The march to Halloween...

It's pretty easy to see what holiday Derry holds closest to its heart.

As Halloween approaches, the entire city has jumped on board to get prepped for the big celebration on Monday night - billed the biggest Halloween party on the whole of the island.

Seemingly hole in the wall pubs have added cobwebs to their corners and strung corpses from the ceilings. Every window in town has "Happy Halloween" or the likenesses of various zombies painted across the front. For the last week, costumed tour guides have lurked around the Guildhall. And every block has a store selling costumes and other festival flair.

It makes it easy to get excited about the big day, even more so now that I've found my costume. In a slight throw-back to the early days of Halloween parties at UT (of which consequences shall never be mentioned again), I decided to update the old "dead prom queen" costume and pay homage to my name by going as "Carrie White" from the Stephen King novel. For a mere £5, I snagged a money, sparkly prom dress from the cancer store, tossing in the added bonus of knowing my purchase would be helping to cure cancer across the country. Then I added a kid's tiara (my head was made for a tiara.. I wore it all day), some fake blood, and a prom queen 1976 sash. In short, it's brilliant.

For the Mitchells, Halloween has always meant an unofficial weekend in Derry but alas, this year the southern Mitchells didn't seem to take the hint. Our friend Geoff came in Friday and we planned to have three other friends, Markus, Aaron, and Richard, come up from the north. But they bailed at the last minute, leaving just Geoff for the weekend and Mike on Monday night. Undeterred, however, we've had a fantastic Halloween weekend.

We started by staying in on Friday night. Eager to save a little money, I planned to make some pasta for the flatmates. When I invited Jay, he suggested that we spring for meatballs instead. So, one tiara-topped trip to the store later, we dug into the task of mashing meat, bread and other spices together and then baking them in the oven.

My prior cooking abilities were limited to such things as vegetable pasta, chicken pot pie (reheated), and anything that came with all of the ingredients in a box. Amazingly, however, our meatballs were phenomenal.

After digging in, we decided to pull out the O'Gradys, a delightfully cheap Bailey's knockoff, and a box of "Worst Case Scenario" playing cards. For the rest of the night, we laughed and debated the proper courses of action in such devastating situations as delivering a toast in the Netherlands or accepting a dinner invitation in Iran.

Terrifying stuff.

The next morning, we woke up for an accommodation office sponsored trip to Bushmill's Distillery and the Giant's Causeway, the prize of the North Antrium coast. Bushmill's was a bit lackluster - although a fat, naked Celtic warrior slicing the air with an ax was delightful - but I did get to be the official "whisky taster" at the end. That involved sitting down with five shots of whisky - three Bushmills, one bourbon, and one Scotch - and decided which was best. Surrounded by Bushmill's paraphenalia and with Agnes the tour guide staring down at me, I chose Bushmills. Definitely Bushmills. For my efforts, I was rewarded with an official whiskey tasting certificate.

Giant's Causeway, I imagine, is a breathtaking place in the summer.

Yesterday, however, it was less than stellar.

It started to rain as we stumbled off the bus and by the time we were climbing the paths at the top of the cliffs (sans any sort of wind breaks and wearing sneakers and jeans) it was full-hurricane weather. The wind would literally knock you off your feet and the rain hit so hard - from every direction - that it felt like hail.

When we finally made it down to the actual Causeway - which resembles a landscape of stepping stones and towers - I couldn't help but think it wasn't the safest of endeavors to be clamoring over the tops of the rocks as the wind knocked us about. Still, I hope to return there under better atmospheric conditions.

Sick bastards..

So... What's the opposite of Christopher Reeve?

Christopher Walken.

I know, I know, take your hands from the keyboard and spare me the chastising comment or e-mail. I gasped too... shook my head at the sheer cruelty.. and then, when no one was looking, collapsed into giggles.

Admit it, it makes you laugh.

So we hoped, at least, when we chose that for our quiz team name last night at the Linen Hall. (A regular, Wednesday night occurrence.) After reading it out loud the first time, the quiz master laughed, caught himself, and then muttered, "sick bastards," under his breath. "Sick bastards" then became our name for the remainder of the evening.

Cruel jokes aside, it was an amazing night for the SBs, finishing third overall and holding first place for much of the competition.

Our secret weapon, I'm happy to take credit for, was my friend Deidre, a fellow Irish History student from Monahan. I've always gotten the feeling that Deidre, who moved to Derry and lives in a flat off campus, probably hasn't had much opportunity to meet people since we're postgrads. A problem that I've faced as well. So, I've invited her to come with us on a few occasions and she finally bowed to the pressure this Wednesday and tagged along. It was brilliant, too, because she was easily our most powerful player after John, the mad Scotsman with an eery understanding of soap opera storylines and pop culture.

And it was nice, finally, to be able to count a true Irish person among my group of friends. I have an Irish flatmate but she doesn't count because she has to hang out with us. (Although she is genuinely one of the nicest people I've met.) We frequently hang out with two other Irish students, Barry and Sarah, but they don't count either since they've known our American friend Kerry since high school. And other than that, although our group sometimes includes people from Denmark, France or Germany, we rarely have true Irish students that join our ranks.

And Deidre is plenty fun -- a slightly nerdier (at least when it comes to history) and quieter --version of Rachel and Sarah. (Sarah from high school) I dismissed her as bookish and a bit bland on the first day of class but have since discovered she's quite sarcastic and snide if you actually listen to the things she has to say. She finds it hilarious that I have such enthusiasm for mundane tasks.

Seriously Carie, she'll say, was it totally awesome that we were going to meet at the library to trade notes after class?

Is it really fabulous that we're choosing Thyme Out over O'Briens for coffee?

In other words, she cuts through my bullshit.

Third place this week, however, is a vast improvement and I can only predict a first place finish in the next few weeks. We're running short of witty names, however, so if you have any ideas... send them my way.

Home, Sweet Derry...

Upon returning to Magee, the only thing I wanted to do was peel off my soaked clothes, change into flannel pajamas, and collapse on my bed. Perhaps stand for a blessed 20 minutes under my own clean, hot shower.

But as I pushed open the flat door, a teeny, tiny bit of me did hope that my flatmates were around to discuss how much they missed me.

OK, I realized that I really missed them.

Fortunately, perhaps because of my soaked exterior, no one was around so I was granted safe and hasty passage to my own room. I headed to the computer lab to check e-mail and the second time around, I heard voices behind the door.

Then, CRASH!

In true, Block 14-E fashion, I stumbled through the door and right smack in the middle of a sport which could only be called hallball. It consists of one - sometimes two or three - person at each end of the hall passing a soccer ball back and forth. It's a good routine when you're having a conversation and just feel like passing it to and fro.

Unless, of course, you're playing with Ben Cote. Who, as indicative of his always competitive nature, likes to slam the ball into the wall or the opponent, with total disregard for the concept of communal property and, ahem, damage fees at the close of the semester.

And so it was that I was greeted by John and Ben with a nice TWACK in the thigh of the community soccer ball.

Unlike my earlier return, however, this time the flat was buzzing with activity. Hallball, shouting between doors, Kerry actually sending me a text message from the kitchen.

"We're headed to the movies, you in?" she said.

I was exhausted and had a paper to work on. Of course I was in.

So it was that we spent my first night back trading stories over dinner and laughing at the Corpse Bride.

And, as we sat under the glow of the Ice Wharf, heads bowed over our half-priced fish and chips, delighting in Kerry's retelling of the weekend's gossip, I came to the sudden realization of just how much I missed my little flat.

It's hard to explain the minute changes in your everyday social existence when you choose to live and study abroad. Though it might make sense to assume you would be more isolated and more lonely - uprooted from your family and your friends - I think in our case it has actually meant the opposite. Without a handful of club meetings to run off to or a family to go home to or even childhood friends to run and meet, the flat has almost created its own substitute family.

It's so comforting to know each day that when I start making lunch in the kitchen, Jay, who can hear the clatter, will then emerge from his bed and come to eat breakfast. Or that we all will rally around the dinner table at night to cook dinner and watch the football matches -- even if we aren't meeting. Or to just say, "Hey, I feel like a movie," and have five people come. Not necessarily because they want to see it but because, hey, there's nothing else to do.

So, as I told the crew about London, regaling them with tales of pretensious snobs and guys who shake the bed, I had this amazing feeling of home, of finally being back with my friends, my mini Derry family.

Though I like to think of myself as independent and imagined myself traveling alone or just grabbing a suitcase and taking a day trip throughout the year, I suddenly realized that London would have been so much more fun had they come along.

Suddenly, the year seemed to be slipping by quite fast.....

Important publishing note...

Due to the lack of proper Internet in London... selections from my week in London will be available throughout the week, as they are transferred from journal to the Web. In the meantime, check out a log of pictures at:

http://uk.pg.photos.yahoo.com/ph/cariewindham/my_photos

Tate-tastic

In the early days of planning my jaunt across the English Channel with Mike, I sent him an e-mail outlining my destinations for the week. I tossed in a bit of traveller's wisdom, based on my last trip to London (things to see, things to miss) and closed with one final comment about our trip together.

"I'm totally open for doing whatever.. I can't think of anything that I saw in March that I wouldn't see again. Well, except, perhaps, for the Tate Modern, which made me want to gouge my eyeballs out with a rusty spoon. If you go, I'll go elsewhere. Or retreat, as I did in the past, for a quality nap on their comfy leather couches."

It was easy to see just how well Mike read my e-mails when, without a peep of opposition from me, we wound up wandering the halls of Britain's premier modern art musuem on Friday afternoon.

I kept an open mind... I patiently gazed at the "artwork"... I even stopped to stare and ponder the meanings of things.. but the first chance I got, I suggested Mike stay in one gallery while I looked in another and I made a beeline to the cafe for some coffee and people watching.

