a pew at the side of the alter. “Certainly if a spiritual experience were to happen it would happen here”, I thought. Watching an old man pray across the aisle I notice his tightly clasped hands. Maybe he is hoping for the same thing as me. Leaving the wildflower I picked on the pew in the church I floated out in thought.
Without a significant sign as of yet, I strolled into O’Donoghues Pub. The nightlife in Ireland can be very similar or very different depending on where you go. There are some very American nightclubs that play American music. But the pubs are a completely different story all together. Walking into certain pubs I feel as though I have found the Ireland I was looking for: warm, welcoming, and with more character and culture I have ever experienced. O’Donoghues is a traditional Irish pub known for having wonderful live Irish music. But it is not a booked band every night that comes for the money or the fans. Instead the music just naturally happens. People bring their instruments and their voices and just assemble magically. Many patrons get their early and just sit and wait for the show to begin. There is no start or end time or set breaks. It is a laid back atmosphere with laidback people playing music that can make your heart hurt or pound with absolute glee. The most beautiful woman with the most exquisite voice made me feel my heartstrings being plucked. I didn’t even know I had heartstrings until this woman sang. In my mind my Dad sat feet crossed eyes glued to this woman singing saying, “beauTEEful”, emphasizing the “TEE”. Maybe even his eyes would well up. I took it in as if I was seeing it for the both of us.
The weekends are often taken up by travelling to rural parts of the island. County Kerry takes the cake as the most picturesque county I have ever seen yet. The bus clings to the cliffs as we amble up steep hills. The windows like movie screens layout the landscape before us. Hills so perfectly green they can’t be real, I must be staring at a screen. The shadows of clouds reflect on the mountains, and I watch the shade come and go.
The bus arrives at a beach in Dingle and we all dart off with extreme enthusiasm. Most of us in the group are used to a scorching summer so the site of a beach is nothing short of a miracle. Running and playing I get trapped by a wave in an alcove of rocks. The water freezes my calves and drenches my boots. Taking pictures of the waves for my surfer boy back home, I notice another surfer boy surveying the waves as well. Briefly I fall in love but then realize that I have one of my own at home and that is not what I came here for.
Next stop on the bus is a set of cliffs over looking the ocean, almost like a baby Cliffs of Moher, except without the ferocious wind to lean into. This place is quieter with fewer tourists to muddy up the picture. Most of my group walks to the edge of the cliffs to sit and watch the ocean hit the rocks. But I hang back a little, sit on a clean rock, and watch them. They all look so cute, all my new friends, with their heads bobbing against the horizon. I feel the urge to join them, but sadness cements me to the rock. I start to think how privileged I am to see all of this. Why should I be lucky enough to get this experience and not my parents? Trying to absorb it all I move to a small nearby cliff for awhile and lay there trying to feel the earth move.
Sitting in a pub that night I noticed the walls are decorated with police badges from all over the world, one jumps out at me. “Pomona Police” it says, reminding me of a story about my Mom and Dad when they lived in New York City. My Mom decided to take a job in Pomona, New Jersey and leave New York. My Dad, a lover of words, repeated Pomona over and over again laughing. “Why would someone move to NYC and then decide to get a job in Pomona”, he chuckled. It was a simple story but one that I really liked for some reason. It captured his essence simply. Mentally I thanked the pub for the memory.
A few weeks later back in Dublin, I was walking home from class alone. Starting to cry I felt as though I didn’t find what I was looking for. Becoming increasingly upset a final realization hit me. In a silly childish way I thought I might find my Dad. Not in a sign or in a conversation or in beautiful scenery. Maybe I thought I would just find him walking on a green hill somewhere, like that is where he had been this whole time and it was just a matter of time before I located him. I felt like that little girl again, naïve enough to think that he was just hiding in a different part of the world. The truth is that once I realized that’s what I was looking for I felt a huge weight being lifted off of me. My 22 year old mind reminded me that I would never find that ever again. Once I realized that, the weight then fell, heavy with importance on the other experiences I had. Free to think about the last couple of weeks I began to appreciate what I did find. I found a sense of humility and thanks to my family for helping get to Ireland. I found vivid memories of my father in little things all around this vivid country. I found his voice in my head, experiencing everything with me. Most importantly I found one step closer to acceptance. To say Ireland is an important part of my healing process would be an understatement.
Walking home from Dublin’s Art Museum alone during the first week of my trip, something happened that means more to me now than it did then. In my head I was thinking about how this was the first time I was walking the streets of Dublin alone. As the thought mulled over in my head, a young man in a red coat pushed in front of me. His back became directly eye level to me and the back of his coat read “You Never Walk Alone”. Now I still don’t know what this means to me yet, but I think I am just going to keep it to myself and figure it out later.

“That Damn Racket” by Greg Danks

It was only two months ago.  I sit, surrounded by thirteen strangers I’m soon to be stuck living with.  Students, bleary-eyed from the early hour, engage in a Q&A session with Temple University’s study abroad advisor and our professor-to-be.  The students strike first.  What’s the weather?  How does electricity work?  What’s the class schedule?  After a while, though, the balance of power shifts and the advisor and professor ask the questions.  When’s your flight?  What weekend trips to you have planned?  Finally, a nerve is struck.  Why?  Why study abroad?  Why go to Dublin?     You hear the students all shift uncomfortably in their chairs, trying not to respond first.  Nobody wants to admit they’re only going for kicks.  Eventually, most of the room divides into one of two camps.  Some seek educational opportunities.  Others are attempting to connect with their heritage.  A few hold that romanticized notion of a pub down some dirt road in the sticks, full of gruff old men sipping whiskey and thoughtfully stroking decades worth of gray beards as they swap the stories of their forefathers.  Me, I’m after all three.  Music.  It’s the music.  I want to sit in on sessions, learn the indigenous instruments, pick my way between reels, hornpipes, and jigs to connect with an Ireland that once was and continues to be.     For a few years now, I’ve identified myself as a musician.  Maybe not a great one, but certainly versatile.  If it has strings, I can probably play it.  My dad claims it’s in my blood, and that may be the case.  He plays guitar in a celtic folk trio and the man practices all the time.  If he’s home, there’s a good chance you’ll hear something Irish coming out of his prized Guild 6 string or his Taylor 12.  And he loves an audience, even a reluctant one.  He’s prone to chasing my mom around the house playing some jig his fiddle player sent him.  Sit down to watch TV and he’ll come in, always one decibel louder than the program to tell about a chord structure he discovered while at work or how La Partida is nothing more than Londonderry Air in waltz form.  Whether I like it or not, odds are I’m forever cursed to know more about traditional Irish music than you.     For years, I refused to play with my dad.  He can stick to folk.  Just to piss him off, why don’t I try playing reggae?  How about punk?  My dad hates punk.  Wouldn’t you know it, though?  It all came full circle.  In the past decade or so, punk music has opened itself up to celtic influence.  Through the releases of bands like Dropkick Murphys, Flogging Molly, and The Tossers, I was soon listening to louder, faster versions of the very songs I wanted nothing to do with.  And I loved it.  Finally giving in one day, I opted to pick up a mandolin from Guitar Center and, in secret, learn the sheet music my dad left lying around the house.  Learning on the sly, I started watching performances by The Dubliners and The Pogues on YouTube.  My friends and I began composing haphazard shanties, mostly about Yuengling, pirates, and the Emerald Isle.  So when a flyer is handed to me in class, ‘STUDY ABROAD PROGRAMS: DUBLIN SUMMER 2008,’ well, needless to say, I was intrigued.  There’s an idea rolling around in my head that now has the opportunity to come to fruition.     Any third or fourth grader in America can tell you about the recorder, a woodwind instrument the establishment forces children to squeak some horribly unholy sounds out of.  It’s there that kids learn all the classics: Hot Cross Buns, My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean, Twinkle Twinkle Little Star…  The recorder is celebrated by music teachers and reviled by parents.  The Irish have a little something just like that.     The tin whistle.  It’s rather nondescript.  About a foot of brass tubing with 6 holes poked in it.  It’s cheap, simple, squeaky and loud.  And I want one.  If a child can learn to play it, why not me?  Keep your ears open and you’ll eventually hear one.  Celtic punk in America is bursting with whistle influences.  Bridget Regan of Flogging Molly, Scruffy Wallace with the Dropkick Murphys, and The Tossers’ Aaron Duggins all make tin whistle ‘cool’ with their deft virtuosity and integration into popular music.  In addition, famous musicians such as Sting, Mick Jagger, and Stevie Wonder have used tin whistle in their compositions.     So there it is.  I’m going to Dublin to learn the tin whistle.  Once my boss recovered from his laughing fit at the concept of giving me a month off to fly to a foreign country and learn a child’s instrument, he inexplicably decided to let me go.  I packed a clean pair of boxers and open mind, promised my mom I’d make it back in one piece, and off I was.     I spoke earlier of the romantic notion most people have of Ireland.  In the mind’s eye, the Irish are supposed to strap a fiddle to their back and ride pristine ponies across green potato fields.  They jump off at the pub and tie their ponies up.  No, better yet, the ponies frolic and graze in the fields.  Meanwhile, the pub comes alive with step dancing and Guinness drinking, all fueled by infectious rhythms and memorable melodies.  Back to reality, kids.  Ireland is a wealthy, industrialized country.  