Adventures on the Emerald Isle

Kilts, streakers, and three-foot-tall actors..

2006-02-20T09:39:00.000-08:00

After our whirlwind tour of Europe this Christmas, I had almost resigned myself to the cold, hard truth about culture: it simply doesn't exist.

Most of it, I came to realize, is merely mass-produced for the tourism industry.

It only took four weeks of hearing CNN cover 'Europe's Identity Crisis' and a few dizzying trips around gift shops to realize it, as well. The only people in Germany that drink from huge steins are the tourists in Hofbrau House. The only people who wear funny wooden shoes and feathered-caps in the Netherlands want your spare euro cents. And the only 'authentic' Swiss fondue is ordered off the special 'Tourist Menu.'

So, with a heavy heart, Jon and I criss-crossed Europe and I came to accept the fact that the images I had once created in my mind - of pigtailed Dutch girls leaning over to kiss their leiderhosen-wearing mates, of German men slamming down frothy mugs of ale, of French lovers holding poetry in matching berets - were really nothing more than the whims of Disney imagineers in Epcot's 'World Showcase.'

Then, I went to Scotland.

And I came face to face with one aspect of romantic Scottish culture that is still very much alive: the kilt, in all its bare-legged, tartan-covered glory.

Now a cynic of all things that once appeared in 'It's a Small World,' I chalked up my first few kilt sightings to the crazy antics of the tourism industry. Surely, I reckoned, those two blokes sipping pints and tapping their kilt-covered knees to Scottish music in the pub were merely hired by the hostel next door. Naturally all those signs proclaiming, 'Kilt Hire,' were merely for show for us tourists.

Yet, the kilt continued to appear. In shop windows (for a jaw-dropping £150 a skirt), on the hips of posh men outside a wedding reception, and even in the line at Edinburgh Castle. The kilt, we discovered, is alive, well, and flourishing in Scottish culture.

And I must say, I enjoyed it.

Scotland, as whole, seemed eerily familiar and yet surprisingly unique on our trip. We spent five days driving - on the left side of - Scotland's roads and hitting the touristy highpoints. We started our adventure searching for signs of the Holy Grail at Roslyn Chapel (of Da Vinci Code fame) and only stumbled upon a stockpile of literature, games, and guide books for Dan Brown's book in the gift shop. (Who cares if the 'Rose Line' is a farce? It sells!) Then we hit up St. Andrews for a stroll down the Old Course - where Jon promptly shushed me everytime I tried to talk - and a tour of the British Golf Musuem. I sighed loudly for much of the day and tried to act the part of the sacrificing girlfriend (Let's be honest.. would I ever choose to go to St. Andrews on my own? Would I need to take 50 pictures of the road bunker on hole #17?) but to be honest, I found St. Andrews to be charming. All gray-stoneworked buildings and narrow, cobble-stone streets. It didn't take long before I started plotting a Ph.D. in Ulster-Scot studies...

From St. Andrews we headed north to Loch Ness, stopping for awhile in Pitlochery, a tiny town near Stirling. I read in a hostel brochure some mention of a waterfall walk and a free whiskey distillery so we decided to test it out, stumbling upon one of Scotland's hidden gems in the process. The whiskey tour was indeed free, complete with a free 'dram' of Edradour 15-year whiskey, and was led by a tiny, blue-haired lady in blue Wellie boots and her own Highlander tartan skirt. She took us through the distilling process at Scotland's smallest working distillery, stopping to poke her finger in the sugared water and paste herself, and then stood sweetly by as we perused the gift shop. Afterward, we made our way down to the 60-foot waterfall, gorgeous but out of tour thanks to some wooden contraption built by the local Rotary club.

At the end of the day, we descended upon Uruquart Castle, a bundle of ruins overlooking Loch Ness. The castle itself was fun enough to explore but the highlight was an 8-minute film full of kilt-wearing warriors and Jaccobite soldiers. Apparently the castle was destroyed when the Jacobbite armies failed to seize it in the 1600s. Even though the Williamite forces won, they blew the castle anyway and reduced it to rubble. Loch Ness, as a whole, didn't look like the eerie, monster infested pond I expected. To start -- it's huge, much bigger than the lakes in North Carolina. And it's surrounded by hills and roads and a thin line of trees, not the spooky, fog-covered forests one might expect. Sadly, no monster sightings, outside of the carved reproductions outside the 'Nessie 2000' exhibit nearby. Though the lake was kept blissfully free of the tourist hype, a nearby town had enough of it to make up for it -- Nessie stuffed animals, creature droppings, nets for Nessie catching, videos, interactive exhibits, Nessie T-Shirts, Loch-Ness movies, the whole bit.

Leaving Nessie behind, we focused on another bit of Scottish pop culture: Braveheart. A movie which, I am embarressed to say, I saw for the first time in its entirety last week. Now devoted William Wallace fans, Jon and I headed to Stirling Castle to walk the bridge Wallace once used to defeat the English and to climb all 2-million steps of the William Wallace memorial. Though tour guides along the way seemed quite miffed that their guests only knew of Wallace from Mel Gibson, the memorial didn't seem too upset. Right in front was a stone sculpture of Wallace -- looking exactly as Mel Gibson did in Braveheart! Completely aware we were probably entering a tourist trap, we climbed the hill to the memorial, posed for pictures beside Wallace's sword, and then took in a panoramic view of Stirling from atop.

The final day brought us back to Edinburgh for a tour of the old city. Since we got in Saturday night, we walked around town for a bit (mistakingly thinking the main shopping street was the famed 'royal mile') and then decided to find a good, Scottish pint. As we followed swarms of people across town, we discovered we'd been walking away from the happening night spots and right into territory for 'ghost tours' of Edinburgh. With a few pounds to spare and the entire night ahead of us, we signed up for a 'Ghosts and Ghouls' tour of the old city.

Now, perhaps I expect too much. Perhaps I thought that in 1.5 hours and with a herd of 25 others around me, I would get petrified by ghastly tales. Perhaps I expected someone a bit more, eh, scary.

Either way, I was sorely disappointed.

Our cloak-covered guide turned out to be a rather plump, baby-faced Scotsman with floppy-hair and a breaking voice. His tool for fright? Just talk real low for a few minutes and then YELL AT THEM LIKE THIS! Sadly, we wandered the streets less frightened by our guide than amused, although it was a nice introduction to the city and medieval life. The highlight, however, had to have been the streaker than ran past at St. Giles cathedral.

