The friendliest city in Ireland...

(Note, the attached picture is actually not from my adventures on the Emerald Isle. Indeed, it is of the newest addition to the Noah's Landing menagerie, a healthy baby sloth. I just wanted to show her off.)

Before landing in Derry in mid-September, there were only two things I knew about the city. First, according to one rather helpful policeman in London named "Paul", Derry is known across the U.K. as the "friendliest city on the island." And secondly, for students of Irish history, Derry harkens a much darker claim to fame as the location of "Bloody Sunday," the 1972 massacre of civil rights marchers by British officials.

In my short time here, it amazes me that both descriptions can fit. When I came back to my flat yesterday, I was elated to find a piece of mail addressed to me. Instead of some sort of overseas correspondence, however, it was a short note from someone on campus. "Carolyn, hope you didn't look too far for this. Cheers!" And inside, my lost student ID.

When I couldn't find the ID at first, I imagined I might have left it in a computer lab or at a registration table on campus. Surely, I hoped, someone might return it to student services. Never, however, did I imagine someone would take the time to look up my address, slip it into an envelope, and mail it to my flat. Friendliest city, indeed.

That friendliness, I've discovered, has its limitations.

I headed to a pub with my flatmates last night to watch the Manchester United game. Barry, a good friend of my flatmate Kerry, is a huge fan. As the boys watched, motionless, as the ball crisscrossed the pitch, I sat down with Kerry (from NY) and Sarah (from Derry) to debate matters of much more urgent importance, such as which footballers were the most attractive, whether the mark above one's lip was indeed a birthmark or herpes, and just how likely it is that Brad and Angelina will get married.

Somehow, and I can't recollect today, our conversation shifted to Great Britain. Sarah, a Derry Catholic, couldn't hold in her disdain for the English. Not that I could be surprised after hearing her story. Her parents were both witnesses to bloody Sunday. They brought back stories of women begging for their lives as British soldiers pointed guns in their faces. Screaming that they were mothers, daughters, wives. They shared scenes of blood and of cold brutality. Relived the screams and the shots. As Sarah talked, I couldn't help but be horrified and transfixed by her story.

(NOTE: I'm not attempting to glorify the Catholic side or condemn the British, just to tell a story. I know full and well that everyone's recollection is tainted by personal circumstance but objectivity will be the matter of my thesis, not my every day musings.)

Then, we began talking about the IRA and Sarah revealed that a family member had once been blown up while trying to plant a bomb for the IRA. Since he died on the "job," so to speak, the IRA offered to pay for the funeral and for a full, Catholic Irish burial complete with a coffin draped in the orange and green flag. The family refused.

It's still hard to grasp just how much the Troubles have touched every family in the North. It seems everyone that I engage in conversation knows someone, is related to someone, or once loved someone who lost their life. Even the kindest, friendliest eyes turn dark when discussing the injustices of both sides.

On a brighter note, however, the media has been abuzz with news that the IRA passed decommissioning inspections which, many newspaper believe, is a giant leap forward for peace. One would hope.

A game of bowls...

To add to my list of things that are fabulous about Northern Ireland:

1) Free health care
2) Free incoming calls on cell phones
3) Overuse of the word "grand"
4) A lax policy on the wearing of bowling shoes at bowling alleys

Brilliant.

Who's an American?

Starting class on Monday, two distinct fears were running through my head as I hustled down Duncreggan Road en route to the Magee Campus. (The photo shows my route to class.)

1) I wasn't going to understand a word my professor was saying.

2) The material was going to start so complex, so specific that I might as well walk out the door as soon as the syllabuses are handed out.

Perhaps I overreacted a bit.

My Monday class, "Parliament in Irish History" started off on the right foot, about ten minutes late, when a small, balding man sporting a green sweater vest and tweed jacket finally walked into the room, set up his notes stand, and began handing out our syllabuses. (Is it syllabi?)

As we glanced over the text he said, "Any questions? Right then, let's begin lecture."

As he began rattling off facts about pre-Norman Anglo administrations, I couldn't help but think it was going to take adopting coffee as my new drug of choice if I was going to survive three hours of straight, breathless lecture.

Then, of course, my professor reminded me this was Ireland, not America, and just like my church mass on Sunday, the emphasis was on get in and get out not take the whole bloody morning.