Cabbies drive businessmen to the office in beamers, the radio blasting another rock block of Bon Jovi and Linkin Park.  Nothing against the guy, really.  But I came 3,200 miles to hear Bon fucking Jovi?     The news isn’t all bad.  Signs hang in the window of more than a few bars – TRADITIONAL MUSIC EVERY NIGHT.  Those are the places for me.  I’ll slip in unnoticed and the kings of tradition in their kingdom.  Absolutely giddy with anticipation, I find myself at The Celtic Note picking out my very own tin whistle.  The whistle itself only runs €5, but I’m feeling zesty.  After dropping an extra €6, I’m out the door with a whistle, a CD, and a book.  Because it’s the most popular in Irish music, I chose a whistle in the key of D.     It’s like Christmas morning.  Have you ever been so excited you tear apart the wrapping paper without bothering to read the comics?  That’s me, tearing into my new toy.  Oof, I’m no natural.  Not only am I no natural, I would later be asked to practice outside for the duration of the trip, in the name of my housemates’ sanity.  About a half hour of squalls later, I take the time to look at the bag itself.  ‘Celtic Note – Nassau St + Dublin Airport.’  Ah, shit.  I walked gleefully into a tourist trap.  It wouldn’t be the last time.     Ireland has become exceedingly well at marketing itself to tourism.  The country thrives on exploiting every aspect of its character and charm for a buck.  Touristy spots in Dublin like Temple Bar crawl with traditional music and there are always Americans sitting in those pubs.  Yeah, the same traditional music I was so excited to experience with the locals.  So what’s the ultimate motivation to play traditional music?  Is it love for the genre?  A connection to the history of your own people?  Or does tourism simply create marketable opportunities for musicians hungry for paying gigs?  The answer must be some combination of the three, but it is concerning to see a genre supported so heavily by tourism.  If the tourism dries up, what happens to the art?  They can’t all rely on vagabonds from America being drawn by tin whistles and a pint.     Despite coming for the traditional music, I cannot avoid the mainstream.  Popular music in Ireland is no different from popular music in America.  My ire for hearing Bon Jovi in Dublin should be well established by now, but that’s hardly the end of the issue here.  Bars come in one of two varieties: touristy traditional bars and clubs that blast the same damn popular music I can get in Philly.  Every night becomes a search for that elusive local bar, full of surly Dubliners looking to debate hurling strategy.     Caitlin’s friends came over the other night.  They’ve been here for a little while, so it’s not unthinkable to assume they know the lay of the land.  When they promise a bar that “all Irish go to,” it’s only natural to be a little enthused.  It’s far too easy to wind up in touristy dives, sipping down a Guinness next to Johnny Mets Fan and his overbearing parents.  But not tonight.  No, not tonight.  Ah, to rub elbows with a few locals.  With those dangerous romanticized notions of blending seamlessly with indigenous culture, I eagerly joined the group and we were off.  The walk was long.  A little too long.  Should it really take half an hour of walking to find Dubliners in Dublin?  At long last, our makeshift guides du jour flash their IDs, nod to the bouncer, and enter a building.  No, please not that one.  They enter the one spot on the block you can hear from miles away.  It emits a bass so over-modulated the pit of every stomach clenches a bit.     Another fucking club.  ANOTHER FUCKING CLUB!  I stopped in to use the bathroom, trying in earnest to make the best of a bum situation.  I can still have a good time.  I’ll talk to a few girls, swap ghost stories, maybe catch a bite on the way back…  This could work out for me, right?  Yeah, yeah sure.  The Hives are playing anyway.  So I come out of the bathroom and queue up to get a pint.  Queue up?  I’m integrating already.  That’s about when Kelly Clarkson comes on.  Nuts to that.  No fucking way.  I’m not alone in my disappointment.  So Matt, John and leave like bats out of hell.     Midnight in Dublin.  Have you ever been in Dublin at midnight?  Hell of a thing, it is.  Pubs here close at midnight.  The clubs I’ve decided to hate for being ‘too American’ keep the booze flowing and the music mercilessly bumping for three more hours.  Not to say there aren’t any interesting opportunities for live music tonight, but they just may have dried up on us.  The James Brown Experience is wrapping up.  We try local jazz joint J.J’s.  Nope, closing time.  Dejected, the three of us follow our feet to Temple Bar and the 2nd floor of Gogarty’s Bar.  A traditional band!  They’re a 3 piece – tin whistle, guitar, and fiddle.  It’s incredible to watch a tin whistle player so seamlessly follow the music.  To learn a new instrument is a daily grind, and it’s always reassuring to see a player that has kept up with it.  His playing becomes a window to the future of possibility.     They stuck pretty much to the classics.  The Wild Rover, Black Velvet Band, that sort of thing.  But a few times now I’ve heard a song I haven’t known to be in any repertoire stateside.  After vigorous and resourceful searching online, it turns out the song is called The Ferryman.  It’s penned by renowned songwriter Pete St John, the same guy that gave us Dublin in the Rare Auld Times and Fields of Athenry.  The music itself is a simple I-IV-V chord structure, yet the lyrics are absolutely gut wrenching.  It tells the story of a man whose way of life is ending.  The Ferryman toiled for decades on docks that are now being replaced by technology and necessity.  Dublin is passing him by.  All he has left is his sweet Molly, the love of his life.     “I love you well today,     I’ll love you more tomorrow” The man is losing everything he has held dear and makes a desperate plea for his woman not to leave him too.     They say Ireland has suffered a thousand years of oppression.  Nowhere is that more evident than in their music.  What drives these songs are two main themes: Sorrow and drinking to forget the sorrow.  The music resonates historical desperation and poverty in a place we as Americans have come to view as prosperous and visually stimulating.  Irish drinking songs are tongue in cheek and novelty to one who has not bothered looking into the inspiration behind it.  Every song has a story to tell and the world isn’t exactly rosy.     Go to any bar in Ireland boasting traditional music and there is a list of maybe a dozen standards the crowd will hear every night.  These songs tap into the heart of Irish history and, while tourists and locals alike will raise their glass and sing along, little thought is given to what is being sung.  Fields of Athenry tells of a man who robbed his neighbor to feed his children during the famine.  His punishment?  Deportation to Australia.  All for Me Grog, an infectious drinking song with a rousing chorus (It’s all for me grog/me jolly jolly grog/it’s all for me beer and tobacco) is in fact a cautionary tale of a man who has spent everything he has on beer.  There is no more money to be made as there are no employment opportunities.  As a result the protagonist is forced to leave his beloved Ireland for America.     My poor little tin whistle croons sorrow in the guise of drinking shanties.  This is the repertoire my little book has decided I’ll play.  It only makes sense, right?  I bought the whistle at a tourist shop and the book I got is full of traditional songs.  That’s not to say it isn’t immune from the affects of American music, either.  It’s not.  Although the book it came with has plenty of standards, things along the lines of I’ll Tell Me Ma, it also encourages me to learn Scarborough Fair.  Given my innately American nature, I’ve also figured out Rage Against the Machine’s Sleep Now in the Fire, Come Sail Away by Styx (give me a break, I thought it would be funny), and on a dare started learning the theme from The Good, The Bad, & The Ugly.     To choose a destination purely on the indigenous music is as good a reason as any.  Unrealistic notions quickly fall by the wayside in an increasingly globalized world, though.  Tradition and modernity have, in music, created a world of hybrid creativity, but the authenticity of tradition left in its wake is clearly suspect.  Through instruments like the tin whistle, however, more direct connections to the past can be made.  The whistle has been largely unchanged since the 1500s.  Piping The Wild Rover, it’s impossible to not feel the integration and validation of past generations.  The connections are there to be made, no question.  Just be prepared to temper your expectations.

“Thirty Days in Dublin” by Jessica Ayres

On my second day of arrival in Dublin, jet-lagged and sleep deprived, I walked through Merrion Square.  It is a public park in the heart of Georgian Dublin that smells like damp earth and contains the echos of birds singing, children laughing and lovers kissing the afternoon away.  Along my mosey, I came across the Oscar Wilde monument dedicated to one of Ireland’s greatest literary geniuses.  One of the two grey marble pillars boasted an illustration of the author’s famous quote, “The suspense is killing me.  I hope it lasts”.
Further down through literary Dublin, I passed a bookstore on the ever bustling Grafton Street.  The main vein of this commercial hub of coffee bars, pubs and shops, at any given time, is filled with various foreign languages, street performers, well dressed, trendy metropolitan youth and unusually picturesque flowers.  Passed Butler’s Chocolates, renowned for creating Ireland’s most decadent chocolates and truffles, a Dr. Seuss title read, “Oh, The Places You Will Go!”.  My experiences over the past thirty days lay somewhere between the introspective thoughts of Oscar Wilde and the all out ironic circus normally played out only via the Dr. Seuss characters themselves.
People have many reasons for travelling accompanied with varying expectations.  For myself, I had arrived at a time in my life where travelling seemed to be my only option.  The madness of four years of undergraduate study had ended as did the madness of a four year rollercoaster relationship.  Having learned many years ago how the Irish saved civilization, I felt confident they had some degree of salvation to offer me.  As this trip counts as my first experience travelling abroad, I scarcely had any expectations of grandeur because, quite frankly, I didn’t really know what to expect at all.  I learned very quickly that a lack of expectations is perhaps the only way to travel.
Before I go into the Wilde Dr. Seussiness, it is important to note what I brought to Ireland.  Of course the usual was packed: all the wrong apparel, the wrong shoes, the wrong notebooks and, though I didn’t realize it at the time, the wrong attitude.  In order to facilitate my undergraduate degree, a prison in my hometown is where I sought employment due the convenience in scheduling.  I realized a week into the trip, just how hardened and institutionalized I had become.