At the end of the tour, we went into Edinburgh's vaults, a series of underground rooms and chambers once used as an underground market but later abandoned to the poor and unsavory. Just as the guide began talking, the lights switched off. At first I thought it had to be a hoax, a clever trick to get the tourists. But then, as we wandered on and the lights still didn't come on, I have to admit that I began to wonder if it really was, indeed, the work of the 'watcher' whom our guide kept referencing. According to Jon, I looked absolutely terrified at some points. (I wouldn't go that far.) Yet, we left £13 pounds poorer and without orb sighting or feeling the cool, eerie breath of some nearby ghost. The next day we dedicated to touring the actual royal mile, spending hours at Edinburgh castle, peeking inside St. Giles Cathedral, and hitting up Happy Hour in an authentic-eque pub.

In the end, I found Scotland absolutely charming, filled with cobblestoned streets, stonework buildings, and small, quaint villages. The Highlands, looming over us as drove to the north, were amazing, the glens picturesque, and the entire landscape refreshingly desolate. It would not be hard to imagine where the Highland clans earned their individuality and reputation.

And, perhaps, I'll temporarily retract my thesis on Europe's lack of culture... Scotland, at least, is full of it.

Ladylike behavior...

2005-12-04T04:01:00.000-08:00

There was a time - six months ago - where mere title impressed me.

That's the president of the Senate? I would think, inching myself closer. I have to talk to them!

That guy published a book? We must chat!

I would stumble in the presence of power. Mumble incoherently in their range.

That girl, however, was long buried as I stood in the U.S. ambassador's house in Phoenix Park in Dublin on Sunday. I saw the pictures of James Kenny and the Bush's, admired the lavish decorations, even watched, with detachment, as he strode by. I could, I suppose, elbow my way through the throngs of admirers to make a four-minute and utterly forgettable introduction . Or, on second thought, I could stand in the corner with my friends, nurse this never-ending glass of wine, and corner the market on those bacon and pineapple hors d'vours. And seriously, once you've ridden an elevator with Ross Perot, is there really anything more to be impressed by?

Jon, Kerry and I headed back to Dublin on Sunday for a 3 o'clock recital at the ambassador's house. All the Mitchells had invitations so we met the group a few hours beforehand in downtown Dublin. As the hour neared, half the crowd went to get taxis to Phoenix Park (a massive park that houses the Irish president, among other people and the Dublin Zoo). The other half, Jon and I included, opted for a pre-recital pint instead. After all, these things never start on time and there's bound to be a pre-recital period of wine and cheese, anyway.

We grabbed a taxi with just 20 minutes to go, dropped 'The U.S. Ambassador's Residence, Phoenix Park,' like it was no big deal, and drove to his house. It was hard not to get a little awestruck as the security guard waved some sort of bomb-sniffing arm-stick thingey beneath the undercarriage and as we were checked off 'the list.' As the car neared the house, er, mansion, I knew my destiny.

I'm going to be an ambassador.

It's as simple as that.

A huge, ornate house on acres and acres of green grass overlooking the Dublin hills. A big, burly security guard outside your door. A bomb-sniffing arm-stick thingey .

And let's be honest, what do you actually have to do? Especially somewhere like Ireland?

We were ushered into the house by a stout little lady with a finger to her lips.

'Thread lightly,' she whispered, shooing us into the sitting room. 'On your toes! On your toes!'

In fact you do miss the start of the performance if you're late to these sorts of things, we discovered as we sank down into the sitting room couches. And they punish you by sticking you in a side room. And by punish, I mean, reward, because our seats were far superior to any in the room and the acoustics were fine.

When the Apple Hill Chamber troupe finished - a fine performance of classical music, I must say - the crowd emptied into our room for the usual standing around with wine glasses and hor d'vours. Giddy with wine and tired of being slammed by passers-by, Jon, Kerry, Jay, Geoff, Markus, Brittany, and I retreated to a corner of the estate. We only left to watch Jon snap a picture of a picture of Dubya and the ambassador leaning in for what could only be described as a pretty hot kiss. We had so much fun as the tiny sausages and crackers floated by that we hardly remembered the time.

'Ben, dear,' one of us finally sang out. 'Head to the front and call us a taxi.'

Nearly 45 minutes until the last bus left Dublin for Derry. No worries.

Famous last words.

Twenty minutes later, I was doubling over with laughter as our crowd - boys in suits and girls in heels - went barreling down the ambassador's driveway, desperately trying to flag down the approaching taxi van.

'WAIT!' We screamed as it roared past, just narrowly missing Jon standing in the road. 'You came for us!!!'

Taxis, apparently, are a precious commodity in Dublin so, when we all finally caught up to the taxi van in front of the house, we piled in and screamed, 'Bus station, NOW!'

Then, as we all caught sight of Mike debating whether or not to join us on the outside, someone grabbed his lapel as we screeched, 'GET IN NOW!'

Hardly behavior befitting Mitchell Scholars at the ambassador's house but it wasn't nearly as bad as it sounds.

At least not to us.

Needless to say, we missed the bus. And the last bus to Belfast. So, tired and frustrated, we bought tickets to Letterkenny ( a town just across the border from Derry) and took a taxi into town. Nearly 30 extra euros to make it home.

Still, however, it was a delightful trip. How often, after all, can you talk about running amuck across the lawn of a U.S. ambassador?

A fighting machine...

2005-11-26T02:26:00.000-08:00

As I sat, sidelined in a pleated skirt, through much of my high school career, I began to develop a story in the back of my mind about my lack of true athletic ability. (Not, of course, that cheerleaders aren't fierce competitive athletes.)

Surely, I thought, my mom stuck me in a skirt and pompoms because she was too afraid to let me try contact sports. Sadly, I knew this had something to do with a little problem the kids call 'hand-eye coordination.'

Not true.

Turns out, I was pushed headfirst into cheerleading for the sake of the other kids on the field.

I'm one aggressive athlete.

That's how, I suppose, a Thanksgiving-day football match turned into an attack on Carie Windham's defensive capabilities.

'Oh my God!,' Geoff screamed at one point. 'She poked me in the eye!'

'Holding, holding!' He protested as I triumphantly skipped away. 'She was holding my friggin' arm!'

'Let me show you what it's like to be guarded by Carie Windham,' said my friend Mike, who then proceeded to imitate what looked like a full frontal attack.

'Pansies,' I spit back .

'Stop complaining and suck it up!' I would scream.

It wasn't pretty.