So, about 40 minutes into his lecture, he put down his notes, closed his folder and said, "Right then. It's time for our morning coffee break. See you back here in twenty minutes." And then, we all headed to the campus coffee shop, sipped steaming cups, and reassembled after a nice break. After 40 more minutes of lecture, the professor again shut his book, closed his folder and said, "Right then. Lecture's over. Time for your seminar." He then turned on his heels and walked out.

In walked a Ph.D. student -- our seminar teacher. In sharp contrast to the old, Oxford-looking chap that talked before him, this teacher sported a leather jacket, an earring, and - no lie - bleached blonde hair spiked into a mohawk. My unofficial "F--K" count in the corner of my notebook also revealed he dropped the F-bomb no less than 15 times during his 20 minute talk where he educated us on the library, finding our readings, and why we didn't need to try to anything more than pass our classes.

I haven't the slightest idea what I'm supposed to be reading for next week but already I find the Irish educational system bloody brilliant.

Even more reassuring, I found that I followed the lecture quite easily and that, if I do the reading, I should keep up just fine. I actually talked to our blonde-topped T.A. at the end and he also reassured me that most of the students in the room (7 total) haven't gotten more than a basic background to Irish history. Perhaps the best part of class, however, came at the class close. As we all gathered our things, the T.A. stopped us and said, "Is this it? Just 7 students?"

I said, "Yeah. They say more will join us on Wednesday from the part-time group."

"Ah, he says, " I thought you'se was gonna have a bloody American in this group."

The class laughed. "Guilty!" I said as I raised my hand.

Passions ignite...

It would probably be much easier, for you and for me, if every day could be filled with stories of "mass" and "crack" and other humorous tales. Unfortunately, I'm starting to discover, although the Irish people have a sense of humor unparalleled by most, there are something things in the North that are simply no joking matter.

I've just returned home from my first official Derry fish and chips and an afternoon at a pub watching County Tyrone play County Kerry in gaelic football. (Gaelic, which I imagine I'll talk more about in the future, is the Irish version of Aussie Rules football. A fast-paced amatuer sport that combines football, soccer, and rugby.) The game pitted an Ulster (N.I.) team against an Irish one so, naturally, most of the crowd sported Tyrone red. As the minutes wound down, it was hard not to get swept into the crowd cheering and chanting and singing Tyrone songs. It was amazing, I mused as I sipped my pint, that the crowd could go so wild for a team that wasn't even from their own county. For a team that didn't get million-dollar signing bonuses or endorsements from Nike. (All the athletes are actually unpaid for playing.) As thousands of fans stormed Croke Field in Dublin, I couldn't help but note the pure passion that the Irish have for their towns; for their neighbors; for their sports.

Earlier that day, however, we stumbled upon passion of a less than innocent sort. Ben and I actually started the day with mass at a local Catholic Church. As we wandered the city streets afterward searching for open shops, we stumbled upon a crowd of students from Georgetown. (Ben, I think I've said, is a Georgetown alum.) They were all studying in Dublin but came to Derry over the weekend. We tagged along as they finished their sightseeing and ended up walking along Derry's ancient walls.

My first glimpse of the lasting seeds of years of the Troubles came when we walked along the wall overlooking "Bogside," an IRA and Catholic stronghold. There, on the sides of buildings and homes, stood Derry's famous murals. One of the most haunting was a little girl standing in front of a pile of rubble as a plain, purple butterfly floated overhead. The girl was a memoir to a child killed in a Troubles-era bomb. The butterfly a hope for peace. But until peace is met, lore has it, the butterfly will stay empty. (As it is now.)

Along the cities walls, in fact, there are signs of the warring factions. IRA is painted across handrails and on dumpsters. UVF on others. There are remnants of paint bombs launched long ago and towering nets to keep out future trouble.

But the most chilling site was a loyalist neighborhood on one side of the walls. Prior to this day, I understood that Catholics lived on one side of the river; Protestants on another. Other than that, however, I had no indication where Protestants or Catholics lived. But this was different. The sides of the sidewalks were painted red, white, and blue, just as the Bogside community was painted green, white and orange. Two Union Jacks floated overhead and a store mural begged, "Loyalists still under siege. Never surrender." As we stood silently watching the neighborhood, one of the Irish boys in our group carved IRA into the stone and spit over the rail. Then, we watched as a tiny boy - presumably loyalist - practiced carrying his club up and down the sidewalk as he marched. Sometimes spinning it. Sometimes pretending to beat something. Other times simply marching.