Though a natural born, hopeless romantic, I am not outwardly set to flights of fancy.  In fact, as a consummate workaholic driven to pragmatism and logic my no nonsense approach to life has served me well in the past and managed to keep me safe as a prison corrections officer.  Luckily throughout my journeys abroad, my street-wise, jaded cynicism also enabled me, as they say in Ireland, to ‘take the piss’ as well as any Irishman.  That being said, in terms of expectations, while immersing yourself in Irish culture, you can expect the unexpected in large, heaping doses.  As a result, if you are someone with any level of self-awareness, you can also expect to be changed, irreversibly, for the better.  ‘Craic’ (pronounced: crack and not unlike the drug) is a term the Irish use as slang to denote a good time adventure.  For my part, I was craiced straight out of my many comfort zones.  Inspired by author Elizabeth Gilbert, I quite accidentally, ate, prayed and loved my way across Ireland.
First steps in a foreign city are not dissimilar to those spinning, centrifugal force amusement park rides where both body and head are flung against the back rest and the floor drops out from under the rider.  The best way to approach a foreign city, I have learned, is to go wherever the wind takes you.
If you strive to be a laid back traveller, as opposed to a guide book regimented check list tourist, you can expect the energy of bustling Dublin to be measured in varying levels of mach speeds. The deluge of sounds, sights and smells bombard the senses directly into sensory overload.  Despite the inarguable, albeit stereotypical, fact that Ireland is known for its love of the drink, the times I was the most opposite of sober were the times I let go, allowed myself to be vulnerable and let the culture come to me.  Surely when charting unfamiliar territory, it is certain and expected things are going to go painfully wrong at some point.  What one inevitably learns, rather unexpectedly, especially while on Ireland time, is flexibility and patience.
Through showering (sans shower curtain), discovering my inner venus on the clam shell, walking for miles in flip flops (with legs ready to explode), having feet covered in city dirt (convinced at least one toe was simply going to fall off), and accepting the undeniable fact that Guinness is not actually a meal in a glass, (and that it does cause one to smell rather homeless), I learned to embrace the romantic moments that make travel so special.  Flexibility and patience teaches these are moments I would have never experienced without surrendering to them.  One of the most profound of these experiences arrived most unexpectedly at the Cliffs of Moher.
The cliffs span eight kilometres in length, rise up to a staggering two hundred and fourteen meters above the Atlantic Ocean in County Clare, and is home to the densest population of cliff nesting seabirds.  As I sat listening to the tour bus driver compare the visitor center’s design to that of the Teletubbies hideout lair, I grew less and less inclined to experience Ireland’s number one tourist destination.
While peering out the window at the pouring rain assaulting the giant, atrocious, shimmering, teal monstrosity that was our tour bus, I couldn’t help but wonder why when the actual cliffs are a mere twenty feet from the visitor’s center, would the center invest in a gargantuan pixilated screen depicting “virtual cliffs”.  After dismissing these thoughts as one of those things-that-make-you-go-hm scenarios, I started to get really excited. There is nothing that can prepare you for the experience of freezing as you are walking off a tour bus in the pissing rain and biting wind and peering for the first time over the edge of the cliffs.  There is also nothing that could have prepared me for the experience of the cliffs or the reality of just how powerful nature can be.
Out of sheer curiosity, despite my fear of heights, I walked to the edge of the cliffs, heart pounding out of my chest, and leaned back.  The wind was so powerful, so thick and so strong, I leaned back further and further still.  For what seems like an eternity, my hundred and fifteen pounds were completely supported by the winds of the Cliffs of Moher.  As I looked up at the sky to shout to the Gods just how amazing I thought this all was, I felt the rain cutting across my face like razor blades.  It is almost counterintuitive to be freezing cold, soaking wet, floating on air, with a dramatic sense of danger and being totally at peace.  In the past, people have been blown clear off the cliffs, if they haven’t jumped first.  But for the first time in my life, I let go and quite unexpectedly, I wasn’t afraid.
There are many stereotypes people typically associate with Ireland.  Certainly the lush, green rolling hills covered in flocks of sheep are no exception.  While travelling across the countryside in the offensive sparkly, teal tourist hooptie, I had expected to see the lovely white sheep of Ireland with varying shades of green as the ultimate back drop.  What I did not expect was the lovely white sheep of Ireland actually being the lovely fluorescent pink and blue painted sheep of Ireland.  Due to the vast countryside and the fact that many people in the countryside own sheep, the demarcation for which sheep belongs to whom comes in the form of spots colored on the animals with spray paint.  It was quite a shock to look across the “Wish You Were Here” postcard landscape and see hundreds upon hundreds of little white specks with their poor little arses covered in pink and blue paint.  The moment I caught myself laughing out loud on the bus, at the looks of those silly, painted sheep was the first time I fell in love in Ireland.  I couldn’t have known it, but it would not be the last time I fell in love in Ireland.
Ireland is a culture that not only values travel, but also values the art of story telling.  It is a traditionally oral culture that predates the Viking invasions.  Therefore, the story telling, pint drinking, and traditional pub going men of Ireland are some of the most charming in the world.  Perhaps another woman might be hesitant to admit it, but in fact I am a complicated woman who freely admits it takes a lot to impress her.  I could not settle on just one, so I decided to fall in love with two very different Irish men.
Martin was born forty-four years ago in County Galway.  We met, rather unexpectedly, over a pint in a pub called The Crane which resides off the beaten path in Galway City.  Galway City is a magical little harbour town rich in music, arts, shops and students from all over the world fully prepared to drink away their college fund.  If you are one who doesn’t travel to Ireland to hear Britney Spears pumped through speakers asking you to hit her baby one more time, you will likely seek out another place to experience the Irish Culture.  If you make it to Galway City, walk toward the water, pass the impressive flock of dozens of white Mute Swans and you will come to The Crane.  More likely than not, you will also find Martin.
For two glorious nights, Martin and I stood around The Crane watching bag pipers, fiddlers, fluters and singers entertain the crowd with classics such as “Irish Rover”, “Take Her Up to Monto” and “Finnegan’s Wake”.  Some credit Gaelic Football and Hurling as Ireland’s two most popular sports and though I am not necessarily known for athleticism, I partook in the other, lesser known Irish sports: drinking and smoking.
Since Ireland understandably banned smoking in pubs a few years ago, Martin and I stood just outside the entrance under the kind of shoddy, yellow light fixture you would only find in a port town, listened to the pub goers burst into song and talked the nights away.  He told me about his four daughters who live in London, the romance of his many travels and just how simply one can live.  Under the dimly lit streets of Galway, I stared deep into Martin’s eyes.  His missing teeth, four foot long dreadlocks and leathery face convinced me how special travelling is.  The lines worn into his gentle face told me much more about what it is like to travel for twenty years, nine of which were spent squatting in Moscow, faster than his words could.  I listened with bated breath for every word to tumble from the wise man’s mouth.
At one point we walked just across the street to a very small brick square.  Martin showed me the public flower pots in which he was growing potatoes and explained to me why it is never a good idea to eat a green one.  He told me about the giant metal scale that still sat on the bricks, how many moons ago the quaint little square was the town’s only market and that the people of the village would weigh their potatoes on the now rusty structure.  I couldn’t help but notice it looked like an exact replica of the scale they used to determine whether or not a woman was a witch in the film, Monty Python’s Search for the Holy Grail.  After a bit of coersion on his part, we smoked what he called “a bit of the ganga”.  We laughed as I sat on the scale in the pouring down Irish rain to see if I too were a witch or if I did indeed weigh more than a duck.  Though the ducks weren’t particularly cooperative with our requests to have one sit on the other side of the scale, in order to test our theory, I realized my face was sore from smiling.  I realized I had taken the Cliffs of  Moher with me and with back fully supported by the wind, had completely settled in to the freedom of travel.  I realized that though he was standing right in front of me, I already missed Martin.  Many of the moments that define travel are the ones that most people only experience through cinema.  I, however unexpectedly, found myself living the stories of film on more than one occasion and there was one day in particular that was no exception.
While I was in Ireland travelling with my fellow students, the United States celebrated its independence from England.  In order to help celebrate our home away from home, we all decided it would be a hoot to see an Irish Guns N Roses tribute band.  At close of the show, after a bit of whiskey and a lot of dancing, some mates and I made our way, in the pouring rain, to a pub on Grafton Street.  The Duke, as it is called, is a large pub with several different wooden floors and several different types of people all enjoying the fruits of their labor in a warm communal space.
Once I grew tired of having a laugh with a few sauced businessmen, I stepped outside for the usual smoke.  I looked to my left to see the torrential rain pouring down on the otherwise empty street.  I looked to my right and time stood still.  Peter was his name and he would spend the remainder of my time in Ireland teaching me the value of going wherever the wind takes me.  I suppose somewhere deep in my mind, I expected a little romance.  Instead I got the unexpected in large, heaping doses.
Our days together were something out of those ridiculous grocery store Harlequin novels, but I didn’t care.  We got our faces painted after walking around the Dublin Zoo.  He was a tiger and I a princess complete with silver glitter.  We danced the nights away at various local dance clubs, made cinematic love until the sun came up and he swore on his twenty-two years that he could care less about my thirty-one years.  I spent my last five days in Dublin kissing and falling in love with the most intelligent, witty, kind, free spirited, special man I have ever known.  Thanks to the wind and wonderful Peter, most unexpectedly, I spent my last five days in Dublin coming to life.
On a side note, many years ago, I took part in what is traditionally known as a Native American Medicine Quest.  At one point I was asked to draw a picture of what I thought my life would look like in the future.  Some of the other people on the Quest drew elaborate pictures full of smiling people, vibrant colors and imaginative scenarios.  My picture was rather inadequate in comparison.  All I drew was a picture of me adorned with butterfly wings and a great pair of high heels.  At the time, I didn’t understand why I needed wings, I just felt I did.