After recovering from the fine spread of meats and cheeses in Derry, Ben and I hopped a bus down to Dublin for the annual Mitchell Thanksgiving feast. In the past, a Dublin family has hosted the lot. This year, however, our friend Melissa offered to take in the crowd. After a Thanksgiving feast that rivaled Martha Stewart's on Friday (I've never seen a turkey so golden or sweet potato casserole so delicious -- all cooked by a no-carb eating vegetarian.), we all went back to Melissa's campus for a friendly game of American football .

The teams were divided by geographic region -- North Carolina vs. the rest of them. (Me and Lily from NC State. Richard from UNC. We claimed Markus from UVa and Ryan, a past Mitchell that's still in Dublin grew up in Hickory.) The opposition consisted of Ben, Melissa, Geoff, Mike and Rennie, one of Melissa's flatmates from Greece.

My shining moment, I must say, had nothing to do with athletic ability. While the other team plotted strategy, we used our huddles to invent ridiculous ideas and to choreograph our victory dances. Our best idea put me in center stage. Literally.

After the ball was hiked, I took off toward Melissa, who guarded me for much of the game. I ran straight for her leg, tripped, and we both crashed to the ground in a tangled heap of arms, legs, and sweatpants.

'OWWWWWWWWW!' I screamed as I rolled across the ground. 'OH MY GOD' I rolled to a sitting position, clutching my 'throbbing' ankle and began to sob into my hands. I even thew in a few wheezes to feign hyperventilation.

The huddle started to form around.

'Is she OK?' someone asked.

'Oh my God, is it her asthma!?!?'

'Is she crying or laughing?

By this point, of course, I was laughing, though I concealed it well by covering my face in my hands, leaving just my shuddering shoulders exposed. Then, just as I heard the sound of a pass completion in the end zone, I jumped up on my bum foot.

'WOOOO!' I screamed. 'TOUCH DOWN!'

Needless to say, no one offered an Ocsar.

They did, however, give us the point.

We ended up tied, despite Ben's amazing interception ability and the standout performance of Rennie, who had never played before. I ended up covered in mud but quite proud that I hadn't made a total fool of myself. (OK, I did throw a perfect pass to the opposition during my quarterback debut... but, in my defense, I'd been out to 4 a.m. the night before in Dublin so I was hardly in peak physical or mental condition.)

When Ben accidentally slammed into Ryan's nose and we thought it was broken, we called it a game.

I'm uncomfortable...

2005-11-25T02:46:00.000-08:00

There's something to be said for Thanksgiving at home.

As I trudged up the hill to my flat today, lugging six bags of groceries, and hail started to pelt my face, I couldn't but be homesick for home, where, I could imagine, my mother was busy cooking in the kitchen as the rest of the family scurried around the farm. My sister would come in with her Thanksgiving dishes, Brad would say something weird, and everyone would yell at Nathan in unison for refusing to work. Then, as the fireplace glowed, we'd sit down for a meal of green bean casserole, sweet potatoes, and mom's famous brown rice. There'd be a prayer for the occasion but it would be short and instead, most of the meal would be sibling banter and the occasional innappropriate comment.

By the time I made my third Thanksgiving shopping trip today, I was nearly in tears.

Perhaps it was merely loneliness and I cooked away in the kitchen watching 'Odd Girl Out.' Or maybe it was missing my family. Either way, I was a pill for much of Thanksgiving morning.

It didn't help, I suppose, that finding Thanksgiving essentials was nearly impossible in Derry. Corn meal doesn't exist, although the chemist was especially helpful in suggesting that we purchase some maize and grind it into meal. 'Stuffing' is precookd and paltry compared to Stove Top. Fried onions couldn't be found outside some salad topping bottles. I was convinced, as I handed over our turkey to an 18-year-old kid to cook, that Thanksgiving was to be an utter failure.

Oh, how I was wrong.

Thanksgiving, it turns out, was an utter delight.

Sure, our turkey looked like it had been dropped in an incenerator. Perhaps our stuffing was a little bland. But the spread we - a ragtag lot of college students - produced was amazing.

Turkey, gravy (well, sort of -- I knew something was wrong when, with their backs shielding the pot from the rest of us, I watched Matt and Jasper shovel ingredients in to the mix), stuffing, green bean casserole (my best creation), quiche, corn, veggies with cheese, mashed potatoes, pumpkin pie, cranberry sauce (homemade), rolls, apple pie. Appetizers like nachos and salsa, spring rolls, vegetable wraps, and some sort of strange sausage puff creation. And, of course, plenty of wine, Irish cream, and beer.

I did find it telling, however, that while Kerry and I began cooking before lunchtime to clear oven space, the boys all arrived in the kitchen with just an hour to go, shoving and elbowing their way around the oven and microwave. It was an adorable site to see them all lined up by the stove.

The only near fatality was our pumpkin pie. I, apparently, didn't check the can for ingredients. Neither did the chefs, Ben and Jay. So, with just hours to go, we discovered the pre-cooked pie crusts were all wrong and we didn't have any condensed milk. Jay and I, frustrated from a long day of shopping and planning, threw in the towel. Ben, however, had nothing but optimism.

He disappeared to the store and came back with Cheerios, cookies, and a cooked pie crust.

'We're screwed,' I whispered under my breath.

But, surprisingly, we weren't. Ben decided to crush up the pie crust as Neil feverishly mixed the filling. An hour later, we had a delicious pumpkin pie. (Proving the stuff is idiot-proof.)

We had a great crowd - about 10 in all. The flatmates, Matt (a French-Irish-American hybrid who cooked the turkey), Jasper, Barry, Sara, Deirdre, and Neil.

We made everyone write something they were thankful for on their cups so the suggestions ranged from, 'Guiness 49' to 'corn not in corn pudding' to 'Neil's cup, for which he is thankful.'

Ben also opened with a short description of Thanksgiving and a prayer/speech. Kerry and I couldn't stop laughing as he went on and on about living in a world free from terrorism and great blessings and freedom. I felt horrible, especially when, as the tears streamed down my face, others in the crowd thought I was merely touched by Ben's kind words about finding friends and family in Ireland.

Sure, that was it.

We also went around the table offering up thing we were thankful for. When it got to Neil, an odd kid on a normal day, he looked terrified.

Pause.

'I'm.... uncomfortable...'

We all exchanged glances and held our breath.

'..but thankful.'

Whooosh.

'Good enough for me,' I said. 'Next?'