It was then that I began to feel the same passion that echoed off the pub walls this evening. Although this time, insteaded of deep seeded rivalry, I felt deep seeded pain, anger, and mistrust. Rumor has it that the IRA is formally committing to disarmament this week and I suppose that will get much closer to convincing the world that the Troubles are over. But Northern Ireland, it superficially appears to this outsider, is far from healed.

Classes start tomorrow -- wish me luck!

Was that mass... or class?

Rule No. 1 about starting your first blog, I suppose, is post to it often.

Can't seem to accomplish that so I'll just have to instead defer to Rule No. 2: fill it with enough self-deprecating stories that no one seems to notice your occasional absences.

I just returned home from a few days stint in Dublin for my Mitchell orientation and besides the overall exhaustion from walking, the four-hour bus ride, and the lack of sleep, I'm also still reeling from a comment last night in a pub. You see, when in Dublin, you do as the Dubliners do. In this case, that usually involves dinner, grabbing a pint with some friends in a pub, and then settling down to do some dancing to work off the calories later in the night. (Most of the pubs are actually quite deceiving.. on your way to the bathroom you'll start to notice a staircase that leads to other rooms with live music or dance floors.) Keeping with this fine Dublin tradition, a group of Mitchell Scholars - myself included - wound up dancing to bad 80s music in a pub last night.

Now, being as it was a dance floor, a young Irish chap decided to come up and propose cutting in on what had previously been my imaginary dance partner. (I prefer to dance alone or with gals without the company of Jon Page.) Indeed, with a winning American smile and perhaps a quick flash from the eyes, I inched away to leave him to find some other willing dance partner so I could continue my rather ill-rhythmed dance routine in a circle of my own creation. As this obviously knackered boy walked on, he pulled aside my friend Mike and said that I "Sure had some mass."

That's right. Mass.

Which, thanks to sites like Dictionary.com, I'll define for you.

Mass: the property of something that is great in magnitude

Mass: a property of physical objects that, roughly speaking, measures the amount of matter they contain.

Mass: A measure of the total amount of material in a body

So, I'm assuming, this was some slight comment about the relative amount of mass I seemed to be packing in the pub. Mike, ever the knight, tried to convince me that I heard him wrong.

"I think he said 'class,'" he protested. But I doubt it. As I doubt that mass has some strange dual meaning in the Irish language. Massive dieting will ensue tomorrow.

So, self-deprecating story aside, I suppose I can update you all about my first trip outside of Derry and my official introduction to the Mitchell program.

Ben (my Mitchell roommate in Derry) and I headed to Dublin early on Wednesday morning via a 4-hour bus ride which, I'm embarressed to say, I slept through entirely, completely missing all the countryside. We spent much of our first day in Dublin (a city of relative size and confusion but very little height) trying to find our way to our hotel and other museums, mostly guided by Ben's sense of "direction." (In his defense, I did little to help but to occasionally sigh and gaze at my watch.) After landing in Derry, it was amazing to see the contrast between big, booming Dublin and my quiet university home. In Dublin, I couldn't get past a sense of manufactured authenticity, specially imported, I'm sure, for the tourists. Men dressed as leprachuans lined the streets begging for euros as musicians strummed traditional Irish music from each street corner. But instead of feeling the pulse of Ireland, like I felt in my first Irish pub in Derry, I couldn't help but feel as though a costumed Disney employee was about to pop out of a shopfront at any minute. As prosperity and promise continue to boom in the wake of the "Celtic Tiger," as they call the Irish economic rebound, I feel the South slips a little further from the Irish character that flows like Guiness in the North.

And, more relevant to my studies, I couldn't help but feel as though the days of the South fighting for the republic may have fallen to the wayside, as the new generation seems to focus more on gaining jobs, adopting a new cosmopolitan life, and pushing their way into the next phase of their rebirth. One of our speakers, in fact, said it is probably true that while a number of the Irish in the South do, at least theoretically, hope for a United Ireland, very few of them are willing to put up the taxes to pay for it. And, in fact, very few of them think much about the North outside the political parties.