It's not that I don't appreciate art, per say, or that I didn't enjoy some of the pieces. I've just come to discover that while I can nod at art in passing, I don't have much interest in standing in front of a canvas of straight lines or ordinary circles and letting my mind wander. In fact, I find it to be an insufferable bore. Even worse, I often find myself wondering what qualifies some of these pieces as "art." A plain blue canvas? Art? An exact replica of a Brilo pad box? Art?

Not that I told Mike that. Although I did come up beside him as he studied a black and white canvas with two lines on it and said, "But seriously Mike...."

He put up his hand to silence me.

"Let's just not talk about it."

Agreed.

Part of my reason for going, I have no doubt, was just sheer elation that I finally had a traveling companion. Mike made it to the hostel around 2 a.m. and we crashed, waking up just before lunch time. We took a bus into the city and started the day at Westminster by touring the Houses of Parliament.

I've actually sat in on Parliament before but it's always a treat. Not only is the setting quite intimate -- the MPs sit in a small, cozy room along benches instead of at their own desks -- but the British Parliament still holds on to a few relics from the past. Including, the use of powder wigs and a giant golden septor. On this particular day, they were debating whether or not Parliament should be able to set specific military strategy or to give approval to specific missions during wartime. Not just declaring war but actual individual expeditions. Peppered throughout the discussions were condemnations of President Bush and Tony Blaire, all commended by a hearty, "hear, hear," throughout the chamber.

I especially enjoy the British Parliament because of the liveliness of the debate. Even though the chamber was virtually empty, MPs would crack jokes and laugh or heckle whomever was talking. It wasn't Robert's Rules of Order but it certainly was entertaining.

After Westminster, we went to the aforementioned Tate Boredom. (One of the pictures is actually Mike admiring an installation in the lobby. He was amazed. I couldn't help but wonder just how large the coffee mug would have to be to support such vast quanities of sugar cubes.)

For our evening entertainment, Mike and I decided to turn to London's nightlife Bibe, called "TimeOut."

Big mistake.

On thing about Mike, which I adore, is that he's quite an artsy guy. As a budding composer (and an amazing one at that), he just can't get enough of musical productions and artistic exhibitions. Typically, I enjoy this part of Mike and in fact, look forward to the fact that hanging out with him will force me to consider such things.

As I watched him flip through "TimeOut," however, gasping, clutching his heart, and pointing at various items on the arts calendar, I knew my days of Broadway musicals and shopping trips in Oxford Circus had disappeared.

We spent our first evening listening to an orchestra in St. James church, which was actually an enjoyable adventure. (I say adventure because finding the church was easier said than done.) The music was fantastic and hearing it in a church, surrounded by London's elderly population, made me feel like a little bit less of a tourist.

After the show we had a pint in a neighborhood pub and headed back to Greenwich for some disgusting late-night food at a dive down the road.

Como?

After heading to bed with an unshakable pit of loneliness in my stomach the night before, I have to admit that I wasn't optimistic about my second day alone in London, despite the gorgeous blue skies that peeked out from behind my hostel curtain.

My agenda for the day included plenty of musuem hopping, coffee drinking, and unscripted meandering but its most important bullet involved, "passing the time really fast so Mike gets here soon."

By the end of it, however, I almost treasured my solitary existence.

I started the day by heading over to Westminster to check out the Cabinet War Rooms, an underground maze of control rooms, bunkers, and meeting places from World War II. When I emerged from the Tube outside Westminster Abbey, I took in one of my favorite parts of London. Forgive me for being cliche or even a viser-wearing, digital-camera-toting tourist, but there is something about looking over the Thames at the London Eye and then catching sight of Westminster as a double-decker bus flies by that just feels like London. It might not be as authentic as the South or as vibrant as Brixton but it makes me giddy nonetheless.

When I got to the CWR - and forked over, regrettably, my £8 admission fee - I had high hopes. After the British Musuem, however, I was prepared to be disappointed.

Instead, I found my new favorite place in London.

The Cabinet War Rooms were designed to serve as the underground nerve center of London's political and military power during World War II and, most notably, the London Blitz. As bombs rained down overhead, military commanders could lay down policy in the map room, talk on secure lines to their comrades in the field, get on a "hot phone" to the United States, or simply get a good night's rest. Six tons of concrete and steel seperated the bunker from the destruction overhead. (Not that that really mattered to Churchill, who often climbed up on the roof of the building to watch the blitz.)

After VJ day, the rooms were simply abandoned. With no need for them anymore, the commanders, officials, and secretaries literally got up from their desks, grabbed their personal items, and walked out the doors.

They weren't opened again until the Imperial War Musuem stepped in in the 1970s.

What is left today, therefore, is an almost perfect replica of the command center from the 1970s. Walls have been removed, manequinns put into action, and some rooms dismantled to make space for the Churchill Musuem but otherwise, it's easy to imagine exactly how the rooms looked.

The best part, however, is that the entire exhibition is led by an audio guide. When you arrive at a room, you simply put your guide up to your ear, key in the appropriate number, and you can hear a description of what you're looking at, down to anecdotes about arguments or particular items. Even better, those descriptions are often supplemented by reenactments.

It was, for lack of more sophisticated words, pretty cool to imagine the BBC transmitting Churchills speakers from 200 meters under ground. Or to envision the long lines of telephones in the command center bringing news from the front lines. It was especially cool to see a room marked "toilet" which actually disguised the entrance to a secure line from which Churchill could call Roosevelt. The sign always said "engaged" so most people just dismissed it as the prime minister's personal bathroom below.

In addition to preserving the center, the IWM also created a musuem of Churchill's life, documenting his role during the war, his life attacking communism, and his rise to power. It was, by far, the best multimedia musuem highlighting the 20th century that I've ever seen. (These days, I think, it's harder to build a contemporary musuem based entirely on artifacts. This one weaved photographs, sound, video, and interactive displays phenomenally.)

I learned that Churchill counted wallabies among his personal pets, that he actually lost reelection while the war was going on, and that he was a noted journalist before entering politics. Also, he loved to paint and often remarked that when in heaven, his first 2,000 years would be spent painting.

With a renewed spring in my step and a sense of validation that I am, indeed, a halfway decent historian, I headed to the Imperial War Musuem.

I'd actually seen much of the musuem when I came to London in March with Rachel. (I did it alone on the day that I had to haggle with Heathrow about my plane ticket.)

This time, however, I wanted to check out one of the special exhibits on "Great Escapes," which highlights the escapes of POWs from German camps during WWII.

Thankfully, since it was a weekday during the off season, the exhibit was pretty deserted so I could spend as long as I wanted exploring the halls. I could tell that it had been designed with children in mind -- along the way you could fabricate your own papers, build your own ropes, climb through a tunnel or "disguise" yourself in German uniforms.

What the heck, I thought as I surveyed the hallway, No one is around anyway.

So I jumped in. Making fake papers, assembling a rope, getting my fat rump caught in the tunnel recreation. I even dressed up like a German officer. When I got to that stage, in fact, I was deligted to discover a floor length mirror to check myself out in. Now, on any day where I was dressed in prison garb this would be a treat, but today, particularly, I also had a new haircut to admire. So, I spent a bit of time in front of the mirror.

OK, quite a bit of time.

I took my hair down, fluffed it, checked it out from the back. Sucked in my stomach, struck a few poses. Tried the hat from different angles. Perhaps even did a runway strut from one room to the other. It was grand fun.

Until, as I hung up the hat at the conclusion of my show, I noticed a small sign under the mirror.

GOTCHA! YOU'RE ACTUALLY LOOKING IN A TWO-WAY MIRROR! YOU DON'T KNOW JUST WHO MIGHT BE LOOKING BACK AT YOU!

Oh God, I thought, my mouth slowly turning dry. Who could have seen that? Mortified, I grabbed my bags and continued on, the heat never leaving my face.

Then, I realized, there was no one else in the exhibit so who cares?

Turns out, the mirror didn't face out into the exhibit -- it faced out into the main musuem lobby so ANYONE and quite probably MANY PEOPLE probably watched my show. I could have sworn I saw a smirk on the security guard's face when I walked past.

Embarressment aside, the exhibit was fascinating as it detailed the various ways that British Intelligence assisted POWs during the war. They would often deliver tiny games or cigarettes or even shaving kits with tiny maps, papers or instructions hidden inside. Even without the help, the efforts of the escapees were admirable. In one case, prisoners assembled a hollow wooden pummel horse to use in the excercise yard. Unbeknownst to the guards, two men would hide inside it each day and dig a tunnel under the exercise yard and past the prison gates. As the men lined up to jump past, they had no idea.

It took 105 days but it worked!

I used up the rest of the daylight walking around St. James Park, reading and often writing. (St. James is pictured above -- you can see why it's the perfect place for writing and reflection.)

I headed back to the hostel early, deciding that I might spend the evening in the bar as I waited for Mike. When I got back to the room, the only person still inside was, "Girl who speaks no English Girl" (I have GOT to start remembering names.) We had talked, briefly, the night before and she explained that she was from Uruguay and didn't know much English.

"Hola! Como estas?" I said, breezing past her bunk.

She looked startled. "Tu hablas espanol?"

"Un poco," I admitted, thinking "hey, this could be fun."

She squealed and her eyes widened. At the time, I thought she was relieved. Today, I think she looked like the proverbial cat who caught the mouse.

She said she was headed down to the "chill out room" to watch a movie so I decided to join. We chatted a bit as "Forces of Nature" came on and I learned she was trying to meet up with a boy, Shane, whom she'd "met" the night before. He was English and spoke very little Spanish. She speaks no English. You can imagine what their "conversations" were like.

I helped her explain to him that she was in the chill out room watching a movie but that perhaps he should come by later.