After stuffing ourselves with food and laughing through dinner, we played random games into the night, including my new 'Urban Legends' card game which prompted a lively discussion about Napoleon's missing penis and it's relative dimensions and a game where we each had to select a name from a cup, fasten it to our forehead, and ask the crowd questions to ascertain our identity. We finished the night, of course, with a rowdy game of Kings.

Though I started the day missing home and wishing I could be back in Coats, I ended sincerely thankful for the Irish family that we've all created...

Happy Christmas...

2005-11-23T03:24:00.000-08:00

They say all things are forgivable if you take some sort of lesson from them.

(OK, who is they? I don't know.)

The only lesson I could glean from my last day on the Habitat worksite was that I should never, ever attempt a pub crawl the night before a work day.

That blasted Geoff Swenson.

After my triumphant return to Derry on Monday, I headed to Belfast on Tuesday for two days on the Habitat site. Thanks to the inconsistency of the bus system, I arrived an hour late the first day.

'Ahhhh, out hitting the pubs again, love?' Danny, of the site supervisors said, as I stumbled up.

And so, over my protests, that's how the story went for the rest of the day. Carie, that inconsistent Yankee, got trashed and missed the early morning bus to Belfast.

Fine, I thought, as I moved rocks across the yard (a task, I'm convinced that was total busy work. I have no doubt that anther American girl arrived at some point and was told to move them to the other side of the yard), let them believe what they want.

Other than the nasty rumors, however, my Habitat workday was a blast. There were no families working, just the normal staff, myself, another long-term Habitat volunteer, and two American volunteers from LA. (One was originally from SC and showed up in a Duke sweatshirt so we gabbed about life in the Carolinas for much of the day.) I finally started to feel like part of the team though I wished I could banter with the supervisors like the LA girls, who had been volunteering with Habitat on several occasions. All in good time I supposed.

I left the worksite and headed to meet Geoff for dinner and a pint at The Globe. Since I'd been in America for a week and he'd been in London, we had plenty of gossip to catch up on. The best part of my friendship with Geoff - who is quickly becoming my closest friend in Ireland - is that we never seem to run out of things to debate. And by things to debate, I mean gossip to dissect and rumors to spread. He's got the asshole factor of Thushan and the wit of Rachel Rosenberg. It's nice to be able to make snide comments and hear, 'I KNOW! But did you ever think about...' and not, 'That might be true but he's a really sweet person and I don't think we should say that.'

After all, it's all in good fun.

Dinner down, we began our usual pub crawl, eager to knock a few new places off the list. This time, however, we had reason to celebrate. Geoff just learned that he got into Stanford Law School - a sign, I'm convinced, that Yale and Harvard will follow suit.

From the Globe, with some breaks for Internet, we hit Katie Daly's (a small, dark, chill pub filled with Christmas lights and an eclectic crowd -- I loved it), the John Hewitt (which, I later discovered, boasts a clientele of journalists by day and creative writers by night) and Fibber Magees. We took a small detour and walked through the 'Happy Christmas' Christmas market at one point, a delightful tour of Christmas lights, food stalls, and Christmas trees. As Christmas tunes belted out over the loudspeaker, it was hard not to be in the Christmas spirit.

Call it the spell of Christmas or the banter of good conversation but six hours later, Geoff and I were meeting Mike in the Crown for our last pints. (The Crown is one of the most touristy pubs in Belfast, known the crown by the door that you can wipe your feet on. I like it because their booths have doors so, if you time it right, you can have your own mini room.)

By this point, of course, I was in good form. I spent about 30 minutes unloading my own personal thoughts and insights about Mike's love life. I dug deep into the archives of 'Carie's darkest secrets' to tell Geoff. And I went on a long rampage about my flatmates' dating lives.

Later, this would all make me cringe.

But, as I skipped back to Queen's (stopping, of course, for some chips, curry and sausage along the way -- prime proof that Geoff takes advantage of drunk girls), I didn't feel too sick or beligerent. Sure, I was chatty. OK, the truth serum was in effect. But I wasn't stumbling. I wasn't sick. And I wasn't blacking out or slurring my words. I couldn't be that drunk.

I might not have been that drunk but I was, I'm afraid, that hung over.

It didn't hit me, of course, until the next day when, I put down my paintbrush, stumbled past the tilting earth to the tin can bathroom on the Habitat site, and clutched the walls, silently praying not to get sick. I didn't but the dizziness, nausea, and headache continued for much of the day.

Funny, however. No one on the worksite said a word. (Meaning that I was either quite convincing or there's some sort of code I didn't know about.)

I left after lunch to make it back to Derry for class whereupon I collapsed in my bed.

Never again...

Publishing note...

2005-11-09T08:58:00.000-08:00

Carie Windham's blog will not be updated until Tuesday, Nov. 15 due to upcoming travel arrangements.

Life in the North..

2005-11-09T07:17:00.001-08:00

Walking back from the laundry building today, I jumped at a clap of thunder in the distance.

Curious, I looked up.

Beautiful, blue skies.

I looked in the distance.

No clouds on the horizon.

Funny, I thought, as I continued my walk, that couldn't be a...

No. Couldn't be.

Even the football players on the pitch stopped for a moment to look in the direction of the noise.

As I entered my flat, I couldn't help but shake my head and smile as I remembered how high I would jump during my first weeks when I heard firecrackers go off. (In the run up to Halloween, sporadic fireworks were a nightly ritual. Still, hooligans occasionally light them from the street and shoot them toward the student accommodation buildings.)

After each burst I would jump, clutch my heart, and look around.

Was that the IRA? I would think with a slight panick. Did someone just get shot?

After awhile, however, panick gave way to annoyance. Now when I hear the shots, I just roll my eyes, and moan something about those, "blasted hooligans on the street. Well if they were my kids...."

Today's sound, it turned out, was this: http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/northern_ireland/4578695.stm

Even more shocking than the fact my initial suspicions were half-right (there was an actual explosion... and bomb fears).. was the fact that to find out about the explosion, I had to dig deep into the BBC's Web site. In North Carolina, I imagine, this would have been headline news.

So I started to check the Northern Ireland news page even closer.

Top headlines?

Fugitive law published.
Kids saw shooting victim be abducted.
Bank robbery suspects in court.
Arson.
Stabbing.

Secondary headlines?

SDLP home attacked.
Gun murder victim identified.
IRA chief makes appeal.
Man's death suspicious.

Sometimes, I think, Americans take their relative security for granted....

Times like these..

2005-11-09T04:00:00.000-08:00

It's strange to open my calendar each day and realize just how close I am to the end of the semester. Though it hardly matters much in the scheme of things, it signals the departure of two of our flatemates: Jay will be heading back to U-Mass in December and Haley will be graduating.