Commentary temporarily put aside, our official activities began Wednesday night as we met up with the Mitchells (11 in all) for a reception at the Guiness Gravity Bar -- essentially a round bar atop the Guiness Storehouse which stands far above all other buildings in the city. (Notice the pattern of placing beer above all else.) The room is entirely surrounded in glass so the vistas were amazing but most impressive were the pints of Guiness. Not only were they much better than in the states but the bartenders finished each pint with a Shamrock and an "enjoy" written into the foam.

I'm not entirely sure who was invited to the reception but it certainly ran the gamut from politicians to a gossip columnist. I tried to work the room as much as possible but spent most of my time conversing with an old professor who berrated George Bush and made fun of nearly everyone else in the room. All in all, it wasn't nearly as stressful as I might have imagined.

The second day was our orientation to Ireland and to Dublin. We spent the morning at Kilmainham Jail, an institution used primarily in the late 1800s and early 1900s to hold everyone from petty criminals to some of Ireland's most notorious political prisoners. Some of the original signers of the Irish Declaration of Independence were interned and later executed, as was one of Ireland's early presidents (he wasn't executed) and a number of children guilty of stealing minor things like bread. During the Great Famine, apparently, the cells overflowed with petty criminals who chose the thin watery soup served in prison cells over starving in their own homes. It was a bit eery to walk along the pathways and to see and imagine the executions that took place but I left with a much better understanding and appreciation for the Irish fight for independence.. now I can't wait to get into my classes.

The rest of the day involved briefings with local officials on the Irish political system, legal system, and judiciary; dinner at a fancy restaurant; and a showing of Oscar Wilde's "The Importance of Being Earnest" at Abbey Theatre.

The highlight of the day, no doubt, was the play. Turns out this particular production has caused quite a stir amongst Dublin's finest. Primarily because of the director's decision to have an all-male cast. That's right -- all males. So all the romances were men and men in drag. And there were even some homosexual overtones in some created scenes involved Oscar Wilde and the "rent boys." I found it delightful but the rows and rows of prepubescent girls behind me, apparently, found it disgusting as they groaned and screamed from the backrows anytime that a cast member attempted a kiss. Needless to say, gay rights and discussion of gay issues in general are still years behind America in Ireland.

The last planned day involved a trek into the Wicklow Mountains for what our scholarship director, Trina, called a "nice, easy walk" through the hills.

Let's define nice and easy.

We started at the top of the mountains battling wind that nearly knocked my mass-packing self off the trail and rain that pelted us all from all directions. Once we left the paved path, we began trampling down a "bog" for about half an hour. A bog, for anyone that doesn't know, is a landscape of wet, spongy ground, usually a former swamp or lake. In this case, the bog was covered in tall reeds and grass that cleverly disguised the uneven ground and the occasional three foot, water filled hole.

Once the bog ended, the hike got relatively more humane, although still intense. We got the chance to see an early 7th century village and watch tower; one of the oldest complete Christian churches standing on the island; and a number of impressive geogical and natural sites such as a glaciated valley, a natural waterfall, a patch of shamrocks, and some old thousand year old logs. (Seriously, these things were exciting.) To get my point, check out the photos. (If they loaded.)

More than just a trek past some amazing vistas, it was a great opportunity to get to know the other Scholars. I can't help but be humbled and excited by their accomplishment and our overall diversity. We've got someone studying fire safety at Trinity, already with a patent to his name (or at least a patent pending); we've got someone who's preparing to become a nun; we've got other studying ethnic conflict; an actual composer; and one who I'm convinced will one day be Secretary of Defense. It makes it hard to imagine how I wound up in this group but I'm hoping to take a little something from everyone so that I can incorporate just a piece of their fabulousness. Even if it's just some musical appreciation from Mike, our Stanford composer; a better understanding of the Catholic faith from my flatmate Ben; or a host of groan-worthy puns from Melissa, who rattles them off almost as much as I say "fabulous." More than anything, I think being in their company and sitting down to philosophical, religious, and political debates at the dinner table will push me to rethink my own views and investigate those things that make them the most passionate. Already, I can't help but be impressed at how easily they can all debate current events and how much of a more global perspective they all seem to bring. Staying on my toes, I'm certain, will require some self-education and exploration on my part.