Then, Venettia, an Australian girl, game in with a bottle of wine.

"I've had the worst week," she said.

Mmmm, I said in agreement, "Me too. I got here two days ago to take a trip with a friend but he's not coming until tonight! Ridiculous..."

She smiled sympathetically and then shared her woes.

Turns out, her ex-boyfriend has been stalking her, forcing her to move out of her flat and change her number. Today, she walked to the fourth floor of her job and discovered he'd gotten a job there. Then, she dropped her Tube pass - worth £40 - and the staff said they could do nothing to assist her. And, to top it all off, she just discovered that a nodule on her foot is most likely cancer.

Yup, I felt like a huge idiot.

She did tell me, however, that she told her ex-boyfriend's best friend that she'd tested positive for an STD. She's fairly certain he'll relay the bad news and prompt the punk to get a test. A test, which I've been told, involves a very painful Q-Tip procedure.

Try relating that to someone in Spanish.

Many misunderstandings and laughs later, I decided it was time to go to the bar. So, girl who speaks no English girl, in tow, I headed to see what St. Christopher's Greenwich had to offer.

As we sat down, I waved to Ach (or Choo?) and he smiled but turned away. Odd, I thought, but perhaps he didn't see me.

I ordered a beer, chatted with the fella next to me and settled in. I turned to girl who speaks no English girl.

"Getting anything?"

"No dinero."

"Ah, I think I left the rest of mine in the room."

"Oh?" she said, perking up. "So this is for me?" She proceeded, then, to latch on to my pint and drink it down.

I would have demanded its return had she not left strange streaks on it and had I not been deathly afraid of drinking after a random stranger in the bar.

Glumly, I sank down into my seat, practically choking in her cigarette smoke, and surveyed the room for a better drinking companion. Then, Ach (or Choo) got up from his seat and left with a group of friends.

"ARGH!" girl who speaks no English girl said. "Boys are so stupido!"

"Eh?"

"Boys! ESTA STUPIDO!"

"Ah," I said, suddenly getting it. "That was Shane?"

For the remainder of our bar evening, therefore, I sat - imprisoned - as girl who speaks no English girl puffed cancer in my face, licked the bottom of my pint glass, and dug her false nails into my wrist at every BEEP BEEP of her blasted cell phone.

"Como?" she would say as I stumbled to translate.

Then, "YOU DO IT" as she thrust the phone back into my hand.

Time after time, sigh after sigh, I translated. Clearly, I began to realize, this guy does not want to hang out with her anymore.

How does, "He's just not that into you," translate in Spanish?

Defeated - me by my lack of pint, her by her English stud snub - we retreated to the room after midnight. As I walked back out to hit the bathroom, girl who speaks no English girl a mere red fingernail behind, the door to the right opened and out came Shane, shirtless, with a rather cute redhead behind.

Oh God, I thought as I slowly backed into our room, hoping to block the view, I will never get to sleep tonight if she sees this.

Luckily, Shane realized the potential damage as I did, heaved the redhead back into the room and walked with us to the bathroom with no harm done.

As I started to leave, Shane practically crushing my heels on the way out, I heard, "AHEM."

Shane and I turned. Girl who speaks no English girl, apparently, wanted to have a little talk.

"Eh, I'm, eh, ir, a la cuarto," I said, sneaking out before she could say, "COMO!"

Shane's eyes lowered as he struck out his hand to stop the door from closing.

"Wait a minute..... Are you Spanish?" he asked.

"Er.. urhm... American, actually. I just speak a bit of Spanish."

"YOU!" he said, his eyes suddenly very wide.

"Er, sorry," I squealed as I slinked out into the hallway.

Whew, I thought, disaster averted. I crawled under my sheets, set me alarm to coincide with Mike's expected arrive at 2 a.m. and feigned sleep.

Two hours later I felt the distinct jab of acryllic in my arm.

"Eruhrmsusms...." I mumbled.

"COMO?" I heard.

You have got to be kidding me, I thought as I propped myself up to read the latest message from Shane. A door opened and shut in the hallway as feet pattered past the door.

Text: Hey, sorry about earlier. Want to talk now?

Typical guy......

Are you there society? It's me, Carie.

I woke up early on my St. Christopher's top bunk, eager to get out into London and far, far away from the stench of beer, guy who shakes the bed guy, and marijuana that still lingered on my pillow.

Even better, I hoped, I wanted to avoid any conversations with my roommates, whom I'm summarily declared not fabulous enough to waste morning breathe or pre-1 p.m. wit on. I almost made it.

As I dashed back into the room after showering, I noticed guy who shakes the bed guy had emerged from under his sheets.

Disappointing, I thought, as he straightened himself up to full height.

He's neither German or beastly. In fact, I discovered now that the lights were on, he was quite stringy and blonde-topped. A little like a younger, less dashing Prince William.

"Morning," he said, gathering his things. English, too.

"Mmm. I'm Carie. What's your name?" I asked.

He interrupted.

"When are you leaving?"

Shocked, I withdrew the previously extended hand and glowered at him.

"Look, just because you've been praying for God to deposit some hot chick on your top bunk and instead I landed upstairs, don't be rude."

He didn't say anything but I detected a smile.

"Monday," I said.

"Fair enough."

With that, I grabbed my London map and darted from the room as fast as possible.

Since Mike wouldn't be arriving for a few days, I prioritized the things I hoped to get accomplished before he arrived and we started exploring together.

1) Shopping
2) British Musuem
3) Imperial War Musuem "Great Escapes" exhibit
4) Cabinet War Rooms
5) Shopping

Eager to get started, I hopped the train and the tube to Oxford Circus, a great midpoint for exploring London's mid-range shopping options. (In other words, it's trendy and young without being Harrod's or Burberry and Gucci.)

Just as I ascended the escalator, I knew it was the perfect stop. There, perched on the corner between the Gap and United Colors of Bennetton was my shopping mecca.... H&M. Four floors of cheap sweaters, trendy skirts, and poorly assembled shoes.

I was practically salivating.

After loading my arms with various skirts, tank tops, and sale merchandise, I headed to the storeroom where Helga, the cropped top, wearing 17 layers none of which could still manage to stretch over her belly button, salesgirl gave me a frosty glare and then handed me my room key, handing it over as if she was trading day-old fish fillets.

Bloody, bloody British, I thought, can't even offer a smile.

No matter, however, I was in heaven.

I forked over my credit card after selecting a clearance-sale top for a mere £2.50, mentally catalogued a skirt, a sweater, and a pair of earrings for possible revisiting, and headed back out into the streets for more shopping.

Next stop: Topshop.

It was here that my shopping bravado began to dim.

As I took the elevator past emaciated manequins (Are they thrusing out their hips!?!?!), I took stock of my fellow shoppers. All tiny. All impeccably groomed. All squealing into their cell phones. All wearing the aforementioned - hey I've got on 17 layers but none of them manage to cover my ass - ensemble. All under 20.

No bother, I thought, shifting my Burberry tote and rearranging my American Eagle Sweater. Who cares what they look like? I am fabulous...

Ten steps later, I was in the middle of the showroom, lost in a maze of feathery tank tops, fake-fur vests, knee-high boots and barely-there tank tops.

Who wears this stuff? I wondered as I picked the (pieces of) clothes off the rack. And who pays £40 to do it?

Oh, her.

And her.

And bloody Hell, is that a grandmother?

I beelined out of there.

A bit discouraged but nonetheless optimistic, I headed for the perfect shop for a fashionable girl who's actually not fashionable enough to create her own vintage look: Urban Outfitters.

I didn't last long there either.

Then there was Next and River Valley and Zara. A little Benetton. A little Marks and Spencer.

I didn't last long in any of them.

Cursing both the resilience of the pound and my own lack of fashion savvy, I retreated to Borders to grab a book to read over lunch.

Desperate, I finally went to the one place I swore I wouldn't touch while abroad: The Gap. (Seriously, why shop somewhere that's in Crabtree?) As I got closer, my pace quickened and by the time I reached the doors, I practically bolted downstairs to the women's room.

Here, I thought, I can finally be amongst sizes I understand. Jeans that fit just right. Sweaters fit for any Raleigh prep. Colors of pastel and burgundy.

Here, I thought, THEY HAVE BARELY THERE SPARKLY SWEATERS THAT TIE AT THE ARMS AND THE WAIST?

Even the Gap was out to get me. (Although I did grab two shirts.)

I'm just not cut out for London fashion.

So, I headed to the next priority on the list, The Brisih Musuem.

Now, the British Musuem or "How the Brits raped the world of civilization" as I like to call it, is a monstrosity of historical relics and curiousities. Although the British didn't do anything with them theirselves, their collections house the Rosetta Stone, much of the Parthenon, most of the bounty from Egyptian grave robbers, and a host of significant pieces from every region of the world.

It's the kind of place that actually produced a brochure entitled, "Why we wouldn't give the Greeks back the benchmark of their civilization in time for the Olympics." Well, that's paraphrasing it but still.

I've seen the highlights of the musuem before but wanted to spend more time in the Egyptian exhibit and perhaps looking at the lesser-known galleries. So, shopping bags in tow, I headed in to explore.

I started in the Egyptian gallery, three cavernous rooms filled with ancient mummies, tomb relics and sarcophaguses. For nearly an hour, I wandered through, marveling at the intricate designs of the coffins, delighting in stories of Egyptian ritual and admiring the sheer size of the sarcophaguses.

Then, as I reached the more primitive exhibits, it turned a bit weird.

Prior to such notions as historical preservation or, well, resting in peace, some ancient grave robbers and scientists thought that unwrapping mummies might be the key to understanding the complexities of Egyptian burials (today they just do a CAT scan.) Therefore, the British Musuem has within its collection a large number of unwrapped or barely wrapped bodies. In addition, they have displays of unwrapped bodies discovered in more primitive burial sites - such as holes in the group or wooden boxes.