Because of that and because we've all been running around trying to plan a Christmas going away party, I keep thinking about how strange it will be - one year from now - to have to leave all of this behind.

When it comes down to it, I don't think I'll miss the pubs, the Derry streets, or the European travel nearly as much as I'll miss our sticky, wooden kitchen table.

Not because I'm a particular fan of minimalist apartment garb but because it's that simple wooden table that it the nucleus of my favorite nights in Derry.

Nights, for instance, like last night.

Exhausted after a day in Belfast with Habitat, I came home prepared to do reading for my upcoming paper. As I entered the kitchen, I found that it was exactly as I like it on an early evening: lights dimmed, music humming from Jay's Ipod, flatmates pulled up to the table reading magazines or working on work. Jay and I caught up on our days, chatted with Kerry before she headed to class, and promised to postpone opening a bottle of wine until Kerry returned later that evening.

For hours, then, Jay and I just busied ourselves around the kitchen. Cooking. Reading. Chatting about life.

OK, that's a little bit of a lie.

We were really just pretrending to Cook. Read. Chat about life.

In reality, we were checking the window, anticipating the arrival of Ben and his girlfriend Tami.

An arrival, I must confess, that dominated our flat chat for the weekend.

"When are they gettting back?" We would shout down the hall.

"I texted him. NOTHING! When are they returning?"

"Dammit! Are they here yet?"

"Jesus Jones Ben Coat. WHERE IS HE?" (OK, that was me.)

It's not that we can't live without Ben - although the flat was dreadfully quiet without him - it's that we've all been dying to meet the person on the other end of Ben's permanently attached cell phone. A person whom the innocent passerby would have no choice but to assume was named, "Sweetie."

Would she be sweet? Or mean? Funny? Or boring? Would she find us ridiculous? Look down upon our nightly routines?

We could hardly contain our anticipation.

Then, just as I headed out the door to attack the vending machine, their cab pulled up and I helped Tami and Ben get settled in.

Back in the kitchen, Jay and I could hardly contain ourselves.

"When are they coming out?" We would whisper.

"What do you think?"

"Jesus, what's taking so long?"

My curiousity was further delayed when Jay, Ben and Tami decided to go to the grocery store.

Good grief, I thought when I found myself alone in the kitchen.

Luckily, Kerry returned soon and we entertained ourselves with a much-needed girltalk session, frantic text messages to Jay to monitor the situation, and the occastional philosophical debate about whether, "If you have to open the wine, save me a glass," really meant we could pop open the wine or if it, indeed, was a sad message from Jay not to touch it.

(Yes, indeed, the lives of my flatmates and I are reduced to waiting around to check out another's significant other. What about it?)

Dying of thirst and curiousity, our only salvation was a final text from Jay:

Don't worry. I brought you both a surprise.

Surprise indeed. Twenty minutes after moaning aloud about the pains of waiting for Jay, Kerry and I found ourselves sitting behind a delicious spread of breads, cheeses, olives and hummus while we sipped our wine. Even better, Tami was hard at work cooking mashed potatoes and chili.

(Kerry and I offered both Tami and Jay marriage proposals and offers of fantastic cottage living if they would just cook for us for the rest of our lives...)

Sure, I felt a little lazy as they all whipped around the kitchen serving us. But we had been patient, hadn't we?

A bottle of wine and a handful of beer bottles later, we all sat around the kitchen table exchanging childhood stories and laughing until the wee hours of the morning.

It was the perfect was to welcome Ben and Tami back (even if she might think Kerry and I are lushes now) and to remind me of just how lucky I am to be here with these fabulous people...

America wins....

2005-11-07T16:18:00.000-08:00

I woke up this morning with the stamina of a sloth.

Why abandon the relative warmth of my covers, I wondered, just to trek across campus to learn about the Irish Parliament?

Why wash my hair just to have my brain numbed by lecture?

Why uncrumple a pair of jeans just to hobble through the cold?

My enthusiasm for all things academic had long since waned. This morning, instead, I absolutely dreaded the thought of sitting through two hours of straight lecture and then trying to untangle the accent of my TA for seminar.

Five more minutes, I negotiated with my alarm clock, and nearly slept in.

Guilt, however, got the best of me and I stumbled into class with a few minutes to spare.

It's a good thing I did.

Somehow I had forgotten that my Parliament class was over and instead, my Monday morning schedule switched to a class in the Politics of Violence and Migration.

The majority of my classes to date have been rooted in the 1600 and 1700s but this class, I was delighted to discover, was purely on The Troubles and the start of the Troubles. Halfway through the lecture - which was sprinkled with anecdotes and quotes - I felt a familiar rush of excitement, once only reserved for the likes of Vietnam or 1960s classes at NC State.

This, I thought as I happily jotted down notes, is a class.

In contrast to lecturers past, this lecturer was upbeat and engaging, often bringing the class in to the discussion. He used vivid examples and photos and walked around the room. Quite a change from the usual lot in my classrooms, who often look as if they have one foot in the grave.

I could feel the part of me that once looked forward to classes and reading and papers beginning to wake up.

By the time seminar rolled around, she was as alert as ever.

At the start of class, the professor distributed "pop quizzes" to test our Troubles trivia. A number of the questions had ambigious answers, however. Such as:

When did the Troubles start:

a) 1969
b) 1966
c) 1922
d) 1892
e) 1607
f) 1169

In our discussion, he revealed the classes answers. Our task, therefore, was to negotiate a single answer for the class. For the aforementioned questioned, 6 of the 8 said 1969. One said 1922.

And then one person said... 1607?

Yup, that was me.

I had planned, during the break, to plead, "Stupid American" but as the floor opened up for debate, I found the little academic in me spring to life.

"Clearly," I said, "I can see why someone would select 1969. But I find that's dreadfully short sighted. Violence may have broken out in 1969 but the seeds were planted hundreds of years before. I think you have to start with the introduction of the New English and the Scottish planters because, when you look at a survey of Irish history, they were the first people to land on the island with absolutely no intention of assimilation...."

For five minutes I made my case, voice confident, gesturing wildly.

Gosh, I thought as I carried on, I am back.

By the time it was done I had not only made my case but shot down any rebukes.

The professor, with the slight glint of a smile, surveyed the room. "Are you telling me that you're all going to say 1607 now? The American persuaded the whole lot of you to switch?"

No one moved.

"How did this happen? How did the American win?"

From the back of the room came the gruff reply,

"Because America always wins."