More than the intellectual inspiration they might bring, however, everyone is just tons of fun. We spent our nights around pints in pubs and then dancing past midnight. We all sang along at one bar and then watched and cheered as Mike took the microphone before the end of the night. Already, I sense some great friendships and just hope we'll all find time to hang out now that we've returned to our respective campuses.

For now, I'm exhausted and desperate to find some food. I'm debating what clubs to join this week at "Fresher's Fair" so let me know if you think women's gaelic football or hill walking if you get the chance.

Until then, I miss you all!

Crack and dope.... Arrival in Derry

If there is one thing to be said for the Irish, they have their priorities straight.

On my first campus tour of the university yesterday, I couldn't help but notice that the fitness center held a mere 8 pieces of equipment and fit into a room the size of my family's living room. The on-campus bar and disco, however, sprawled for three rooms, taking up half the basement of an entire building. It serves, in case you are wondering, a full slate of spirits, wine, and beer at a subsidized cost.

Could I sign myself up for a liver transplant already?

I suppose it should come as no surprise that quickly upon arrival I learned that Northern Ireland leads the U.K. and perhaps the whole of Europe in instances of heart disease. An expected side effect of a potent mix of vast quanitities of alcohol, neverending cigarettes, and a diet of meat and carbohydrates.

But besides the potential health risks of choosing to study in Northern Ireland, I have nothing but excitement and optimism after my first few days in Derry. I arrived on Sunday afternoon to bright skies and brisk weather (nothing, I was warned, I should get used to) and spent much of my first day settling in to my new "flat" and getting to know my new flatmates, three Americans, one Scot, and a girl from Northern Ireland. Quickly upon introducing ourselves, Haley (Irish), sat Jon (Scot), Ben (American, also a Mitchell), and I down to give us an unofficial guide to living in Northern Ireland. The highlights:

1) Form your own opinions but don't feel the need to express them in pubs.
2) If you feel unsure about a neighborhood, speak loudly in anAmerican accent.
3) Don't call the Irish "English" but "British" is OK.
4) The Scots and the Irish hate the English. Everybody hates the Welsh.

Haley also humored our constant barrage of questions about "the conflict," as they all call it. Once we realized she didn't mind chatting about it, we peppered her with questions for about an hour. She told us about walking out of her home each day to see someone dead in the street. Told us about being a police officer and living in constant fear of being a target. Explained the differences between being loyalist, republican, nationalist and unionist. And then she summed up what I imagine may be an overwhelming sentiment of much of the population, "I don't much care about the details anymore. I just want a good job, a roof over me head, and a family. And I don't want anyone else to die. I have a feeling that as it is now is about the best it's going to get."

I'm curious to know more but I'll take it as it comes.

We also learned quite abit about the stereotypes between countries in the U.K. In Jon's words, for instance, "Scotland is a country of losers. We make failure a glorious tradition. Once our stars make it big, they have to leave because nobody likes them anymore."

Ben also relayed an interview he saw on TV between a baseball bat manufacturer in Northern Ireland and a reporter. The reporter, obviously oblivious to the context, kept inquiring how the baseball bat manufacturer could do such a strong business in a country where no one really plays baseball. I'll leave you, like the reporter, to wrap your mind around that one.

After chatting, we headed out for our first N.I. meal. Being the bold, adventuresome travellers that we are, we opted not for the standard "fish and chips," a bit of sheperd's pie, or a bite of Irish sausage. Nope, we christened our arrival with tin foil vats of "Bamboo Garden," the local Chinese take-out. Surprisingly, it was a bit different from American take-out, a bit like Chinese and curry mixed together.

I actually crashed quite quickly upon unlocking my flat door, thanks in part, I'm sure, to jet lag. I woke up early the next morning to try out my new shower, which perhaps requires a bit of background on my living accomodations.

As a postgraduate, I'm fortunate to be living in a new phase of on-campus housing called Duncreggan Student Village. The rooms are impeccably clean and quite spacious. My bed even includes a rollaway guest bed (Which, I suppose, makes up for the fact that sitting on it is a bit like sinking into a pit of quicksand.). The door to my flat reveals a hall of locked bedroom doors, much like a suite in American universities, with a new, modern kitchen off to the side. It's not quite as open or friendly as American apartments and there's not a tele nearby (there goes my Footballers Wives fascination) , but overall I couldn't be happier. The only problem, I suppose, is the en-suite bathroom.