Travelling is a profound experience that should never be taken for granted, but experienced as much as possible.  Perhaps it may already be deduced from my rather hopelessly romantic anecdotes that the institutionalized cynic in me has died and my no nonsense self has journeyed, wings and all, straight into fanciful flight.  I suppose in various academic settings it is argued whether or not the Irish really saved civilization.  For my part, I can assure you, the Irish most definitely saved me.
Upon the completion of this writing, I am beginning the preliminary research of how one lives and survives the life of a traveller.  Having been utterly rehabilitated over the past thirty days in Dublin, I am now fully committed to living the life I have always dreamed of.  Perhaps the next time I write about my travels there will be excerpts about my making a living picking berries in New Zealand, farming in Thailand or counting turtle eggs on the Galapagos Islands.  Wherever the wind takes me, the suspense is killing me.  I hope it lasts.

“Ireland as Home” by Kathleen Garvin

Alex Trebek was the deciding factor in my decision to study abroad.  It was back in February, and Jeopardy! was on in the background as I read over my study abroad application, contemplating traveling to Ireland in the summer.  That’s when Alex prompted the contestants for the name of the popular bar area in Dublin.  When someone buzzed in and answered “What is Temple?”  I took it as the final push I needed to get going.  As both the name of my university and the area in question, I took it as a sign. Shortly afterwards, I was officially accepted into the program.
Studying abroad began not as a lifelong, yearlong or even month-long dream.  It was something I heard about in my introductory journalism class last spring semester when I was a sophomore.  There was a presentation on study abroad programs for the School of Communications and Theater majors.  The idea of it did intrigue me, but I was put off by the high costs and long amount of time away.
After several friends had committed to studying abroad, I started thinking about it more critically.  Italy, England, Mexico…my friends were experiencing these places, some for the second time around.  My sister’s friend had studied in Scotland and was now preparing for another round of extended travel in Australia.  The costs of going to these places seemed to come in second behind the real world experience everyone was gaining. My mind started swelling and I made myself the promise that if I didn’t go abroad now, I had to make it out of the country after college graduation in 2009.
Then reality sunk in:  I would soon be faced with student loans, finding a job and settling into the dreaded “real world.”  What if I never got the chance outside of college to leave the country?  I didn’t aspire to be like my grandmom who recently made her first voyage out of the United States in her 70s.  I wanted to see and explore foreign soil, and move around at a moment’s whim.  I was young, curious and able, so what was I waiting for?
This past fall, the Temple Dublin program was presented to my magazine journalism class.  The syllabus consisted of taking courses in Irish Communal Identity and Travel Writing, and living in Dublin, Ireland for four weeks – that was the biggest selling point right there.  A semester or year abroad was not for me.  I wanted enough time to be away and experience another country, but not too much time where I could become homesick and go completely broke.  If I was going abroad, this would be the program for me.
Ireland was the first major trip I had ever taken.  It encompassed my first time out of the country and my first time on an airplane.  It involved the new tasks of packing a suitcase, applying for a passport and living away from home for an extended time.  My travel portfolio had burgeoned in recent months to a spontaneous two-day stay in Virginia
Beach, a weekend in New Hampshire and a magazine conference held in New York City. Beyond that, I had been to a couple of cities in Pennsylvania, gone somewhat up and down the east coast, excluding Florida and Maine, and vacationed many times at the Jersey shore (if an annual summer getaway still constitutes traveling).
My flight out of JFK Airport took place on June 11.  The day was somewhat hazy, as reality still hadn’t set in yet.  After taking the overnight plane ride, I awoke in a new land…a greener, colder and cloudier one.  I felt good walking thorough the airport, looking out the windows at my home for the next four weeks.  A poster of the Irish boy band, Boyzone, welcomed us to the country as some of the other students and I went to claim our bags.
We met people from the IES program who directed us where to take out money and get taxis.  The Euro: the fakest looking and feeling money.  Our group of five needed to take out money for the taxi fare.  After we received our money, we got a taxi van and went off into the city.  Right away I made connections to home through the IES worker and taxi driver: she looked like my cousin’s best friend and he looked like my manager at work.  It’s interesting how our brains make these comparisons to help us cope while we’re away from home.  I wasn’t homesick, but certain familiarities made the transition of living abroad easier.  It happened again when we arrived at the apartments.  The park across the street had the same name as the high school I attended.  A liquor bottle in the kitchen had my best friend’s last name on it.  Two people on the trip knew friends of my family.  Philadelphia was closer than I thought.
While I made constant links between Dublin and home, I also took mental notes of the new and unusual.  Besides being noticed for being a young adult living in one the richest areas of the city, I was always painfully recognized as being an American.  The white sneakers, Jansport backpack and shorts were all big indicators to everyone else that I didn’t belong.  The biggest indicator of all seemed to be flip-flips.  No matter where our school group traveled, the sentence, “We can tell you’re American” was almost always followed up with “because you’re wearing flip-flops.”  This was particularly interesting because this type of footwear is available in department stores here.  But maybe they just stock them for when we Americans visit.
Supermarkets also had their quirks.  After asking a confused Irish guy where peanut butter crackers were, I discovered they don’t have them in Ireland.  Plastic shopping bags cost money, toilet paper ran upwards of 3 Euros for a 4-pack and bread, while cheaper than in the United States, seemed to get moldy in two days.  After picking and choosing each item, counting out money became the next challenge.  One and two Euros came in the form of coins, and one, two and five cents appeared identical at first glance.  All three coins were copper-colored and differentiated by just slight differences in size.  How did anyone pay in exact change here?
Another quality of Dublin was that it was not a planned city and it showed.  This was something evident from the first night here.  My Temple group had to walk with our R.A., Mo, to the IES building where our classes were held.  Upon approaching our first traffic light, we learned a very valuable lesson in crossing the streets here: run for your life!  Just about every street in Dublin is beyond the four-way intersection.  There are one-way streets, few speed limit signs and roads uninhabitable for two-way traffic (but they’re used for such, anyway).  People drive on the left side of the road (and occasional sidewalk), and come at you from every imaginable direction.  One side goes, then the opposing side, then pedestrians, followed by more walkers and drivers at another angle.  There are similar “pedestrian buttons” to get the light to change as in the U.S., but even Dubliners seem confounded by the uncoordinated system and just book it as they jaywalk across the street.  During that first night, my group stood there frozen, while the green man with the Frogger-sound emanating from him let us non-drivers know that we had five seconds to cross.
Another difference is language.  Even though a lot of Irish people speak English, the slang and common talk among the locals is unique in a way all its own. Things are “grand,” “lovely” and “brilliant.”  There are no bathrooms, but there are “toilets.” And these aren’t toilets for women and men, but rather “ladies” and “gents.”  Asking for water in a restaurant is “no bother,” and unlike American establishments that aim to please, Irish menus list that they “endeavor” to serve you.  There are no signs telling you to be careful, but there are signs telling you to “mind the step” and “mind your head” with the high floors and low ceilings.  After inquiring some Dublin boys about everything Ireland, blood pudding and the lingo, they gave me a lesson on some key words and phrases.  “Bloaks” are guys, and after a late night of getting “pissed” at the pub, they’re “wrecked.”  “What’s the story, horse?” is how you ask your buddy what’s up, and inquiring about “last night’s craic” takes on an entirely different meaning than in the States.
People always complain about the sex, drugs and explicit language we’re exposed to in the United States, but the media is a lot less censored in Ireland.  HBO and other American TV show imports are aired with limited commercials and full language and nudity on regular channels at all times of the day (with the British “Big Brother” on almost 20 channels non-stop for some reason).  Eminem and other rap plays “bleep”-free in the pubs and clubs.  Commercials air visually-gruesome campaigns against littering and drunk driving.  Cursing is an everyday way of life here, and both young and old Irish people do it.
After a few days of living in and observing Ireland, I stopped comparing every Euro price to its amount in dollars.  After a week, I stopped getting teary-eyed when thinking about the time difference between Ireland and back home.  I walked constantly around the city and took lots of pictures.  I visited the attractions, ate the food and recorded my experiences.  I wore flats instead of flip-flops, always brought my umbrella and tried not to over bundle up every time I stepped outside.
Into my second week here, an Italian woman asked me for directions to St. Stephen’s Green.  Not being a native Dubliner or local, I didn’t remember any street names and did the best I could.  I told her to make a left at the Natural History Museum (which is currently closed until further notice), go straight and make a right at the first traffic light (it’s directly across the street from the Bagel Factory) and continue going straight until she ran into the park (it’s right by Grafton Street and the statue of Molly Malone, you can’t miss it).
In addition to paying with 1 and 2 Euro coins, the one, two and five cent coins finally started registering.  While getting candy at a local Spar, the cashier coincidentally replied, “You’ve got it,” without being prompted by me, that I gave the correct amount of change.  Another time, I was about to cross the chaotic streets of Dublin.  While this still proves the occasional challenge, it’s becoming easier.  I crossed in between red lights with a mob of people and passed a visibly confused and motionless couple who looked at each other and laughed.  “We’ll just say that we’re following the street signs because we’re from America,” the wife said to her husband.
As time went on, I became more comfortable traveling without my school group.  By the end of my third week, I planned a day trip by myself to Northern Ireland.  I woke up at 4:15 a.m., took a taxi to the hostel where the bus was picking the tour group up, collected my ticket and waited for the 5:45 a.m. ride.
The weather was absolutely beautiful that day.  The sun was out and shining, and I was coasting on a fake burst of energy.  We got off at the train station and waited for our bright green tour bus to pick us up.  While waiting in the lobby, I met a couple from Santa Monica, California who ironically had a layover in Philadelphia before coming to Ireland – their first time on the East Coast.  They saw the Liberty Bell during their short stay there and asked about the best places for cheesesteaks.