It was... well... morbid.

I mean, I have no problem looking at an ornate drawing on the outside of the tomb but the actual body? Just lying there with no way to defend itself? I couldn't decide if it was sudden recognition of my own mortality that sent me sprinting to the door or the creepy feeling that, thousands of years ago, these mere mortal died, only to be dug up and oggled by viser-wearing, digital camera tourists, in downtown London.

Shudder.

After a quick cafe break to refuel (indeed, the bodies did nothing to hamper my appetite), I headed back to wander the other galleries.

Totem poles from British Columbia.... tribal dress from middle Africa... trinkets from the Enlightenment. There I was, a history major no less, standing amidst one of the world's greatest collection of antiquities and all I was really thinking way, "Ah, a golden globe. Right then, so did H&M have those red shoes I was admiring? Or was that Shelley's? They would look totally cute with a red scarf and that sparkly black shirt... could I pull that off....."

Now, before you pass judgment, shake your head and mutter "superficial plebian" under your breath, I'd like to defend myself by offering up the fact that while the British Musuem is breathtaking in its catalogue, it is sparce in its sense of historical display. It's pretty difficult to orient oneself to the time and place that the artifacts fall or their significance within a long line of historical chronology. It lacks the true colorful stories that would ordinarily give such objects life. Therefore, I say, it was entirely not my fault when I wandered outside the musuem and back to Oxford Circus.

(Although I did mournfully contemplate for a bit what this must mean about my academic prospects. What decent historian, I thought, hightails it out of a noted musuem for shopping?!?! For shoe shopping?)

Back on Oxford Circus, however, I shopped a bit more in vain then headed to Border's, where I treated myself to a new book and a tall caramel macchiato. (Say what you will about Starbuck's but when you don't have it anymore, it's suddenly the most precious commodity.)

I have to admit, it was grand.

It didn't matter that I was sitting in the midst of one of the world's liveliest cities, that down below my two-story perch people were linking arms and heading to the theatre or dining on expensive cuisine before going to concerts. Because sitting in Starbuck's, surrounded my other singles flipping through magazines or friends bowing heads over a piece of gossip, I felt totally relaxed. In between pages, I would pause to just watch the people walking below or sitting next to me and jot down notes that might - or might not - make their way into fiction later. I took my time, savored the feeling of having nowhere to be, and just read for hours. I didn't feel the least bit guilty about "wasting" a night in London by myself in a coffee shop.

I headed back to the hostel around 10. While walking back to my room, I suddenly realized that I hadn't spoken, really spoken, to anyone all day. Besides "thanks" or "tall macchiato" or "wait a second, I was going to buy those," that is. As I crawled up on my bunk, my temporary Starbuck's high faded and was replaced by... well... loneliness. I had no one to share my shopping bounty and no one to bring down to the bar. Tomorrow, I realized as the pit in my stomach grew, I wouldn't have anyone either. Sadly, I wondered what my flatmates were doing at that hour.

Quiz night, I thought with a moan. Without me.

Just then, I received a text from Ben about a meeting the next week. Seizing the opportunity, I called him in Derry to find out how things had progressed with his plans for a civil rights seminar. Really, I just wanted to make sure that my voice worked. After a few minutes of chatting, however, I was back on my own and curled up and feigned sleep around 11.

Mike Solomon, you bloody fool, I thought, get here soon.

Independent woman....

I am a strong and independent woman. London is a perfectly civilized city.

I am a strong and independent woman. London is a perfectly civilized city.

I am a strong and independent woman. London is a perfectly civilized city.

I am a strong and -- WTF?!?! -- is that man eyeing me? Is he noticing I'm all alone? No one around to protect me? Is he going to rape me on the stairwell? Where the heck is my attack alarm and why, oh, why is he looking at...

I am a strong and independent woman. London is a perfectly civilized....

Oh, feck it, I thought, clutching my Samsonite suitcase so hard my knuckles practically bulged under the pressure.

I am not a strong and independent woman. I am a tired, terrified, and insanely over-aware American toting a suitcase of travel phobias and a pocketbook of anxiety.

And why oh why, I thought, is THAT MAN STARING AT ME?

Needless to say, I was a bit overanxious about my triumphant - solo - return to London.

I made it to the airport just fine on Tuesday, even leaving enough time to meet Mike in Belfast for some Carie-I'm-such-an-idiot-but-I-swear-I'll-make-it-up-to-you coffee, during which he let me listen to an apology ballad he'd composed for the occassion. (Hilarious and not of lick of rhyming among the lines, I let him temporarily off the hook at its delightful conclusion.)

From the airport, I caught the Tube easily enough and then found myself standing in the misty cold on a darkened platform outside London Bridge station, waiting (and praying) for the last train to Greenwich. If I missed it, I knew I'd be toast, forced to wander the deserted streets of London inspecting bus schedules and shiftlessly transferring from double decker to double decker.

Luckily, a stout young Englishman noticed my distress. He pointed out which train I should take and then proceeded to chat about how "dangerous" this section of town was and how careful I should be with my baggage.

Oh fabulous, I thought as he inched closer. Mom is going to love this.

Then, as a strong whiff of alcohol and BO floated past, double fabulous.

He continued to urge vigilance right unti the train pulled into the station. Then, as I looked the other way, he grabbed my suitcase and jumped on board.

Are you serious? I thought, eyes turned heavenward.

The very man that urges vigilance then hops on board with my stuff?

Are you serious?

Luckily, however, he was only trying to help and he safely deposited my goods back at my feet when I darted on board.

I made it to the hostel without incident (luckily, it's right next to the station) and then lugged my stuff into my home for the week: Room 7 of St. Christopher's Village Greenwich.

As I fidgeted with the broken lock, I couldn't help but remember the last time I walked the halls of a St. Christopher's hostel... even the cleaning liquid smelled the same as I thought of my warm, cluttered room of Americans and gay Australians and old men named Gerald. I smiled, optimistic about what people luck might have dropped in my room for this trip.

Only one, apparently.

At least only one when I opened the door. A slightly bewildered Japanese man, scratching his head and scrunching his eyes at the bubbly American now struggling to wheel her baggage though the door, alst while looking fabulous for whatever audience lay across the threshold.

Hi! I chirped, extending my hand. My name is Carie and I'm an American. Oooh, I think that's my bed. Are you the only one here?What aretheothers like?Are you a student?I'mastudentinNorthernIrelandstudyingIrishHistory.IjustloveLondon.Don'tyou
AreyousiteseeingtomorrowI'msiteseeing.Myfriendwon'tbehereuntilTuesday.
Wow,it'snicetomeetyou. What'syournamegain?

Grunt.

Right then, I said, I think I'll go check out the bathrooms.

With that, I left Ach or Choo, I only remember it was a fragment of a sneeze, to crawl back onto his bed.

I checked out the bathrooms - not fantastic, not revolting - and then did the same, ready to collapse after a long and emotionally taxing day of travel.

And I would have done that... had not.. at 3 a.m.... I been jolted awake by a shot of light in the eyes.

"$%()*&FOY," I mumbled at the shapeless black blog at the other end of the flashlight. "Hello?"

Without saying a word, he flipped off the switch, surveyed me again in the dark, and then climbed into the bed underneath, leaving behind a cloud of sweat, alcohol and marijuana. As best I could tell, he was a giant man, perhaps 7 foot, and mountainlike in stature. Probably Russian, I decided. Probably doesn't speak a lick of English, just grunts and mumbles and paws women with his bear-like hands.

Jaysus, I thought as I repositioned myself, how rude. Checking me out like he's the bloody SS.

Then, to add insult to inury, he proceeded to climb into bed - and this is the only way that the resulting earthquake makes sense - by grabbing the bars of the bunk bed and violently thrashing back and forth. In that instant, he became known for the remainder of my journey as, "Guy who shakes the bed guy."

My last thought as I drifted off to sleep was... Mike bloody Solomon... get here soon.

Returning to the scene of the crime...

As I packed up my luggage last night.. neatly folding my clothes, tucking away a money belt, setting aside my passport... I couldn't swallow a sense of impending doom as I zipped up my suitcase.

Instead of packing for a fabulous trip to London, I felt like I was packing for disaster.

Maybe, I suppose, it has something to do with a little robbery in a British pub this march. Perhaps it's a sense of disappointment that this time around, I won't have my fantastic roommate Rachel to go crashing premieres with. Or maybe it's just because my traveling pal Mike just found out he won't arrive until Thursday -- two days after me.

Or maybe I'm just tired.

My brilliant plan to "travel every weekend and just do work during the week," is shaping up to be exhausting. After Habitat, Belfast and Glenvaugh this week, I was hardly in any shape to sit down and work on a paper yesterday. Or endure three hours of lecture about the printing practices of the Irish Parliament in the 1600s. And that was after crashing early on Sunday night and sleeping later than I should have on Monday.

Being a fabulous world traveler is exhausting.

Not, mind you, that I have any reason to complain. As I put the final items in my suitcase this morning, I couldn't help but chastise myself for ignoring the fact that I'm flying to London this week, dirt cheap, and by the pure gratitude of the U.S. Ireland Alliance. I'm going to be able to sit for hours in the British Library, walk the Imperial War Musuem 10 times and go to shopping heaven in H&M.

The trick, however, will be surviving two days on my own and NOT getting my passport nabbed again.

Unless, of course, officer Paul is on duty this week......

(Disclaimer: I am only kidding about Officer Paul to anyone reading this... ie... Jon Page.)

Hill walking....

You'd think I would have learned by now.

When the Irish say, "go and have a wee drink," they probably mean two or three pints.