I didn't because in my early morning fog I had forgotten that the Parliament class was over and instead, we switched to a class on the Politics of Violence and Migration.

Back to Belfast...

2005-11-07T06:42:00.000-08:00

Sitting in our tiny flat kitchen on Thursday, Jay and I silently munched our lunch and pondered our possibilities for the weekend.

Me: Got any plans?

Him: Nope. You?

Me: Nope.

Munch. Munch. Munch.

Me: Any walks planned with the hillwalking club?

Him: Nope.

Me: Any fun trips being taken by the international students?

Him: Nope.

Munch, munch, munch.

Jay [straightening up]: Hey! Let's go to Belfast!

Me [groan]: Jaaaay. Geoff is going to be so tired of us by now.

Jay: Fine. I mean.. you've been to Belfast and all... but... I mean.. whatever.

Me [sigh]: Fine, I'll ask Geoff if we can go.

And so, I found myself working on my fourth pint at The Globe in Belfast on Saturday evening. A town which I fear I'm starting to know almost as well as Derry.

But despite having traveled there before, Belfast never ceases to measure up.

Jay and I started this voyage by meeting Geoff at Bishop's, by far the best fish and chips I've encountered so far. (And so, quite naturally, the thief and provider of many of the pounds I possess.)

We walked around for a bit, hitting up some of Belfast's superior shopping (I've fallen in love with Primark, a three-story mecca of cheap accessories and sweaters. Granted, the clothes will only last about two months...) and then found ourselves a bit perplexed about where to head next as the sun started to set.

Geoff, ever the good host, suggested we take Jay to Belfast's oldest bar, White's Tavern, started in 1608.

And so the pub crawl began.

At 4 in the afternoon.

White's, however, is the perfect place to start any decent Belfast pub crawl. It's tucked away on a side alley downtown, almost impossible to find if you don't know exactly where to look.

(As evidence of this, the last time we were in Belfast, we searched for the pub in vain for about 20 minutes before asking an old bloke crossing the street...

Ben: Excuse me, do you know of White's Tavern?
Bloke: Yes. [Keeps walking.]
Ben: Um, do you know where it is?
Bloke: Ah, yes. [Continues walking.]
Ben: Right, could you tell us?
Bloke: Oh! Of course! Right you are... You just turn left and...)

Even better than its speakeasy location, however, is that White's actually feels like its 400 years old. To be a must-see on every tourist's map, White's still looks like its just a spare room in a house. It's just a bar in the corner and a handful of old wooden chairs and tables. Portraits on the wall look like they belong in the National Gallery and the lighting is dim and flickering, as if candles still lit the room.

The ambiance was enough that Jay and I spent the first sips of our pints musing on the characters that must have crossed through the doors. It wasn't hard to squint and imagine frilly-shirted gentleman exchanging gossip across the tables or plain-clothed ruffians smacking each other on the back, circa 1895.

From Whites, we went to Kellys Celllars, another aging Belfast pub. But while Whites is hidden away in a city center alley, Kellys looks like its in the loading dock of a number of stores around Castle Court. Apparently it used to sit in an alley off Royal Avenue and then downtown just grew up around it. It feels miles away from the Gucci store across the street, however. It's a dim, multi-room pub covered in republican memorabilia and a thin layer of smoke. At a corner table, four guys played traditional Irish music so casually that we joked it was as if they walked in, sat down with a pint, and said, "Hey, I brought my fiddle. Looks like you've got a flute. Feel like playing a tune?"

As we sat in Kellys working on our pints, we couldn't help but think that it was a bit odd that we were starting our evening so early. Even stranger however was the realization that we weren't the only ones. The pub, in fact, was full and had been since we arrived. Perhaps a Saturday night on the town starts at 4 p.m. in Belfast?

Our next, equally busy, stop was at The Crown liquor Saloon, a former rail hotel turned Belfast's most famous pub. It's certainly the most aesthetically impressive with ornate paneling, mosaic floors, and glossy wooden booths. And it boasts the coolest seating in town -- you can actually close the doors on the booths so that you have your own mini room. But the best feature, according to locals, is the picture of the crown at the entrance to the saloon. It's the only place in town, they say, where you can wipe your feet all over the crown without anyone complaining.

Unfortunately for our pub hopping ambitions, it was crowded and loud so we, instead, went to Fibber Magees next door, a pub which looks like someone's antique-filled kitchen.

Anxious to pace ourselves, we met Mike for some scrumptious Chinese food then headed to York's and the Globe to meet our friend Barry and some of his Belfast friends. Then, it was off for our final destination: The Limelight.

Now, I've never been a connoisseur of music. Or, even, a diligent listener. And I'm never really much for dancing. Yet, somehow, I always want to dance in Ireland. So despite the crowded club floor, the constant, lingering haze of smoke, and the fact that the sweat was practically pouring off my forehead, I jumped around, banged my head, and danced to rock and indie music until about 2 in the morning. Luckily, Jay, Barry and Mike were equally as dance-worthy, thus saving me from the rather large and rather forceful gal who kept beckoning me to the dance floor whenever I stopped to catch my breath.

All in all, it was good times.

The next day, desperate to actually see Belfast after all these trips, Jay and I hit up the Botanic Gardens and the Ulster Musuem. We only had about a half hour in the musuem so I'm desperate to go back. I spent most of my time at a kiosk listening to oral histories from The Troubles. And the Botanic Gardens were gorgeous - much bigger than I expected - so I can't wait to picnic and bring a bottle of wine when it warms up...

(OK, not to drink alone.. I'm not a wino or anything...)

Upping my game...

2005-11-04T02:54:00.000-08:00

I called my fabulous brother Kevin yesterday to inquire about the general state of his affairs and, mid conversation, he said,

"You know, your mom is convinced you aren't actually a student over there. She thinks you're a tourist."

I counter that notion, this morning, with Exhibit A:

Needs a shower and some sleep girl.

I'm using this blog, quite obviously, to avoid what us nerdy girls coin, 'The Walk of Shame.' No, not that Walk of Shame, an act far too unsuitable and anti-academic as to be considered in our spheres. This Walk of Shame involves gingerly toting a subpar piece of academic literature to the History office where, upon seizure, it can no longer be edited or defended again.

I haven't showered in more than a day. (Hey, I'm going after said Walk of Shame.) I only slept four hours last night. And I stayed in the 24-hour lab so long the automatic lights keep cutting out.

In other words, my first paper is due at noon today.