Again, the weather was so nice that day.  A little chilly, but pretty cloudless for an Irish sky.  I loved driving around Belfast.  I can’t really explain it, other than it was a happy, entranced sort of feeling.  We passed the docks where the Titanic made its last stop and drove through some lovely countryside.  Our first stop of the day was the
Carrick-a-Rede rope bridge.  Some classmates went there the weekend before, but it hailed.  I had a feeling that I’d fare better.
The bus driver said we’d have almost an hour and a half there.  I was a little annoyed at first.  You cross the bridge which takes twenty seconds, and then what?
For the first five to ten minutes, it was pretty cold albeit only partly cloudy and in the 60s. However, as soon as I passed the admission gate and made my way down the dirt path, that familiar bright sun pushed its way through and lit up the sky.  It quickly warmed up, and the sights…ah, the sights.  This place was reminiscent of a tropical island.  The color of the ocean was a rich blue that cascaded from dark blue at the horizon to crystal clear at the shoreline.  There were caves, small white sand beaches and lively green vegetation.  I crossed the bridge, which was no big feat, and walked around Carrick Island.  The grass was cushiony and comfortable to walk on.  The seagulls flew around, and made a noticeably screechier noise than what I’m used to.  Everything was so spectacular, and the nice weather made the trip all the more pleasant.
I sat on a black rock, and looked at a small curvy trail that began at my feet and extended to the end of the cliff.  I took a picture of it.  I looked out into the horizon and reflected on my time here.  I contemplated future travel plans, my last week in Ireland and everything that’s happened.  I felt such a happiness, and felt very at peace.  I became filled with emotion and started choking up.  I started psycho-analyzing myself to find out what was wrong, but knew that nothing was.  Everything was great in that moment and I wanted to hold onto it for as long as I could.
As I hiked back to the parking lot, I reflected on it being Independence Day back in the States and got nostalgic.  I felt very childlike as I walked over the rocks and looked out into the pasture and admired how pretty the yellow flowers were.  I turned a corner, and a little boy passed with a shirt that said, “Live with optimism!” on the front.
I started walking fast to make it back to the tour group on time.  In the process, I walked behind a middle-aged couple who made me think of my parents.  I thought about how proud of them I’d be if they could drop everything and do something like this.
I closed in on the couple as I made my way around another corner of the dirt path.  I noticed their big traveler’s backpacks and huge water bottles.  Then I happened to glance down at the man’s feet:  flip-flops.  American.

“Taking Flight” by John Hodges

Looking reflectively outside the windows of Philadelphia International Airport I see enormous machine in line to go up into the air, planes landing, and huge white jets shooting off into the sky. Around me I hear announcements for planes boarding at certain gates, names being called over the loud speaker. People all around just sitting around eating, reading the paper, just chatting casually. They are all waiting though. The sun’s glare off a plane blinds me for a second, instantly taking me back to reality. Leaving the country for the first time, on your own is hard, even if you’re twenty-two years old. Bullet shaped planes can easily frighten, especially if you are afraid of heights. This phobia is the only thing on the mind right now, not the journey ahead – just getting on the plane. The clock seems to be inching closer and closer and suddenly the flight number is called. The seats in the airport are no comfort except when it is time to go, they just start to feel better, softer, almost like heaven. If only God could just teleport people here and there. But now it’s time to take flight.
Taking off and looking out the window is such a surreal happening. One can get to share with everyone on the plane, the beautiful sight of the city disappearing, and experience the great invention of flight, except for the plane food. After six long hours of flying over the enormous ocean, looking at the top of the quilted sky, we land in Ireland.
I have to pinch myself a few times, for a few moments to believe it. I feel the excitement of experiencing something new to the senses for the first time. A great passion starts this day with this country, a beautiful affair from the metropolitan cities to the little villages and country sides. The first leg of the journey is now over, next is surviving alone in a strange city for a month. And believe me, Dublin city is not for the faint of heart. The city has roots going back past the Viking invasion, and is steeped in history and is still morphing to fulfill the needs of a growing age. It is full of theatres, cinemas, boutiques, restaurants. You just name it and the city probably has it. Dublin city will now have to make room for a very scared, naïve, young man.
The city is a strange place. Cobblestones that can easily trip make up the city streets. Legs must become tune to walking on these potential hazards, which like to remind you of their existence. To avoid the wrath of the streets and the confusing bus system, a taxi is called. The taxi is a large white van being chauffeured by a spunky Irishman, who if he was Italian could fit in any little Italy section of a big city. Taxis in the city are a wonderful opportunity to meet people. They can tell you where to go and they like talking to their passengers. Drivers like to know why you are here. Are you enjoying your stay? Have we converted you yet? These conversations can give you insight into a culture and put the mind at ease. Even when you arrive to your destination they can keep you. The taxi driver from the airport wouldn’t let me out of the cab until I listen to a voicemail he received that he thought was amusing. The voicemail was a man interested in buying a car when the driver was not selling one. The man on the phone sounded drunk and annoyed that a car wasn’t for sale. The voicemail went on and on with the person on the line cursing the driver and using vulgarities that would make a mother blush. The drivers here seem friendly, which is a comfort to a new traveler.
Ireland has a series of rail networks and bus systems that can travel to all parts of the country in less than a day. Getting away from the city on a weekend is a must. Many natives from Dublin leave on Friday to go to a small coastal city, so to really fit in you might as well join in and see what living here is all about. Going to Galway is a great choice to visit. After three hours on the crowded train you can smell the sweet, salted air from the bay. An Irish woman on the train speaks to the people in my booth about a French student who was studying in Ireland last year. With an eerie tone in her voice she says the girl was taking a short cut back to her bad and breakfast through a forested region and she was murdered. The man was found shortly after and is now spending time in prison. So, don’t wonder off in the dark by yourself especially in deserted areas. This makes you think was it really wise to come here. It sets off a few alarms in my mind, but curiosity in this place was winning. The train suddenly halts on the track. Was this a warning sign? No. No, it couldn’t be. The train lazily drags itself onward until we hit the station.
The light shines with such intensity when getting off the train. It is about two o’clock and it is time to go off on my own. The park by the train station is exhausted with children and parents and restless teenagers just lounging around on the stubbly grass and rough concrete. It is time to move forward and not waste time sitting down in the sunlight. Galway is a relatively big place and there is much to see, like hundreds of massive, but delicate swans and ships in the harbor. The colorful postcard row of houses sits at the harbors edge, waiting for something or just watching the steady ocean tides. There was nothing particularly fancy about these primitive looking structures, only the colors in shades of pinks, blues, greens, and buttery yellows all in a line.
Tearing away from the site and walking through the town you might find on a little side street, a Franciscan Abbey. The outside was cut of a smooth gray stone and had large pillars supporting the overhanging roof. It was clearly 1700s architecture in its purest form, even on the inside where the yellow walls beam the places warmth and appeal. A higher presence could be felt in this place from the sunlight protruding from the stain glass windows to the haunting, distant sounds of monks chanting their prayers far away in the building. My soul sighs at the beauty I see. This sacred place was free of tourist. There was only an older man, about sixty-five years old praying in the stiff pew. His tanned skin covered with lines and his well worked hands were in a solemn state of devotion. He looked at me, knowing that I was an outsider. He gazed over for a second, I gave a quick smile and he turned away closing his eyes back into his trance. Maybe he was praying for me and my lost soul. I left this ground of worship and gave the old man his time alone to pray.
Wandering around the town, coming across what was looking to be a poorer section of Galway, a place not over crowded by loud tourist, was an area of houses that were not as picturesque as the few on the bay. A few tattoo places appeared, as well as antiquated shops and store fronts. In the midst of this was a second hand store. There was an old green stained carpet on the floor and dusty shelves. A smell was coming from somewhere inside the place. A bare-chested man was in the corner searching the shirt rack and comparing prices to find one that would not break his bank. His son was by him playing with toys from a bin. This sandy blonde haired lad didn’t seem aware of the world around him. The smell was coming from these two, something reminiscent of mildew and sweat. This image allows one to think about their own circumstances and how good and bad life can be. Coming to this country was so fortunate and though money may be tight, at least images like this make me a well rounded individual.
I decided to take my chances in going back to the crowded park with all the loud teenagers. This space hinders me a little because of all the people. Being shy this place can be overwhelming and too much to bear especially on your own. The park is a good place to eat while the train comes because it is so close. Staring at my train ticket and checking the time because missing it would mean spending the night outside in Galway. It is now 9:00pm and a train pulls up on the tracks. It is the last train out of Galway, but it does not go back home to Dublin; it goes to Athlone. I had missed my train. The tickets are a little tricky to get used to and I read the time the train would arrive in Dublin. Damn ticket! Inside I begin to cry because of my incompetence and helplessness. There are two choices: sleep outside in Galway for a night because the Bed and Breakfast were all filled or do I go to Athlone and see another city on this weekend trip. Confusion and fear swept through my body. The train which at first appeared so comforting now turns ugly and horrific, morphing in front of my eyes. The choice is made: Athlone will be my destination. Pushing myself to do this was the bravest thing I have ever done on this trip, completely facing the unknown. Athlone is not mentioned in my Ireland guidebook and there is no way to know what to expect. This would be the beginning of a real journey. This would be a great adventure, something life should be full of…right?
The train rattled on. CLACK! CLACK! CLACK! The wheels were moving were moving swiftly and coldly, breaking the quiet night which was laying all around. Sleep was not possible on this train. The jerking and pulling making the ride impossible to bear and there was no one to look to for support. The train was empty and phone was dying. The train grew chilly and then pulled up in a dark part of town. It was late. There were few cars on road and it the night air was filled with a mist, which was absorbing into my bones. The road to the main drag of town was a short walk although it seemed endless in the dark. A light was perforating the night up ahead. It could be morning already. Walking towards it I realize it is a rowdy night club. It was glaring over me with a smirk. What have you gotten yourself into, John? You shouldn’t have broken away from the group. See where it gets you. “Shut up.” I told it. Walking on the town seemed dead. Stores were empty streets were eerily quiet. Even the Church locked its gates to the world in front of it. This impressive structure seemed to needs its protection from this gritty town.