When they mention we should meet at about half-eight. They probably mean nine o'clock.

If it's going to be a "bit damp," I should probably whip out the rain boots.

Why then, I wondered as I huffed and puffed my way up a cliffside in Glenveagh National Park, was I surprised that the "hill walking club" wasn't about hills at all?

I woke up early on Sunday for my first "hill" walking expedition. (After long reflection and a few nights musing in the mirror about the merits of my nose and other extremities, I chose hill walking over the gaelic football team.) The whole group - about 18 in all, mostly from outside Northern Ireland - piled into a university van to head to Glenveagh National Park, which is actually across the border in Donegal.

After a ride of twists, turns, and drops (most looked a bit green as we tumbled out), we arrived at our destination. A six-car parking lot next to an old cottage in the middle of bogland.

L.L. Bean hiking boots firmly tied, army pants tightly looped, and backpack steady on my shoulders, I started the first portion of our walk with boundless energy and enthusiasm for the afternoon ahead as we ambled down a level, gravel path. We spent some time oggling the birthplace of St. Columb (a pile of grass marked with a cross and a stone with supposed healing powers), snapping some pictures and then headed back to the parking lot.

Geez, I thought, hill walking is for pansies.

The second phase of our hike, however, was not exactly as easy.

We walked for about four miles through "hills" and bogland to wind up at Glenvaugh Castle, perched on the side of a massive lake. And by "hills," I mean miniature mountains, which, somehow, we always seemed to be walking up but never managed to walk down. Just as we'd clear one mountain, three more would emerge in front, leaving me to believe halfway there that we'd never stumble upon any castles. Or people. Or benches. Or the delicious apple tarts that we'd been promised along the way.

As a side note, we also didn't stumble upon any swords, which Ben tirelessly scoured the bogland for. (He went to the Ulster Musuem this week and reported that many medieval battle axes and swords were actually uncovered when the forests were removed from the bogland. I humored his quest to pluck his own from the blackened soil, occasionally stopping to stare into the distance and murmur.. "Is that? Noooo, it couldn't be.")

But alas, as we cleared our final hill (Number 73, I believe), we came out to a paved path around a glistening lake in a mountain valley. Just within our view rose Glenvaugh castle.

{Castle, I would say, is a bit generous. The castle was built in 1920 by Henry McIlheney, an Irishman who moved to America and made his fortune in Tabasco sauce. He came home to build the house and the gardens and left it to the public after his death. It certainly looks like a castle from a distance but when you get closer, it just looks too pristine. I half expected to find a picture of a knight that we could stick our heads through for pictures. Or perhaps a "Medieval Times" restaurant.}

The highlight of the castle, of course, was the fine dining in the tea room. Having bare cupboards at home, the sight of a long line of delicious pasteries and sandwiches certainly made up for the two-hour hike. After downing the sandwich, in fact, I realized that the hike had not really been that bad. All gravel. Just small mountains.

Hill walking, I decided again, really is for pansies.

So, naturally, when Eoin (the head of the club) said they would be taking a leisurely lunchtime stroll up a nearby hill to get a view of the castle, I jumped to join the group.

Stroll?

Hill?

Leisurely?

We left the safety and scrumptiousness of the castle to take a worn path behind the gardens. It went up a hill behind the castle to a looking point and then circled back. It had to be straight up. Seriously, straight up. Seriously, they offered handrails so you didn't plunge to your death. One kid missed his step and tumbled to the rocks below.

Halfway up, I paused to "survey the scenery."

Eion: You alright, Carie? Not turning back already?

Me: Pshh. [breathe] What? [breathe] Ha! You... [gasp] must be jo-[gasp]king. [breathe] I'm a champ. [heave] I might just run the rest of the way up.

[Under my breath] Unless, I mean, it would be cool just to turn around.

Still, I persevered. Smiled for the camera at the peak and decided that if the walks got much worse than this, I might be playing gaelic football.

After our climb, I spent the rest of our castle time surveying the castle gardens (which was, indeed, leisurely) and chatting with the rest of the club. One girl, Amondime, kept asking me questions for the sole purpose of hearing my southern accent, which she called, "proper English."

(No, she wasn't complimenting my grammar. Rather remarking I sounded exactly like an American could.)

Another woman, Helga, grilled me about my reasons for coming to Northern Ireland. By the end of it, I wasn't sure why the heck I was there at all.

Helga: So what will you do with a master's degree in Irish history?
Me: I suppose I could teach.
Helga: In America?
Me: Um, sure.
Helga: Where?
Me: Right. Um. Well, I really like journalism.
Helga: So why not just go straight into journalism?
Me: Well, I also like to study history. And I wanted to study a civil rights movement outside of the American context.
Helga: Right, but how will that help you with your future?
Me: I suppose I could work for the BBC.
Helga: You don't need a master's degree to do that.
Me: Yeah... well... the bus is leaving.

We finished up the day all Irish hikes should... at the pub.

You can see all of my Glenveagh photos here:
http://uk.pg.photos.yahoo.com/ph/cariewindham/my_photos

Right place, wrong part of town..

I started to get the sneaking suspicion on Saturday that, perhaps, I wasn't in the safest of neighborhoods, when the faces started.

Expressionless faces, cautiously peeking past their flowered kitchen curtains at the yawning foreigner ambling up and down their neighborhood sidewalks. No one spoke. No one offered a wave. Just suspicious, staring faces.

Then, of course, there was the grafitti.

On the sides of buildings, messages of loyalist solidarity, spelled out in bright red, white, and blue, promised to "never surrender." UVF and UDA left their call letters on every flat surface.

Even more telling, the only sounds as I poked around the town - quite abandoned at 7 a.m. - were the flapping of the Union Jacks on every corner.

Perhaps, I realized, this was a bad idea.

By the end of the day, however, it turned out to be a very good one.

I went to my first Habitat for Humanity build on Saturday, in a place called Ballysillan in Northwest Belfast. It was sheer effort just to get there.

Since I had to be in Belfast so early, Ben and I headed east on Friday night for Bishop's fish and chips with Geoff (for the upteenth time) and a night on the town. Anticipating our arrival, Geoff had pumped the previous Belfast Mitchell scholar for information about the best pubs in town so we headed to White's Tavern, Belfast's oldest pub. It was smaller than expected -- probably just a bar and about 12 tables - and there was an odd Elvis crooner at the back of the room. These facts aside, it turned out to be fantastic. So fantastic, in fact, that I barely noticed when Ben knocked over a pint of beer and it landed in my lap. (It was perhaps more ale than ambiance which saved him from my wrath.)

The nice thing about hitting up White's instead of the typical college places around Queen's was that it required a nice walk through town, past some of Belfast's most important landmarks, like the city hall and The Gap. One of these days, I might actually attempt to see Belfast in the daylight.

Giddy with Harp's and oblivious to the stickiness of my jeans, we headed back toward Queen's to hit another famous drinking hole -- The Bot. Less famous for its history than the fact that it's a must-see on the college scene. (All of my friends at Magee recommended it.) It was massive -- two floors, cavernous bar, high ceilings -- and packed to the door. Despite having to shove, e-mail, and bat my eyelashes to even make it to the bar, I did get to witness some fine bar floor snogging (no one I knew but impressive, nonetheless) and I did wind up with some chips and curry at the end. All in all, a fabulously fun evening.

And, as one might imagine, such a fabulously fun and late evening rarely spells fabulousness or fun when the sun comes up again.

I sprang from bed, er, floor at 7 a.m. to walk downtown to pick up a taxi to go to Ballysillan. As I approached the bus station (taxi rendezvous point), I seriously considered just hopping a bus to Derry and sleeping away the morning in my own bed. I still felt a bit wobbly and doubted I could stave off a headache as the day went on. Plus, I had no clue where I was really going. And, should I really be constructing houses in that sort of condition?

Still, I made a commitment. And I do, genuinely, want to work with Habitat.

So, I handed my map to the taxi driver and headed for Ballysillan where I arrived a bit too early and went on the aforementioned gallavant around town.

By the time I made it back to the worksite, the rest of the volunteers were starting to assemble. There were three other volunteers -- all women, all from Belfast. Three site supervisors -- all men, all hilarious, one American. And the rest of the workers were families still trying to put in their sweat equity hours. Some from the other site, some from Ballysillan. (Other than an allude to "two communities coming together" in the prayer, I really saw nothing out of the ordinary with the two communities working on site. Everyone mingled well. No one snubbed anyone else. Everyone joked and worked easily together. Of course, perhaps that was the extraordinary part.)

Everyone was quite friendly to begin with and most had obviously worked together before. We went through safety training and a brief introduction and then split to take on our tasks. I couldn't help but worry about how I'd measure up on the site. I've done Habitat before but never in a developed country. I can mix concrete, water, and rocks with the best of them and slap mezcla between blocks like a pro, but dry wall? Seriously.

No need to worry, however. Everyone was more than happy to help. I spent much of the day working alongside Dolores and Tom puttting drywall in a bedroom. Dolores is a young mother and a student in Belfast, studying to be a midwife. She and her husband will be moving into Liogenel (the other site) next year. She bellowed at even the most insignificant things on the worksite which made me giggle nonstop. Tom is an American, jovial and round, like a Santa Claus with a toolbelt and salt and pepper beard. He coordinates the volunteers for Habitat.

Already, I could see, from his example, the type of volunteer I definitely did not want to be.

Me: So, we hang the dry wall vertically?
Tom: Well, yes. I mean, we would save much more time if we just did it horizontal. That's how I do it at home. But they don't seem to understand that here. They waste so much time and so many materials.

[Heavy sigh.]

Tom: But, I do it the way they want.

Later...

