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

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...

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...

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...

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...

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...

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

Life in the North..

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..

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....

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...

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...)