My eyes were shutting and my feet are aching. What should I do, I kept telling myself. Never before have I been on my own, stranded and lost in a strange town with not even a map to guide the way. Mental pictures kept placing themselves in my mind to remember the location of the train station in the morning. The church on the left, the small market to the right, the large amount of graffiti and the castle up ahead. Everything must stay with me. A Bed and Breakfast appears. Has God given me a place to stay? Maybe the old man’s prayers were working. The doorbell was like ice, but a glow was exuding from the windows. The owner comes by and waves me away. They are full -too good to be true.
A helpless, vulnerable feeling swept over me. On the walk to the canal, thinking of what to do, a Sheraton Hotel pops up in the distance. A hotel is no place to stay for a few hours. It is after 12AM; checking in now really isn’t an option. The night air gets cooler and cooler and my uneasiness does not settle. A man watches me, studying me. He is in a brown tweed sport-coat and a news-boy cap. He is trying to read if I am trouble. He passes and with a few glances back he moves on. Watching him makes me realize that wondering around looking feeble is not a solution. Finding a dark place in the shadow of the canal in an unsafe place to sleep was an option. Or sleeping the safe hotel bed, where I could undress and take a shower was another. Thank God for credit cards, or else my home for the night would have been the canal.
The room was white with a dark wooden closet and king size bed you swim in. This was the right choice. It started to rain outside, but there is safety in this dry shelter, at a pretty cost mind you, but I was safe. A peaceful night’s sleep came and led me in dreams of happiness and contentment.
The rain was still falling in the morning, tapping on the glass outside the foggy hotel window. Laying there in the comforting bed was when the realization came. I made it through the night, safe, and dry. No one was there to help me or calm my fears. I overcame being stranded and lost. This was my first moment of complete independence, a triumph. My hand was not held like a child. The world tried to control, but it did not win. The great spirit within me was not conquered. It could not be tamed.
The time had come to check out of my luxurious night’s rest and go fearlessly out into the rain. It was time to move onto the next city – Kildare. Kildare is a small town just outside of Dublin. The air is sweet and gentle but the wind was rough. The rain had stops leaving a coolness and a sleepy feel to the town. Very dramatic. Walking from the train station, a feeling or anxiousness consumes me. Whether the feeling is based on excitement or just plain fear, who knows. When turning the corner a noise reaches me. Someone is speaking, a man on the loud speaker addressing a crowd. A burst of color goes before my eyes. A Bike race was going on. A plethora of colors and logos appeared before my eyes. People clap as the bikers cross the finish line, each routing for their county. The main drags close to make up the bikers loop. Walking down a small street, I see bikers stretching and talking warming up before their turn comes around. The people were so invested in this race. A blonde little boy wearing red was riding a small blue bike among the warming up bikers. He was trying to fit in, trying to feel more adult. I saw myself in this little boy. The symbol of my life was right there, sitting in front of me. The thundering speaker jars me from my thoughts.
The only building open in the main part of Kildare is the Medieval Saint Brigid’s Cathedral. This structure outlived other smaller churches in the area. The weathered tone walls and decaying graveyard reveal a strong history. The solemn, stone eyes of the algae tinted statue of Saint Brigid follow me through the graveyard of Celtic crosses. She clung to a cross, standing in front of a massive stone tower. The tower claims to be the second highest grain storage tower in all of Ireland. The statue leads to the tower’s entrance. Under a strange trance, I climb inside. The structure concealed a narrow series of ladders and landings. The smooth wooden ladders combined with the smell of old masonry give the feeling of an ancient hideout, or in a way a tree house, just minus the tree. Halfway up the tower the howling wind could be heard, singing its forceful song proudly. The air grew cooler and my body trembles. The urge to climb back down seizes my body but my mind yells know. The climb continues as the wind grows louder and space around gets smaller and smaller. Daylight appears above, and the last ladder is climbed. The view from the top of the tower is astounding. The wind almost throws me over onto the hard, uneven, grays stones. Balance and strength are the key and defeat is not an option when I have climbed this far. The country side stretched on for miles, divided up into plots and fields which create puzzle shapes on the land and the clouds shadows on the ground much depth. If only painting was possible up here. Standing there for awhile, getting lost in the view and myself, the realization of more to see hits, so the climb done those ladders begins.
Walking around, trying to see the sites of Kildare is not possible, at least not in one day. It will be a feat to find two more sites in this town, so it must be down. The theme of the weekend is victory and independence, so why stop here. Walking along a long stretch of dirt road, I hear stones moving around under my feet squirming for me to get off of them and move on, a pungent odor sneaks into my nostrils. It was a smell my senses had not experienced before and to the side of a road was a dead red fox, overwhelmed by flies. Its mouth lay open and tail stretched out, Looking like it was in an almost happy sleep, but my mind couldn’t sustain this lie. Is this another sign? Was something bad suppose to happen? Should I turn back now and forget about the Japanese Garden’s and Saint Brigid’s well, and the Irish stud? No way, not after coming all this way. Let whatever happens, happen. Turning back isn’t an option. The walk on this deserted road continues and finally the well appears. A serene spot filled with religious relics and flowers. There is a tree that holds socks and shoes of children. Who placed the items here? Why? Before walking away something tells me to leave something. I go outside along the road and pick a few native flowers and place them in the hands of another statue of the Saint. A prayer is said and I feel at peace in this moment. The rest of the journey continues.
A little further down the road, The Japanese Garden and Irish National Stud appears. They are closed. I arrived too late, by five minutes after the last admission time. One of the major reasons for coming to this town was to see this place and its right there in front of me but I can’t have it. The Japanese Gardens have been around since 1906 and is the home of ponds and exotic flowers, which would be a serene experience. The National Stud is a place where race horses have been bred and is a spot to see show jumping, steeple chases, and other exhibits. There is no use in just standing at the gate looking like a sad, like a kid being told that they can’t have any candy from the candy store. So I slowly turn and walk away, looking back longingly. The disappointing walk back down the road seems longer than the actual journey. Feet start to ache from walking around all day and they tell me it is time to go home.
The train station is a few miles down the road. The sky becomes cloudy and is struck with various shades of grey. Rain starts to drizzle from the sky and dance along the grass and road, making the world have a dewy glow. Thoughts from the weekend pop into my mind, the events that tripped me in my path and they all lead to one thing – giving me total independence.
Sitting on the train, a feeling oh joy started to trickle through my veins, much like the falling rain outside. The weekend may not have been perfect, hardships may have come my way on this trip, but it was worth it. The cities travelled to have helped this sheltered, little boy grow up fully and strengthen his confidence. The world is not meant for the timid. If you want something to happen, being afraid of experiences isn’t going to help a person grow or change, or even live. That’s what life is all about isn’t it? Someone said to me once: “you don’t live to work, you work to live.” It is time now to let go of responsibility once and awhile. Becoming numb or turning into a machine is no kind of life. Working too much will make someone cold. Life is to be enjoyed and I must remember that. When returning to Dublin; I don’t want to go back unchanged, even when returning to the States. My timidity and inhibitions must be forever left behind across the ocean, buried in the Emerald Isle.

“Detaching the Lens” by Bryan McSorley

As I stood at the wall overlooking the sea, the wind almost blowing me over, I take a deep breath and take in the salty ocean air. I close my eyes, just so I can better hear the waves crash against the cliff’s side. But then the anticipation begins to grow and my hands start to shake wanting to pull out my camera. I can’t hold out any longer, all of my other senses dim as I fine tune my vision to try and capture the moment. The struggle between experiencing the travel and capturing the scenery is an ongoing battle in my life as an amateur photographer, and this has become even more apparent with my trip to Ireland.
Photography has been a hobby of mine for about five years now, but it was very casual and had no affect my life or travels. It would never cross my mind to think about where my camera was at or if where I was headed would be worthy of me bringing it along. It wasn’t until this past semester in college that I really found a niche that I could fit into. In a film photography course I was currently enrolled in, I was shown the work of Ansel Adams and immediately fell in love with landscape photography. From that point on, everywhere I would go I would debate whether or not my camera needed to come along. While driving down the highway, I would look off the side of the road and visualize photographs of the area. During that same semester, I was introduced to the Dublin study abroad program through another professor of mine. I felt that this would be a great opportunity to learn more about this field and help me further pursue this new found passion of mine. But when I sat down for the study abroad orientation and learned that I must hone in all my senses for a travel writing course, I was worried that my visual fetish would end up getting in the way.
Trying to prepare myself for this trip, I gathered only the necessary items for this month excursion. A little over a weeks worth of clothes, an extra pair of shoes for those long hikes, my iPod for the flight, and my camera with it’s single lens, polarizing filter, compact flash card, battery, charger, and the hard drive to store all the photos. Once I arrived at Dublin Airport, as I stepped off the plane, instantly I had the urge to pull out my camera and start shooting. Instead, I decided that the first days I was in Ireland I was going to put down my camera and work on my other senses, really trying to experience Dublin for what it is, rather than detaching myself from the city just to get the shot.