Dolores: I think we're running out of nails. Should I see if there are more in the shed?
Tom: Oh, there aren't. There never is. We always have plenty of volunteers and never enough supplies. Why don't they think about it beforehand? If it were me, I would order more nails. You'll always need nails. You don't ever need tape measurers.

Even later....

Tom: Jesus, these corners aren't straight. They don't build anything straight here.

Granted, he's been doing this longer than me but still.

Overall, I was impressed with my handiwork. I helped nail and hang drywall on four walls and then helped clean up the site for the contracted workers to come in on Tuesday. There were just a few minor mistakes (How was I to know that "slip" meant Dumpster and not front yard? And, seriously, someone should have explained that the cat was part of the worksite before they let me just toss it out the door.).

At the end of the day, I was a bit tired, quite hungover, but convinced I'd be back. The people weren't overly chatty but everyone seemed nice enough and I hope it will just be a matter of time and persistance before I win them over with my Southern charm.

By the time I made it back to Derry, however, I was ready to collapse. Ever the trooper, I jumped in the shower and headed out for dinner and a movie with the flatmates. Our Irish roommate Hailey just got engaged so we wanted to treat her and her fiancee to dinner. The food was grand but afterward we went to see the movie "Serenity." (Obviously my choices were vetoed.)

If it's any indication as to the merit of the flick, Kerry whipped out her cell phone in the middle to send a frenzied text to her boyfriend, Kurt, now en route to see the same movie in the States.

Text: SUCKS. DON'T DO IT.

Sucks, however, might have been too strong. Sure, the storyline was weak. Yes, the acting was bad. OK, the scenes and dialogue were a bit contrived and stereotypical.

But, how can you hate a movie when, at a point of sheer desperation, the flight captain turned to the crew and said, "There's only one thing we can do..... [dramatic pause]... we're calling MR. UNIVERSE."

I laughed more at the movie's flaws than its scripted jokes but chalked it up to a fun evening nonetheless. When we got back to the flat, I rehashed my early morning walk with my roommates.

Hailey: Wait a second, where did you say you were?
Me: Eh, West Belfast.
Hailey: Christ! What part?
Me: Um, Ballysillan.
Hailey and fiancee Noel: @?£%$@£!

The joys of staying in...

As I sat, pajama-panted, in my snug little bed in Duncreggan last night, I was hit with the worst of moral dilemmas.

Should I, being of sound mind and body with no deadlines looming, rouse from bed, toss on my smokey "pub jeans" and join friends at Peader O'Donnells for live music?

Or should I, being quite content to just sit in bed and read without the 20 minute walk through the cold, stay in?

Decisions, decisions.

A pint of Stella vs. more of the Starburst in my care package from home.

Pajama pants and sweatshirt vs. blazer, dangly necklace, and heels.

Good craic with good friends or a quiet evening in bed.

Come on, do I even need to say it?

For the first time in ages, I curled up on my faux waterbed mattress and spent hours just writing. Nothing in particular. Nothing historical. Just writing. I read a few chapters of my latest biography while munching on illegally imported American candy. I had a long chat with Jon Page. And then, later in the evening, I plopped down on Ben's floor to continue a debate from class on the legitimacy of violence in the democratic system.

Later, I wondered if this was an adequate use of my time.

I'm in another country, after all. Shouldn't I be living up the culture to the fullest? Shouldn't I be immersing myself in the accent? The pub grub? The joys of Guiness and the tales of old timers?

Happening upon stories far more entertaining than this for the sake of my blog readers?

Am I just getting that old?

A Stupid American update...

Some of my fellow international students scour the student specials for the very best dance clubs every night of the week.

My friends and I look for quiz nights.

Fortunately, this time we may have found the perfect one.

While walking in the campus bar last week, we noticed that the Student Union sponsors a quiz night.

Clear Advantage #1: No more of that 70s era music to get tripped up on. No more questions about B-list 80s celebrities.

Clear Advantage #2: Forget a free case of beer. Students win a free keg of beer.

So, on Tuesday night, the team formerly known as the U.Mass Debate Team plus two new Ph.D. students crowded around a table in the campus disco to prove we were not, indeed, Stupid Americans.

(We have a new theory about beating this system. If we find a weakness, we simply recruit a new member to the team. Victoria, for instance, knows British pop culture. Neill is a music master.)

We did much better -- coming in a respectable third place and I even contributed a correct answer (about music nonetheless). Still, however, we were more than 10 points behind the winning team (A bunch of long-haired boys in the back. Barry is convinced long-haired people should be banned from quiz night due to their obvious advantage. Yup, I don't get it either.).

Moral of the story is, if you are particularly random trivia savvy, we'll pay your accommodation fees if you'd like to join us next week.

Saving the world... again

Perhaps, for those of you that are rather loyal blog readers (yeah, both of you), you might recall a little rant I had a few posts ago about thrusting off my responsibility for humanity and adopting, instead, a lifestyle of Guinness pints, good conversation, and sloth-like mobility.

Seriously. You believed that?

OK, OK, I haven't converted to my old self but I have adopted a new cause.

On Tuesday, I hopped a bus to Belfast for a volunteer meeting with Habitat for Humanity. After a delicious fish and chips lunch with Geoff at Bishop's (I swear, if we are what we eat, Geoff is one-hundred-percent Bishop's fish and chips), I grabbed a taxi to head to the Habitat headquarters in Northwest Belfast.

I e-mailed Habitat to see about the possibility of working on the weekends on any build sites in the area. Instead, they proposed that I take on a new "legacy project" they are completing.

Essentially, Habitat began the "Northwest Belfast" project four or five years ago in two distinct neighborhoods: one Catholic and one Protestant. For a few months, they would work on two houses in one neighborhood before switching to two houses in the other. Because Habitat believes in the concept of "sweat equity," homeowners in each neighborhood would be responsible for building houses in the other.

Sounds simple, right?

Remember, of course, that these are deeply sectarian divisions in these neighborhoods. A Protestant from one is likely to have never had any contact with a Catholic in the other. Their kids go to different schools. Their churches are miles apart. And their concept of an Irish identity is pretty much derived from a crippling distrust and sense of victimization from the other group.

So, perhaps not as simple.

Even more exciting, they've been taking residents of both communities on Habitat builds around the world, to places like Georgia and Guatemala. The idea is to remove the religious divisions that they live in and to create a safe, apolitical environment where they can just get to know one another and learn to help one another.

The project will be ending in June and, realizing the significance of the work they'll be doing, they wanted to find a way to memorialize their work.

Enter one history-degree carrying, oral history loving American.

My job for the next year will be to uncover the history of the two neighborhoods prior to Habitat's work and then the progress of the Habitat project. I'll be interviewing Habitat workers, volunteers, homeowners, and international teams that have worked on the project. I'll be sorting through memos and newspaper articles and photographs. I'll be discussing the impact of religious migrations and the Troubles.

In the end, I'll produce a book about the Northwest Project to capture the individual stories and the overall narrative.

It couldn't be more perfect.

Even better, there might be a way to combine this research with my master's thesis so that I can save some time in the long run.

So, essentially, that's still kindof being a carefree twenty-something. Right?

Confused?

It has come to my attention, through the exploits of my friend Kerry, that it is, perhaps, unfair to drop names of friends without actually attributing a face to the name. I became aware of the potential difficulties when her boyfriend Kurt decided to contribute his own guesses about the aesthetics of our group and pinned me as the "Asian girl with purple streaks in her hair."

For that reason, I've opened a Yahoo photos account for the sole viewing purposes of people who are so terribly bored that even my blog won't suffice.

You can see it here: http://uk.pg.photos.yahoo.com/ph/cariewindham/my_photos

It's a bit thin now but look for fun things in the future. Especially useful may be the category: People, which is exactly that. The real faces of the stars of my blog.

Mullet-tastic

Just in case you are wondering if the Euro-mullet fad has ended. I hand you:

Exhibit One: Wants to be Jeff-Foxworthy Soccer Goalie Guy

As viewed from our kitchen window.

Derry-licious...

I'm not sure if I realized it when I applied to the University of Ulster, but the city of Derry has played a prominent role throughout Irish history.

It was here, in fact, that James II was locked out of the walled city by Williamite forces during the Great Siege, thus ending any chance for a Catholic monarch in Great Britain.

It was here that Ulster Plantation was planted in the 1600s, displacing Gaelic Irish and Old English and sparking decades of Catholic complaints of dispossession.

It was in Ulster, in 1641, that the Catholic Irish rose up in rebellion and brutally slaughtered any Protestant in their path -- planting the "siege mentality" amongst the Protestant and giving hundreds of years of monarchs a reason to "punish" the Catholic.

Most recently, Derry was the site of 1972's Bloody Sunday, a day forever etched in the memory of nationalist leaders, when 14 civil rights marchers were brutally murdered by British forces. And throughout the 1970s, Derry was the site of armed warfare between local Catholics and military and loyalist forces, most notably during the Battle of the Bogside and the period of internment.

That's why, I must say, Derry is an ideal place to be a history student.

Without a place to go this weekend and with friends visiting from Belfast, I finally got the chance to see Derry as a tourist over the weekend. Our main destination was the city's ancient walls - built during the 1600s - which once contained the Protestant population behind fortified stone and brick. Inside the cities walls, Williamite forces withstood 105 days of siege and embargo to defeat James II, even resorting to eating the flesh of dying horses, vermin, and dogs to stay alive. As you walk along the walls, you can see evidence of "Old Derry" on the inside - such as St. Columbs cathedral and the Protestant places of power. On the outside, however, you can see Derry's more recent history by walking through outwardly loyalist (Protestant) and nationalist (Catholic) areas, designated by the painted sidewalks. The most famous is "Bogside," a Catholic stronghold that gained fame in the 1970s when the the army and police waged war with the every day citizens. Women, children, and even priests lined up day and night to make homemade petrol bombs at the forces. Oftentimes they watched as innocent civilians were gunned down as they crossed the streets. Today, those days are immortalized in the Bogside murals, the most famous painted at the start of the Battle of the Bogside which says, "You are now entering Free Derry." Today, those murals are actually subsidized by the city and trained artists maintain them. (Pictures are of the group peering from the wall and of some of the murals.)