I certainly feel like a student as I haphazardly cut and paste quotes, sloppily type in footnotes and frantically try to beat the deadline at a row of computers occupied by three other classmates. (Don't worry, I'm actually done at this point, I just need to revise.)

I actually haven't been out since Halloween - even skipping quiz night - to get this thing done. Surprisingly, I actually started weeks ago. Still, I've spent the last three days chained to the library.

When I ran into my friend and fellow essay slave Deirdre yesterday, she said, 'I dunno. I feel like we should be upping our game or something since this is a master's. But I don't think I'm doing a very good job.'

Indeed, if this is upping my game -- sliding in a finished draft with just an hour to go -- my game was never good to begin with. Though, in my defense, the cards were stacked against me this week. Take for instance, the other factors vying for my affection:

1) The largest Halloween celebration in the world.

2) Washing off the blood from the largest Halloween celebration in the world.

3) Recovering from the largest Halloween celebration in the world.

4) Removing the foot smell from my room.

5) A new Glamour and a new Us Weekly, provided by my favorite fabulousa.

6) A bag of Autumn mix, also provided by Rachel.

7) Supreme Court nominations.

8) The Ann Taylor Loft Fall Sale.

9) The suit-wearing row of Irishmen at the coffee house where I used the Internet to beat the firewall.

10) A lack of overall Internet-osity.

Still, it all has an eery simularity to senior year when I would push my papers to the VERY last second.

And, just like my propensity for procrastination, some things haven't changed a bit.

I inquired of the gentlemen next to me in the library this morning, 'So, what do you guyz think of this whole 2,500 word count thingey.'

Guy #1: Forget it, I'm at 4,000 already.

Guy #2: Yeah, I'm at 3,400.

Me: Whew.

Guy #1: How many do you have?

Me: (lies) Around 5,000.

Actually? Around 7,000. Let's hope that word count thing was just a suggestion.

Still, in case you are curious, there are some fun differences in writing for the British system...

- Quotes are reversed. 'I'm going to use this Glamour to do "research" in the library.'

- Everything has a blasted "ou," neighbours, parlour, etc. Luckily, Microsoft Word is configured to pick it up.

OK, that's all. Fine, they aren't fun. But I just procrastinated another five minutes in the process.

Score!

And then came the rain...

2005-11-02T08:38:00.000-08:00

Last night, as I stepped out of the flat en route to the library, I couldn't help but get a little satisfaction out of the fact that the weather had finally dipped down low enough to bring out the Burberry scarf. (A gift, on clearance, I'm told.) Snug in cashmere, I hardly noticed the fact that the cool, fall days that I had grown accustomed to in Northern Ireland were slipping away with the golden orange leaves.

Until today when, as I sit in the library computer lab idly clicking away in a poor attempt to write a paper, I'm gazing out the window into a darkened courtyard.

It's barely 4:30 p.m.!

Yet, the rain has been falling, the sun set minutes ago, and I still haven't even started going to class for the day.

This will take some adjusting...

... or, I suppose, some antidepressants.

The morning after....

2005-11-01T03:56:00.000-08:00

I got up (relatively) early this morning to have a final, artery clogging breakfast with our Belfast guests and to head to the bus station to survey the damage from a night of Halloween revelry in downtown Derry.

Amazingly, the streets were wiped (relatively) clean, the vendors long boarded up and departed, and all but a few pink feathers remained of the costumes that filled the streets the night before.

It was as if the bedlam never happened.

Because bedlam, I'm afraid, is the only suitable word for downtown Derry in the wee hours of the monring. Glass, food, bodily fluids, and wrappers lined the ground. Fourteen-year-old "sexy" witches and "sexy" police officers necked with pirates and drag queens in every available corner. Oompa Loompas staggered home past Sponge Bob Squarepants.

And nine fabulous flatmates (plus friends) made their way home from a night of Halloween festivities that proved Derry really is the wildest place on the Emerald Isle to take in All Hallows Eve.

Before I regale you all in the tales of our lot - a ragtag ensemble of politicians, pop culture icons, horror scream queens, and generic characters - I understand that the question on many of your minds much undoubtedly be, "Just why is Halloween so big in Derry?"

According to the tourist office, it's not just big. It's THE biggest Halloween celebration in the world, drawing in thousands of goblins for a parade, concert and fireworks display. The tradition began in 1986 when Ireland's Halloween capital moved from Westmeath to Derry. Historians belived that Halloween may have actually started in Westmeath, home of the Hill of Uisneach, also known as The Catstone. Uisneach was a site where people gathered for religious rites, town business and community games. Autumn was marked with an even greater occult activity than usual, with spirits a-visiting on Samhain Eve. The souls of the dead returned to their old homes and our ancestors headed for Uisneach or Tara, ancient royal and religious sites.

No matter how it started, Derry reigns as the unofficial capitol of all things Halloween.

We started our evening fairly early after a day of last-minute Halloween shopping and preparation. Around 4, the troops began gathering in the flat to begin assembling our garb. In a throwback to day's past, I decided to modify the dead prom queen theme of my college days into a full "Carrie" costume, complete with tiara and fake blood. Geoff (a Mitchell from Belfast) and Ben decided to splurge for masks and went as George Bush and Michael Jackson, respectively. Jasper and Jay decided to be pirates. John won best flatmate costume with his full knight gear and his friend Niell won for homemade creativity with his bus conductor get up. The best pop culture reference went to Barry and Kerry, who decided to be Sid and Nancy, a rock and roll tragedy. Sarah, one of our Irish friends, came as a genie. (I've uploaded pictures of everyone's costumes onto my photo site.)

The problem with events like Halloween, however, is that there is that the anticipation often kills the execution. As we walked through town during the day, the festive spirit was almost palpable downtown. Vendors set up to peddle greasy and fried fare on passersby, little kids lined up at the mall to get their faces painted, the entire town was decorated. It was hard not to feel excited.

That just increased as we made our way downtown. We joined a throng of costumed pilgrims, slowly walking along the riverfront. It was almost surreal. You could see the city centre's lights in the foreground and everywhere, front to back, you were flanked with costumed revelers. Tiny kids, parents, teenagers, college students. Everyone in costume just moving, en masse, toward the light.

Our first order of business, as it should have been, was to sample the food. I sprang for the large hotdog (smothered in onions and mushrooms.... mmmm... weight gain) and a bag of cotton candy. (Not necessarily because I wanted it but because it was there.) Then part of the group headed to the bar to stake out a table while the rest of us headed to the waterfront for the fireworks display.