The first days without the camera at my side were absolute hell. Once I arrived at the place I was staying, I decided to take a walk around and get acquainted with the area. I make it one step out the door and notice Merrion Square, a secluded park right across the street. Surrounded by this old Georgian neighborhood, this park was made as an escape from everyday life for the nobility of the time, and much hasn’t changed. Right away I know I was going to regret not bringing out my camera. Walking into this small park was like walking into a private garden, giving any passer-by this serene moment of personal reflection. So I took this moment to find the closest bench do just that, slowly watching the world continue to turn without me. But with jet lag creeping up on me, my attempt at life reflection slowly turned into a quick nap.
Once I was able to pull myself out of there, I continued my tour down a few more blocks into another of Dublin’s parks, St. Stephen’s Green. Entering this park from the north-eastern corner, I was greeted by a large memorial of a long past Irish hero, Wolfe Tone, who quietly overlooks this busy street corner. Upon entering I was overwhelmed with the amount of greenery surrounding me. Only a few rays of sunlight were able to break through the trees that towered over me, helping light my pathway through the green. Not too far in, I came across a gazebo which overlooked a small lake. To my right, I see a couple quietly cuddling lakeside. I found that the locals loved to just lie around in this area and watch the ducks swim back and forth, with the occasional passing of a swan. This was a park made for romance, with a movie cliché waiting around every corner. Making my way towards the middle of the park, the trees broke and sunlight filled the center of the green. Memorials cover the area in remembrance to all those who had helped create the Ireland of today. Here I was forced to take another moment and sit, in order to just appreciate the sheer beauty of this place. Sitting peacefully there, the only thing that was running through my head was, “Damn, I wish I would have brought my camera.”
This couldn’t be truer than on the following day when I stuck with my pact and left the camera at home. Wandering about the city with a few others from the group, we looked for a good place to all grab a drink together. Searching for a pub that wasn’t packed to the brim on a Friday night in the Temple Bar district seemed impossible, like searching for that elusive needle in the haystack. So as we made our way westward, we managed to make our way to Dublin Castle. “Great…a castle,” I thought to myself, “of course I don’t have my camera with me.” To the right, massive stone walls of the castle towered over me and a modern office was awkwardly placed to my left. Observing the structure, in the distance I could hear the faint sound of laughter and music. Making my way forward, trying to find where this was coming from, we came upon the castle courtyard where a stage was set up and a show was taking place. A street performer’s festival was taking place this weekend and we happened to stumble upon the opening night. Quickly searching around, I took the closest seat I could find. We walked in right as the second act was beginning with a Spanish woman who was a hula-hoop comedian. Her act was hilarious, as she told jokes and did several tricks with a dozen hula-hoops, but I was taken away because now the urge to have my camera at my side was actually hurting my experience at the show. Up until this point, I didn’t realize just how attached I had actually become to the camera.
So a few days later a group of us headed out to the shore town of Bray, and there was no way I was leaving my camera behind. As soon as I jump off the train, I began shooting. The camera becomes melded to my hand and everywhere I look is another potential picture. The shoreline wasn’t too far away, so I headed in that direction first, knowing that there will be plenty of shots to gather. A group of large rocks being beaten by the waves catches my attention and I run over, so as not to miss a shot. I make my way out to the farthest possible rock, without falling into the sea, and sit to take a small break. The smell of the sea fills the air as I can hear the gentle splash of the waves against the rocks. But I’m more focused on the task at hand, cleaning the drops of water off the lens of my camera, so I may continue shooting.
In the distance, I notice a large crucifix on top of a hill, and coincidently, that is where the group was planning to hike. As we head up the hill, I slowly fall behind the group, taking pictures at every turn. The clouds slowly pass over the small town, constantly changing the look of the landscape, making it even harder to look away. The trees begin to cover the view and all I have to worry about is the ascent to the top. Hiking my way up, the peak appears in the distance. A couple of people yell in my direction, “Marco!” making sure I was still behind them. I sprint up the rest of the way towards the cross on Bray Head, to gain the best view of the town and the sea. Camera out and ready, I start snapping away. Spinning in circles, I’m taking pictures of everything and everyone. After fifteen minutes, the compact flash is full and I must shuffle through my pictures to see what should be kept and what can be deleted. Quickly flipping through, trying to judge these photos on the two inch screen, I make quick guesses and just hope for the best. All the while the rest of the group is out along the cliff side just enjoying the view. After filling the flash card to the very max of ‘worthy’ photos, I trekked back down the mountain and headed home. Watching the photos upload onto the computer and recalling the day’s events in my journal, I realized that what I remember most of this excursion was the hike up and down the hill, probably due to the fact that I didn’t have my camera out. Going over the photos, I can see everything, but there isn’t a feeling to it. And what about what was outside the borders of all those photos?
The weight of the camera became very apparent on the Friday trip to Galway. First, I decided to have a bit of a peaceful moment, just sitting riverside, looking towards the Galway Cathedral. I started snapping just a few pictures at first, but then I took a moment to reflect. I couldn’t believe that I was actually in Ireland. Heading off into town, still with camera at side, there was so much to see. But the sun had just hit the horizon and without a tripod or sufficient flash, the camera has become almost useless. So I was left in the city, a half an hour out from the residence I was staying at, and the group restless to go out to the pubs. There were a few decisions I could make here; take the walk and lose an hour of the night, grab a cab and waste money on an already tight budget, or throw the camera over my head and head out to the pubs. Well I wasn’t ready to miss out on any of the fun, so I went ahead out to the pub. King’s Head was the first pub I ended up at for that night. Located in an old stone house, a small band played contemporary rock that had the entire place dancing to the tunes. This made it incredibly uncomfortable for me as I hunched over, attempting to protect my camera, manoeuvring through the crowd. After running into a few people and almost having a few drinks spill on the camera, I was about to head in for the night, when I found one of the girls who was willing to toss my camera in their bag and store it in a nearby hostel. Perfect, I thought to myself, I can now have a good time for the night. I headed out of there with them and after dropping it off, went out to a spot in Galway to see some great traditional Irish music, the Crane Bar. Walking in, the sweet sounds of bagpipes pull me upstairs in its direction. Ascending the steps of the bar, the guitars chime in and the rest of the band began to play. The music was so comforting, and without any camera worries, besides these great photo ops, I was able to almost fully enjoy the rest of the evening.
The final trip that almost put me over the edge, literally, was in a small suburb of Dublin, in the town of Howth. Even in a small town like this, there was plenty to explore. Being another town on the sea, it had a great view from the pier overlooking the water and the two small islands to the east. There was also a small hike up to Howth summit to get to a great overview of the harbour and the rolling hills opposite the sea. The boat trips to the island are only held on the weekends, so I went ahead and did the hike. However, to get to the hiking trail, I had to make my way through the town streets running along the cliff edge. Getting a little anxious to pull out my camera, I found a ledge beyond the road walls that I thought would be a great place to get some good cliff side shots. I hop over the small stone wall and find a small dirt path leading down to the ledge. It’s a little steep, but it’s manageable. Seeing this tight rope of a dirt path, scattered with a random assortment of trash, I felt better knowing that it was often travelled. Seconds after that thought, my right foot slips out from under me and I began to slide down this steep pathway. Coming closer and closer to the edge, I slam into a thick bush, halting a tumble off the cliff. I take a quick few more steps down the hill to get to the very edge of the cliff. Trying to regain composure, I pull off my backpack and toss it to the side as I take a seat on one of the rocks. I realized I really needed to take in this moment and enjoy it because maybe the next cliff I stumble down won’t end so well. I lean back and let the rocks support my weight. Closing my eyes, I hear the nearby singing of the seagulls complimenting the serene sounds of the sea. The wind was concentrated on me, pushing as if it was trying to get me away from the cliff’s edge. Trying to take in everything, I slowly open my eyes and pan over the landscape to find that I had come upon a magnificent view. Seagulls are perched on the cliff parallel to me and an old man fishes on the rocks down below. Here I hesitate to pull out my camera, soaking in this moment, wanting it to last forever.
Now I still bring my camera pretty much everywhere I go, but every once in awhile I’m able to leave it behind. Towards the last days of my journey in Dublin, I went out with my camera and covered all the places I hit in those first days. The camera is my double edged sword, acting as an anchor some time, but other times it has the ability to lure me out to places I wouldn’t normally go. There is no even ground and I won’t always have the time to cover an area twice, once with and once without the camera. So the best way I can see is to go out and just flow with the experience, no regret.

“Attached in Dublin” by Jacalyn Clay

We tried Chinese water torture on each other before I left for Ireland. We wanted to prepare ourselves for the misery of spending a month apart. Though, instead of dripping water in the same spot on each other’s foreheads for hours upon hours, our version was more like me dumping a cup of ice water on Frank’s unsuspecting face and him chasing me all over the room around the crappy Ikea furniture. However actual Chinese water torture may feel, it must be a piece of cake compared to being without the one you love in possibly the most romantic city in the world.
Frank is the one I love, he is my best friend. He is passionate about politics and obsessed with the Phillies. We share a love for greasy cheese steaks and spontaneity. He is annoyingly intelligent. He knows how to cook the perfect steak. Although he is on the verge of being extremely addicted to poker, he makes me laugh hard enough for soda to shoot out of my nose. Whenever he looks at me, his eyes light up. His passionate, almost arrogant views on politics make conversations with him last forever. His pulsating smile will never let you stay mad at him for long. He bought me a kitten. He has a laid-back outlook on life that everyone should envy, and he gives me butterflies when he walks into the room. All of these reasons meshed together make it impossible to live without him.
Frank hadn’t wanted me to go. In fact, he begged me not to, but I insisted. Saying clichéd things like “Don’t worry, baby. It’s only a month” and “Don’t they always say that absence makes the heart grow fonder?” and “I’ll be back before you know it and then, we can have one of those ‘jump in mid-air, wrap my legs around you, make everyone jealous and sick at the same time, movie kind of kiss’ in the airport” did little to reassure him. What really should have been said was, “Sorry, darling. Hate to tell you this, but that’s all a load of crap and you’re probably going to die without me.”