I've mentioned the murals before but going back to Bogside was made all the more significant this weekend because of the week's reading and lectures. (Also because we found a group of young boys - probably about 8 or 9 years old - hurling insults and rocks at police on the street. A bit eery.)

I've been reading Nell McCafferty's memoir of growing up in Derry. This week, I finally came to the 1970s and saw, through her eyes, the transformation of Bogside from a tightly knit community into a virtual combat zone. McCafferty was part of a number of the marches and battles, so seeing Bogside - even from my wallside perch - helped put a landscape to her prose. Reading her recollections helped put a sense of history to the view.

That's what I find to be so amazing about this experience. Not only am I learning Irish history in my classes - I can actually go see the bullet holes or the city gates on my weekends. I can actually read the journal pages of siege victims in the local Cathedral or walk past the jail cells in Dublin of Easter Rising patriots. The combination is electrifying for a history nerd like myself. I just can't get past how fortunate I am to be here.

One topic that we've discussed in my class on "The Troubles" is the concept of historical memory and its place in sustaining the Northern Ireland Conflict. Throughout the region's history, subsequent massacres, battles, and injustices have imposed on both sides a feeling of besiegement - an unshakable cry of victimhood. It's always, "them versus us" and "what they've done to us for years." And political leaders often use those fears and those insecurities to keep a renewed interest in their cause. For decades after the 1641 rebellion, for instance, British monarchs and military commanders rallied against the Irish under a banner of "revenge for 1641" for years. Catholics, on the other hand, have vivid memory of the penal laws, internment, and nightly raids on their homes. Historical fact - which carries a long history of abuses and sieges on both sides - is often blurred by the community's public and shared memory.

It's even harder to break the cycle, it seems, because so many students go to segregated schools by virtue of their geographical boundaries. So a Protestant child may learn a history entirely different from that of a Catholic.

And the history is often different.

I couldn't stop staring at a memorial posted on the city's walls during our walk. It read:

This memorial was erected to perpetuate the memory of the Rev. George Walker who, aided by the garrison and brave inhabitants of the city, most gallantly defended it through a protracted siege following against an abitrary and bigoted monarch, heading an army of upwards of 20,000 men, many of whom were foreign mercenaries, and by such valiant conduct in numerous stories and by patiently enduring extreme conditions and sufferings, successfuly survived the besiegery and reserved for their posterity the virtues of civil rights and religious liberty.

Now, if I was a Catholic walking past this monument, I might have to give pause.

After all, this "arbitrary and bigoted monarch" was James II, a Catholic run out of his own country and denied his birthright because the birth of a male heir made the rest of the country nervous that the Catholic ascendancy would never end. He was replaced by his Danish and Protestant son-in-law.

And to preserve the virtues of civil rights and religious liberty? Who's religious liberty? The Catholics who then endured years under a system of penal laws meant to strip them of their civil rights? Who lost their lands for being Catholic and therefore traitors?

I suppose history is truly in the hands of those who write it, not those that lived it.

Besides the tours, however, the weekend was filled with fun and revelry. We heard some traditional music at Peader O'Donnels on Friday night before dancing at the Carraic with the other international students. We devoured the "bargain breakfast" at Wheelers - now a weekend staple - and endured a night dancing at Sandino's, a crusty, two story music dive covered in posters of Che Guvvarro which often collects money for political prisoners. (It was an experience, however, that I'm not too keen to repeat. Too many people. Too little space. And way too much smoking.) And we enjoyed plenty of downtime just to sit around and talk at the kitchen table or to walk along the river.

All that fun, however, means a night of work ahead. Better get to it....

Stupid Americans...

I've heard it a million times.

When you go to other countries, worldly sages always say, they're going to assume you're a "stupid American."

"Why, that's not fair!" I always reasoned. We didn't all vote for George Bush. Some of us do have some scratch the surface knowledge of world politics. And even a bit of geography. Who are these stupid Americans that are ruining the lot for the rest of us?

Meet: The Stupid Americans.

Pub Quiz Alias: U. Mass Debate Team (Say it out loud to achieve maximum sophomoric humor.)

When we went to pub quiz at Linen Hall this week, we were sure we'd stacked the deck in our favor. Our line-up, we were certain, was unstoppable. Just look at our various areas of expertise.

Carie: Irish History pre-1700, reality television, celebrity gossip, various uses and spellings of the world fabulous

Kerry: eccentric music selections, Anglo-Irish literature, local culture

Jay: third world dictators and revolutionaries, anti-Bushisms, flavors of beer, Italien culture

Ben: international politics, American sports, economic terminology

Jasper: Denmark, American football, saying things in, eh, Danish

Jon the Scotsman: British soap operas, soccer, Scot-Irish politics and history

Kerry and Barry: Irish pop culture, various tabloid news

Seriously -- how could we go wrong?

Not only did we go wrong (on several occasions), we finished dead last.

Against a team called, "Skateboarding for Jesus."

As we hung our heads low and slunk past the winning team, now merribly ripping bottles of Coors light from the case that their win bestowed, we patted each other on the back and suggested that it was, "Just because we were in another country."

Indeed, I'm not sure if we could've won in America.

We missed questions on football, the Fondas, Barbie, and U.S. foreign policy. We botched musicals, song lyrics, and Hollywood gossip.

We did, however, know the one country with the highest Muslim population in the world. Go figure.

Now, if our idiocy had been restrained to the classroom, I might not have reason to be ashamed. But, indeed, I find myself as an "American idiot" on a daily basis.

The first time I tried to answer a question in class, for example, I perked up with a "1792" when asked about an Irish law going into disuse. In reality, I was half right. It was null and void after 1792 but didn't go off the books until the 1980s. My professor, obviously sensitive to the ambiguity of the question and how much courage it took to speak up, simply stared at me and said, "WRONG," before launching into the right answer. My classmates are still tittering over that one.

Then there's the fact that I'm the only roommate that hasn't figured out how to heat their room, leaving my room the temperature equivalent of the Laplands in Norway. Or the fact that I can't seem to figure out how to operate the washing machines or measure the powder. (WHO MANUFACTURES LAUNDRY DETERGENT WITHOUT A CONVENIENT LITTLE SCOOP?)

And naturally, there's the fact that I was the only person at the campus concert last night that didn't know that a crowded dance floor means that everyone has to hurl themselves against one another in mosh pit fashion. (OK, that has nothing to do with being a stupid American. I just felt like complaining.)

So, to furthur educate myself on all things Irish, I attended an economics conference today headed by one of the political party's downtown.

I left after lunch.

I'm not sure why I thought, "Oh yeah, economics. Sure, I haven't studied it. Sure, it makes me dizzy. Right, I almost bombed personal finance. This will be so cool."

I think I'll try some musuems tomorrow instead.

Wasting away again in GuinessDrinkingVille....

The longer I stay in Derry, the harder I find it to justify the activities of the woman formerly known as the Fabulously Motivated Carie Windham.

To make this understandable to the newest subscriber to the story of my life, I offer a detailed account of my whereabouts on Monday, October 3.

8:00 a.m.: Hit snooze. Debate getting out of bed to shower or showering after class. Go back to bed.

9:00 a.m.: Debate, again, the merits of a shower. Go back to bed.

9:50 a.m.: Toss on 7 layers, brush teeth, fluff hair, run to class.

10:20ish - 1:00 p.m.: Class

1:15 p.m.: Return to flat for lunch, shower.

2:00 p.m. : Return to campus with James to try to finagle the International Office to organize and pay for a trip to Giant's Causeway next week.

3:00 p.m. : Computer lab for various e-mail and trip planning festivities.

6:00 p.m.: Shut down computer, head to Ice Wharf for a pint with Jaspar and James.

7:00 p.m.: Split fish and chips meal with Ben at Ice Wharf.

7:45 p.m.: Run into Kerry, Barry and Sarah at Ice Wharf, move pints to their table.

8:50 p.m.: Decide against movie. Stay at Ice Wharf for more good conversation.

11 p.m.: Head to Bound for Boston for more pints and good conversation.

2 a.m. : Call Jon. Read a bit of chic lit. Wash face/teeth. Collapse from exhaustion.

Now, for conversation's point, let's take a page from my planner at this time, last year.

Monday, Oct. 2

7:30 a.m.: Alarm goes off. Debate necessity of shower. Sniff armpits. Go back to bed. (Some things never change.)

8:30 a.m.: Rouse from bed, brush teeth, fluff and restrain hair. Hop in car and head to campus.

9:00 a.m. - noon: Internship at Center for Student Leadership, Ethics, and Public Service.

12:15: Grab high-calorie bagel at Bruegger's for ridiculous price. Read Technician as I eat.

12:23 - 2:20: Various versions of class.

2:30 - 4:00: Work in Student Government office, responding to e-mails, typing up guides, making various small talk with Ms. Cira.

4:00 - 6:00: Go to library to peruse archives for pertinent articles for senior thesis and to do research for Honors Extension project.

6:15: Meet Rachel at home to munch on pre-packaged food and to watch 90210.

7:00-8:00: Meeting to discuss saving the world.

8:00-10:00: Work on essays for graduate school/scholarships/Teach for America while watching bad tv.

10:00-midnight: Reading for class.

midnight: Call Jon. Collapse.

Now, it might not seem like too much is changed. Swap a few pints with a few meetings and hours in the library - no big deal. But coming to terms with my lack of responsibility has been quite an adjustment.