Imagine a fairly spacious bedroom with a small corner cut off to form a bathroom. The longest side of this triangular room is about six feet. The smaller, then, would be, well, I'm a history major. I'll let Thushan do the math and let me know. No matter, it's small. So there's a sink and toilet and shower all beside each other creating a feat which I believe can only aptly be described as Ben did: it's the first bathroom where you can literally go to the bathroom, showever, and wash your hands all from the same spot. It makes showering a delicate balance between drowning yourself directly beneath the water or hurtling backward and naked into your bedrooom.

Ho hum.

Besides the morning acrobatics of getting clean, I'm finding the slang words are a bit difficult to navigate around. Take for example, this excerpt:

Jon (Irish, head of student union): I once had an American for my flatmate. He was totally crack in the head. Crazy. Wild.

Me: He was a crackhead?

Jon: Yeah, totally crack guy he was.

Me (alarmed): Oh no!

Jon (a bit confused): No, no. It's OK. In a good way.

Ben: Oh, wait, what does crack mean?

Jon: Like fun, having a good time.

Me: Not drugs?

Jon: Not at all.

Me: Ahh, cause in American. You just said your roommate does cocaine.

Much of our second day involved tradition orientation details. A campus tour, registration, a health exam, peeing into a tiny vial. (It's true, shortly after "Welcome to the university," someone plopped down a little cup and sent me down a hallway to retrieve a sample. I must admit I was still a bit bewildered as I climbed back up the stairs trying to cleverly conceal the vial beneath my coat jacket.) One highlights of the schedule was a trip around town with Karen, the student services advisor. She took us to see the most important things, in my mind, the pubs, the restaurants, and, of course, the mall. She also explained an interesting tidbit of information.. Apparently more than 95 percent of the children in Northern Ireland still attend religiously segregated schools. It's hard to imagine an end to this cycle if that is the case...

Later, after sorting out a few other loose ends, we met up with the rest of the international students for a bit of a meet and greet and then our first trip to a pub, Peter O'Donnels, where I sat with four other Americans, two from U. Richmond, one from U. Denver, and a delightful German girl (Sorry, working on names.) to down a Harps. Only problem -- I hadn't eaten all down. Needless to say, I was a bit woozy and decided to call it a night after one.

I couldn't get past, however, how much this pub resembled the romantic idea I had invented of Ireland pre-departure. My, rather stereotypical in my mind, idea of a pub would be a dark, wood paneled place, walls covered in random art and Guiness signs, with old sages slamming down the pints, laughing uproarously and pounding one another on the back. In the background, I imagined, a bearded chap would be playing some sort of Irish jig for us all to raise our pints to.

Surprisingly, I wasn't too far off.

Sure, there were no hearty back slaps reported and no beer wasted in a slam down on the bar. I didn't hear many bellowing laughs or chat about the "old country" with any aging storytellers. But... there was a man playing Irish jigs (OK, he didn't have a beard) and the crowd was a mix of randy college students and locals of various ages, some whose weathered faces and tired eyes made me imagine, on my own, the stories they would tell. We were a rather large crowd and rather conspiciously un-Irish, however, so I'm now thirsty for some more authentic pub experiences.

My favorite part of the night was just how openly bold some of our company was. Take, for example....

We watch as Maive, an Irish student, pulls Chris, an American, aside.

Us: What was that all about?
Chris: She wanted to know where the guy next to me is from. I told her Denmark and she goes... do you think he has any dope?

Sure enough, two minutes later we watch as she asks him and he politely says that no, he left all of his dope in Denmark.

I fear this is all a bit bland but I had a bit to catch up on once I stole Ben's idea for a blog. I promise my next posts will be more fun, more fabulous, and, in a nutshell, more me.

Until then, I'm going to bundle up in my raincoat and head out to find some hangers....

New Contact Info:

Mobile:
0-790-885-3136
0-796-263-8921

E-mail:
carie.windham@gmail.com (same)

Post:
Carie Windham
Block 14E Duncreggan Student Village
85 Duncreggan Student Village
Magee Campus, University of Ulster
Londonderry, BT48 0AA