Frank doesn’t love me more than I love him, but in a way, mentally leaving him long before leaving for Ireland was inevitable. Our relationship had changed drastically from two years ago when we first got together. Of course we loved each other and we knew that we were meant to be together, yet, the romance in our once dangerously mushy relationship seemed to be slowly dwindling. No more random flowers on a Tuesday night, no more sharing one milkshake with two straws, no more surprising each other with a candlelit dinner, and no more opening car doors. We were getting too comfortable with each other, and we both knew it. He would walk into the room, and the butterflies would still flutter in my stomach, but there would also be rolling eyes when he asked me whether we should watch ‘The Sentinel’ or ‘The Departed.’ What ever happened to going to the beach late at night to walk in the moonlight, having spaghetti fights when we were bored, and never watching movies and instead, talking until 5 a.m.? Sometimes, getting on a plane just to leave to see what would happen was extremely appealing. And that is precisely what I did.
Of course a break from my relationship was not the only reason coming to Dublin seemed like the perfect getaway. Studying abroad, to feel the thrill of being in a foreign country, especially Ireland, was captivating. I remember borrowing the same book about Ireland from the library all the time when I was a little girl, curious about the emerald isle and its friendly people. Finding out exactly where my ancestors lived in County Donegal, saving enough money to come, and finally having everything just fall into place was a sign. I was going to Ireland. The much-needed escape from my relationship was just a small factor that added to the many benefits of studying abroad, or so I thought.
Being apart from Frank was surprisingly painful. During the first week here, my feelings were all over the place. Going from content to depressed to thrilled to angry to desperate to overwhelmed in a matter of 30 seconds was exhausting. A threatening tragic sensation stayed in the back of my mind at all times. Frank was across the Atlantic Ocean. No holding his hand for one month. No playing the ‘let’s see who can eat the most breadsticks and salad game’ in Olive Garden with him for four weeks. I wouldn’t look into his eyes for 30 days. We wouldn’t sing along to Billy Joel on the radio together for 720 hours. And being the cynic that I am, this awful longing feeling couldn’t possibly mean that I actually missed Frank that much, so, blaming it on the many couples in Dublin seemed like the right idea.
Did all of the people in love in Dublin make a pact to follow me where ever I went? They were absolutely everywhere, torturing me with their smiles, happiness, and kisses. In a public bathroom in the trendy bar, Purdy Kitchen. In a car speeding on the cobble stoned streets of Temple Bar. Holding hands in the National Gallery. On a bench in luscious Merrion Square. Down a random alleyway on the North side. Wandering Kildare Street one late afternoon, going through one of my mood swings, I stopped at a light. A couple came up next to me. Let’s call them the Kildare Street Lovers. The woman was beaming in her imperfectly tilted black beret while the man had a dumbfounded look on his face like it was too good to be true that she was leaning in to kiss him. And then, it started pouring rain. The little green man appeared on the stoplight, enticing the lovers to walk, but they didn’t. They stayed right there kissing on the sidewalk, not even noticing the rain or the annoying beeping sound. The options were to take off the lady’s beret and throw it in one of those eternal puddles that Dublin never seems to get rid of or to stand there and despise them in silence. Escaping into Spar, Dublin’s version of Seven Eleven, to buy chocolate and ice cream was the final result of my run-in with the Kildare Street Lovers.
That wasn’t the only time that people made out just to drive me crazy. While sitting alone on a bench, eating some funny-tasting Chinese food in St. Stephen’s Green, only the dreamiest lagoon-like park ever, a ray of sunshine spilled on these two teenagers under a tree. There they were with dyed black hair and piercings, rolling around on the grass and groping each other. Irritated, yelling to them, “Hey, girl, here comes your dad!” felt so good. Okay, so maybe I didn’t say that, but Frank probably would have. Back to square one again.
Finding myself sitting next to another nauseatingly happy couple on a bus tour to go see the Blarney Stone added to the never-ending nightmare of couples everywhere. Like kissing a rock wasn’t enough, they insisted on being all over each other the entire four-hour bus ride. Finally, the girl fell asleep on her boyfriend’s shoulder and I sighed with relief. No more watching sloppy make-out sessions. It was then that something even worse happened. The man watched his lovely girlfriend as she slept, and to my dismay, he cradled her face and kissed her tenderly on the forehead. In that moment, on the incredibly bumpy, loud, and tourist-infested bus ride, it seemed like time stood still and the three of us were the only people in the bus. I desperately tried to escape that moment, forcing myself to look anywhere but at their blatant happiness. How many more couples were going to slowly break my aching heart?
For some reason, going out to the bars might keep my mind off of Frank and being in love seemed like a good idea. Guys and girls go to pubs to pick up people, not to fall in love, right? Wrong. Of course, attracting all of the creepy Irish guys who wanted to marry me, not just pick me up, was my specialty. Every time a man came up to me, offering me a half-drunken drink, telling me I looked like an angel, or asking me to go on a serious date sometime, Frank popped into my head and I wished he was there to chase them away. Then, ‘Brown-Eyed-Girl’ would come on. The band usually would play half American music and half Irish music. Please, please don’t play ‘Brown-Eyed-Girl.’ But, of course, they always did. Thank you, Van Morrison, for being Irish. In my head, Frank would be singing to me, and thinking about how he had always promised he’d sing that song to me on our wedding someday made me want to break down and cry.
One day, after a night at Fitzsimon’s and hearing ‘Brown-Eyed-Girl’ play three or four times, our teacher took us to a walking tour to the North side of Dublin. We stopped to get a cup of tea when my teacher looked right into my eyes and said to me, “You know, brown eyes are not very common to the Irish.” I said, “Yes, I know,” knowing exactly where this conversation was going. He said, “Have you ever heard of Van Morrison?” My nods and smiles seemed polite, but screaming at him that I have heard of Van Morrison was what I really wanted to do. His songs play in every single bar in the entire country. The ‘Brown-Eyed-Girl’ melody haunts my dreams. I’ve even driven past the freakin’ man’s house. Maybe the couples weren’t following me, and maybe I missed Frank a little more than expected.
That’s when the e-mails started. Being a lovey-dovey person is not my style, but the things I found myself writing in these e-mails shocked me and must have shocked him. Some of the phrases might have even made Romeo and Juliet cringe. Those clichés I used to make Frank feel better backfired, and becoming the cliché girlfriend who was away from her boyfriend was unavoidable. That girl? Oh no, I was terrified to be that girl. I made a promise to myself that I would never be that girl, but reciting my favorite love poems to Frank over the phone became the norm. The desire to talk to him on the phone was so bad that the 44 cents per minute didn’t faze me. Frank emerged everywhere in Dublin, in a street sign that said Francis Street, in a boy on the street as his cornflower blue eyes that resembled Frank’s stared into mine, in a restaurant called Frankie’s Hot Dogs. Frank’s favorite food is hot dogs.
My longing for Frank totally changed my view of Dublin. Being lovesick caused me to notice things I never would have before. Sitting in the Garden of Remembrance, two ducks floated in the cross-shaped pool of water. They seemed to be engulfed by each other and there were no other ducks around. The two ducks were soul mates. Walking on crowded Henry Street on a misty Saturday afternoon, I smiled when I saw some graffiti on the side of a wall boldly stating in capital letters that Paddy loves Sarah. In the bright and harmonious Christ Church Cathedral, a young girl played the organ passionately. When she was finished, the look on her face made me realize that music was her true love.
Besides my newfound sense of love all around me, a certain kind of sadness and broken heartedness in the city became apparent to me. An old man with reddened eyes was drinking by himself outside a pub on an unusually calm Nassau Street. Had he just lost someone he loved or was he was just drunk? The loneliness of a middle-aged woman standing alone in the Long Hall of Trinity College broke my heart as she stared up at the barrel-shaped ceiling. The beautiful image I had of Ireland before coming here slowly changed as litter drifting along in the River Liffey caught my eye and black smoke blew into my nose from the maniacal buses racing down the streets. Before coming to Ireland, visions of cheerful people drinking Guinness in the streets with green succulent plant life enveloping the city filled my head. My fairy-tale image of Dublin was similar to my fairy-tale image of my relationship with Frank.
Maybe complaining so much about the lack of spaghetti fights and moonlit walks on the beach was a waste of time. All a person really needs is someone whose mission is to simply make them happy. I have that with Frank. Perfection doesn’t exist in relationships just as it doesn’t in cities. In a relationship, laughter and romance comes along with arguments and boredom. In a city, serene parks and beautiful architecture comes along with the smell of trash and the ignorance of people. The good comes with the bad in any relationship, and to have two people who are willing to accept that and still be together is hard to come by.
It took a trip to Ireland for me to see how much I truly love Frank. Our relationship seemed fuzzy in my eyes, and after a month apart from each other, it became clear. Maybe Frank really is my soul mate and he isn’t someone to escape if being without him affected my view of a city so much. Traveling to Dublin gave me so much. Gaining independence, knowledge, and culture was essential to my trip, but gaining a whole new attitude towards my relationship with Frank was worth more than all of that. Now, as the end of the trip is getting closer, leaving Dublin feels bittersweet. This city has taught me a lot about the Irish culture and about myself. Maybe being that cliché girlfriend really isn’t so bad. Ireland is a place that you never want to leave, but I truly can’t wait to get home to Frank to hold his hand, sing along to Billy Joel, laugh so hard that soda comes out of my nose, watch ‘The Sentinel,’ get silly at Olive Garden, kiss in the rain, and just be that cliché girlfriend who writes him love letters and recites him poems.