As I sipped on my pint last night at the Ice Wharf, for instance, I had to continuously beat down a tiny voice in the back of my head muttering, "Isn't there something worthwhile you should be doing?"

The thing is, there wasn't. I have no job. No leadership positions. No course work outside of the small bit of reading that I accomplish on bus rides over the weekend or while lying in bed at night. No newspaper to publish. No meetings to commandeer. At first, I felt unconnected, useless, a bit lost. Certainly, I kept thinking, this is not what the Mitchell intended. Shouldn't I be starting a club? Feeding the homeless? Perhaps getting one step closer to NPR by shoving my foot in the BBC's door?

Today, however, I feel just grand.

Last night as I sipped my Stella (To keep stride with the unmatched drinking abilities of the Irish and to keep my bank account happy, I've learned to just buy two pints each night and sip them slowly throughout the evenings activities. That way, I'm always participating but never overdoing it.) , I shared my situation with the friends gathered round the table. My friend Kerry, an Alfred graduate from New York, has been harboring similar feelings. It's become quite obvious over the last two weeks that Kerry and I are a lot of like. Besides our NPR ambitions, I have a feeling our resumes would have looked remarkably alike in college: leadership positions, internships, volunteer projects, student government, student newspaper, various events. Like me, she felt like she should be doing more in Northern Ireland.

But then, we reasoned, why should we? Aren't we deserved a one-year hiatus from our plans to take over the world? And, I've come to discover, studying abroad isn't just about packing in the internships, the service, and the clubs, it's also about studying abroad. Taking in the sights. Hopping a bus down South. Discussing Bloody Sunday and the merits of the Beckham marriage over Harp's.

I can't help but think that perhaps I've been missing the point for the last four years. True, I've built an impressive resume. Certainly, I've got a good chance of getting into graduate school and securing a job. Of course, I've never been accused of not reaching my potential.

But, I certainly haven't had many nights like last night. Simply killing time, no deadlines, assignments or responsibilities hanging over my head, as I discussed Darfur, mullets, free trade, and Internet dating. Sitting around a table of people bonded not by mutual ambitions but brought together by a mutual desire for friendship, laughs, and good conversation.

After four years of grumbling about the fun things I'd do if I'd only had the time, I find myself suddenly faced with the time to do it and finally - after two weeks of introspection - the courage to realize that it's OK to do them. I've been given an amazing opportunity and it's time to bring it to its full potential. (Don't worry, I'm not talking about drinking in the pubs each night as full potential.)

So, I canceled my appointment with the BBC this week. I'm going to apply for a four-week internship over the summer in place of a steady, term internship.

Instead, I've e-mailed Habitat for Humanity about building each week and working on an oral history project. And, I've signed up for my first hill-walking trip next weekend. I've put my name down for boxercise and pub quiz on Wednesdays and bought tickets to a concert this Thursday. And I've taken over the role as resident weekend trip planner for my group of friends.

I haven't, despite temptation, joined any campus organizations, started writing for the campus publication, or tried to find a job. I stopped looking at post-Ireland job applications and graduate school requirements and I finally cancelled my appointment to take the GRE in Dublin.

We'll see how long this lasts......

Missed - communication...

It always amazes me what a difference a few words can make.

Take, for instance, my journey from Belfast to Dublin this weekend. After buying bus tickets in Belfast, I left my friends Mike and Ben on the sidewalk while I made a quick pre-trip pit stop at the bathrooms. As I sauntered onto the street, I was a bit surprised to see Ben standing alone on the sidewalk staring up at the buildings around us.

"Where's Mike?" I asked

"I dunno," he said, still staring at the Chinese place across the way. "He just ran off."

"Ran off? Where?"

"I dunno.. that way." Vague finger pointing.

"And you didn't think to follow him?"

Ben then turns, shooting me the blissfully blank gaze that I've found both endearing and infuriating during our time together in Derry. "Why would I do that?" he says.

Indeed. (In doesn't help, of course, that Ben is wearing the bright-orange Jagermeister hat from the night before -- pictured above.)

So, taking Ben's lead, I too begin soaking in Belfast's train station atmosphere. The Chinese place on the corner, the large advertisements for the £1 menu at Burger King. The stange statue of weary travellers on the street. I relax so much, in fact, that I take a bit of time to chat up a friend from the pub the night before, whom we ran into on the street.

Then, as Mike hasn't returned, I start to get a bit suspicious.

"Seriously Ben, he just ran off?"

"Yeah." As if it isn't the least bit strange that, while waiting for a bus, our friend simply turned on his heels and started sprinting down the street as far away from us as possible.

"And we shouldn't follow him?"

"I don't think so."

Still, I start walking in the direction of Mike's last known whereabouts. That's when my phone beeps with a text from Mike.

"RUN!"

Not knowing if this is bomb, bus, or bedlam, I take off running down the street, super-large backpack bouncing off my bum, hoping to be going in the right direction. After 7 minutes, I finally spot Mike, one foot wedged in the door of the Air Coach, frantically waving us on.

Turns out, he was running to hold the bus en route toDublin. As he started to run, we later discovered, he tossed back over his shoulder, "Ben, I'll hold the bus. Wait for Carie." But those words were lost mid-sprint. What a difference they'd have made.

Much like the £2 difference a little word called "from" made on our bus tickets en route. It turns out, those Air Coach officials in Belfast have made quite a killing by inserting the word "from" in front of their advertised fares, thus luring in weary Americans hoping to travel to Dublin for £8, when indeed it is only "from £8" and really costs £10.

Or the difference between the world "free pint" in a pub, which universally means a pint of Guiness, and "free bottle" which unilaterally means something less palatable like Coors Light or, retch, Red Dog. A lesson I learned quite quickly after taking to the dance floor on Thursday night in Belfast under the impression that the first ones on the floor would win a free pint.

After dancing quite feverishly to a bit of Irish music, my friend Mike and I were instead rewarded with a free bottle of the aforementioned Red Dog. It was a brew so insufferable that I had to wait until Ben had downed two pints and a shot of Jager (sold to his poor, gullible soul, at the price of £2 with a hideous hunter's orange fisherman's cap thrown in for good measure) to convince him that indeed, the Red Dog was purchased at the bar for him.

And our friend Brittany certainly learned the significance of even the smallest words when our prediction that we would meet her at the orchestra around 4:30 turned out to be closer to 5:30. Brittany, ever on military time, had taken 4:30 to mean exactly that so we bought her dinner later that night.

Missed communication aside, my second weekend abroad was quite good craic.

After class on Thursday (I'm actually sitting in on a class from Ben's program on "The Conflict"), Ben and I hopped a bus to Belfast where we met up with two other Mitchell Scholars, Mike and Geoff, who are both studying at Queen's University. We headed out to taste the Belfast nightlife with their group of international friends, finally settling for "The Egg," which is quite close to campus and boasts a rather intimate bar and dance floor.

The entertainment for the night - absolute crap our Irish companions claimed - was a local band playing a mix of Irish music and American rock covers. The music, combined with the intimate atmosphere and rather sparse crowd, made it easy to jump around and dance without creating that creepy, "everyone is banging into everyone" club-like atmosphere. So, although a bit out of my character, I was one of the first on the dance floor (earning the Red Dog) and I rarely left. Each time I'd retreat to the table for more drinks, the band would start playing a familiar song and I'd end up back on the floor, doing movements that - to the unsophisticated observer - probably looked like a combination of Irish jig, square dancing, and 80s hair-band headbanging. Still, it was a blast.

We finished up the evening at "Bishops," one of the best places for fish and chips in town. For some odd, two pint, reason, I thought chips with curry would be delightful at 2 a.m. and, much to my arteries dismay, downed the entire order.

The next morning, Mike, Ben, and I hopped the bus to Dublin to meet Brittany for the orchestra. After keeping her waiting for nearly an hour we took in a divine three-course, Lebanese meal in Temple Bar and then picked up student tickets for a mere 5 euro. Since the orchestra was playing fairly modern music and the Irish apparently did not approve, we landed in the sixth row for what was a grand performance.

We spent much of Saturday in Dublin wandering the streets in search of St. Patrick's cathedral (why we never thought to buy a 2 eruo map is beyond me). We didn't have much luck in that regard but it was an excellent opportunity to get to know Brittany, Ben, and Mike a little better. The more I get to know everyone, the more I'm struck by how similar we can feel on certain planes but how vastly we may view the world on others. Even if I can't keep up with Mike's musings half the time, I'm constantly enchanted by the way his mind works and how quickly he tosses out mind-blowing perceptions on life and intelligence and art. Likewise, although we don't have much common political ground, I'm inspired by the way Brittany always stands her ideological ground in a conversation. When I'm in hostile political territory, I tend to keep my mouth shut and tow a rather middle line. Brittany, on the other hand, makes sure we're also discussing and considering the other side. It makes for lively discussion.

We came back to Belfast on Saturday night to "que" for nearly a half hour outside the "Parlour," obviously one of the hipper clubs in the city. The que to get up to the dance floor was just as bad so we choose to pull up a few couches and just enjoy conversation and a few pints from the downstairs. The only potentially hairy situation arose when someone knocked my arm and I ended up dousing a girl in Guiness on the way back from the bar. Her boyfriend grabbed my arm and stared at me with such venom that I was sure I was about get decked and subsequently doused in Guiness myself. Fortunately, a few "sorrys!" and attempts to get napkins sorted the situation out quite nicely.

It's hard to be back on campus today after such a lively weekend. Besides my two classes, I've tried to keep my schedule rather light so that I'm free to travel on the weekends, but I'm discovering that so much free time just leaves me wasting time and money. So, this week, I'm going to talk to the BBC about some part-time interning. We'll see.