The fireworks, on their own, were mildly impressive. Even more impressive, however, was the crowd. I'm not estimator (and the newspapers aren't too big on specifics the next day) but it looked like more than a thousand people squeezed behind the Guildhall to watch the display. We saw two very convincing oompa loompas, a gag-worthy dead demon, and an innumerable amount of "sexy" insert noun here girls. In other words, take any object, person, or occupation, hike the skirt, unbutton the shirt and add high heels. It was a bit disturbing, I thought, to see how many young girls were so scantily clad. In fact, it seemed that the high school and middle school-aged kids were worse than the college kids. My friend Kerry, who donned a leather mini skirt and bustier to be Nancy, was a bit disappointed that she might get shoved into the same category as those girls. "But I'm not a 'sexy' rock star," she kept protesting. "I'm a pop culture icon!"

After the fireworks, we spent the rest of the evening in a bar called "Bound for Boston." It's dark, gritty, and typically filled with grungy "I hate everything that's mainstream" types. We've been there before and it's typically a nice place to grab a pint without being forced to dodge girls in sparkly tank tops, a throbbing dance floor, or punk teenagers. On this night, however, it had one very specific thing going for it:

It was free.

(Most of the clubs capitalize on the Halloween craziness by tacking on a £10 cover charge. That's roughly $20 to stand in a throbbing mass on the dance floor bouncing to and fro.)

Because of the free-ness, however, the bar was crowded with a few, typically unlikely patrons. Most of the girls were responding to the "tack 'sexy' onto your costume and you'll look older and more desirable" memo and a number of the kids looked under 18. And it was more crowded than I've ever seen it -- wall to wall costumes.

Since we had a pretty large group, I stood outside our booth to get a birds eye view of the crowd. (At Bound for, the booths actually look like rail cars and sit up on platforms to the side. So if you are in the booth, you can be relatively enclosed. It's nice for chatting. Subpar for people watching.) The atmosphere was incredible... so many people in costume, high-fiving perfect strangers, shouting out "what are you???" underneath a cobwebbed ceiling. Some of the costumes were well done but few were incredibly creative. Spongebob was a hit. As was a dead-on Jesus. I appreciated the meticulous accuracy of Willy Wonka and his chocolate bar (complete with golden ticket).

******

My favorite experiences:

1) Kerry, standing on the outside of the bar, notices a chap dressed like a punk rocker.

"Ask him who he is.. I think he might be another Sid Vicious."

Indeed, he was.

"OHMYGOD!," She screamed, feverishly pointing to her chest, "I'M NANCY!"

The look of pure elation, as if this chap had finally found his other half, was classic. (Luckily, Kerry's actual Sid, Barry, was out of earshot.)

2) We send Niell to the bar. We look up and in the span of minutes, he is making out with a girl at a table. A few minutes later, he returns.

"How did that happen?" I asked later.

"She was sitting across from my friend so I sat down next to her," he said. "It wasn't very good though. Afterward she said I was a crap kisser so I got up and left."

"That's horrible"

"Eh, it's true."

"But wait a second," I said. "You just sat down next to her and started making out? You didn't know her? I feel as though I'm misssing a crucial piece of the story."

Blank look. "No, that's about it."

3) On the way to the bar, a woman with a videocamera stopped Ben (Michael Jackson) to take his picture.

"Can you do any moves?" she asked, at which point Ben Cote, possibly our future president, began moonwalking across Guildhall square, complete with Jackson groin grab and "oooh oooh." I nearly died.

4) On the way to the bathroom, I was manhandled by a painted Incredible Hulk, kissed on the cheek, spun around, and then deposited back in line.

Later, Geoff says, "Wait a second, he spun you around?"

"Yes."

"Like over the top of his head?"

Eh, no.

5) My best conversations of the night happened in the bathroom line where, undoubtedly, someone would look up and go, "Hey! Carrie White from the movie, right? What's your name, that's fantastic!"

"Thanks, my name is Carie!"

"Right, but your real name...."

6) We stopped Jesus, the character, long enough to ask for some sage advice.

"It's like that movie Maid in Manhattan," he said. "It had Jennifer Lopez in it but it didn't have Jesus."

*****

After finishing up at Bound for and unsuccessfully trying to find a free dance club, we made our way home, past other stumbling characters. On the way, I couldn't help but gasp at the state of the city. Glass literally lined the streets. Teenagers made out in plain view along every wall. Trash littered the ground.

The most disturbing thing, however, were the glass bottles that were thrown at the circling police. Not just random street punks but person after person assaulted the trucks with glass bottles. Undettered, the police just slowly drove past. No one, in fact, tried to stop the masses.

I couldn't believe it at the time and even more so this morning. It's just another example of the perplexing paradox of living in Derry. There is such a surface sense of conviviality and jubilee yet such a darker undercurrant of violence. At the time Kerry said, and it was absolutely true, "It's just so hard to rectify the image of teenagers making out one minute and then hurling bottles at the police the next."

All in all, however, the sight of Derry at Halloween lived up to its expectations. It was fun to be in the thick of it, surrounded by thousands of people celebrating in costume. I only wish I had the chance to see the parade or to sample more of the delicious street food...

The march to Halloween...

2005-10-30T04:20:00.000-08:00

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..

2005-10-27T02:44:00.000-07:00

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...

2005-10-26T09:05:00.000-07:00

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...

2005-10-26T07:54:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-22T09:13:00.000-07:00

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?

2005-10-21T09:48:00.000-07:00

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.

2005-10-20T09:33:00.000-07:00

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....

2005-10-19T08:24:00.000-07:00

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...

2005-10-18T02:03:00.000-07:00

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....

2005-10-17T10:31:00.000-07:00

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..

2005-10-15T10:12:00.000-07:00

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...

2005-10-14T03:51:00.000-07:00

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...

2005-10-13T11:12:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-12T10:59:00.000-07:00

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?

2005-10-10T05:28:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-09T09:31:00.000-07:00

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...

2005-10-09T08:53:00.000-07:00

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...

2005-10-07T07:10:00.000-07:00

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....

2005-10-04T05:09:00.000-07:00

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...

2005-10-02T07:08:00.000-07:00

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.

The friendliest city in Ireland...

2005-09-28T06:49:00.000-07:00

(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...

2005-09-27T04:26:00.000-07:00

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?

2005-09-26T18:09:00.000-07:00

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...

2005-09-25T11:58:00.000-07:00

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?

2005-09-24T12:34:00.000-07:00

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

2005-09-20T04:45:00.000-07:00

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

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