March 2010 Reflection

Posted on March 1, 2010 by bdetwiler10

When I first got to Belfast I took a wander through the city. I find it’s always the best way to get to know a place, take a walk or a jog, get a little lost, find your way home. I have to admit I was a little ignorant about the Troubles as well as the divided spaces within Belfast, so you can imagine I was a little confused when I drifted into North Belfast on a sunny September Saturday, just a short walk from the lively Cathedral Quarter downtown, and saw almost no one walking about. As I really started to look around I realized in just a few steps I’d gone from a busy mixed use section of the city to a nearly deserted area featuring miles of fencing around everything, including patches of grass, and towering walls where houses peered just above the barbed wire. I had stumbled up Crumlin Road and found myself at an interface of communities around the old Crumlin Road Gaol. At the time, I just thought the lack of development of such a central location bizarre, but after seven months in my program I’ve come to have a much fuller understanding of contested space in Belfast and found it very similar to many culturally divided cities in the American South.

In my Environmental Management course Queens we are taught to be managers of the natural environment (i.e. rivers and streams), physical environments and infrastructure (i.e. building efficiency), and human or social environments. My classes range from planning in contested spaces to managing the sustainable business. My planning courses are some of my favorite. In the fall I took a course on sustainable planning. I have absolutely no experience in planning so at first I had to recover the huge learning curve when planning students started spouting things like BMAP (which I now know is the ever important Belfast Metropolitan Area Plan) or discussing the planning authority, a completely foreign idea to me as a rural American who doesn’t have to do much more than get a building permit to erect a new structure. But after I caught up on the planning system in place in Northern Ireland I was intrigued by the development of Belfast, past, current and future.

My undergraduate thesis looked at the ability of community gardens to bring divided communities (economically, racially, etc.) together through the creation and fostering of bridging social capital, or the building of social networks across lines of difference. Coming to Belfast after finishing that work has inspired lots of questions about divided communities and ways of creating bridging social capital. Belfast has plenty of bonding social capital, or the creation of social networks within similar groups. Both Protestant and Catholic communities have leisure centers, clubs, services and public spaces- they are just all separate. The perspective I get from my planning courses is that planners and government have been encouraging bonding social capital through funding and development and have hoped those capacities would spill over and bridging capital would begin to be formed. But spatially, bridging social capital is nearly impossible with walls, roads and sometimes even businesses acting as lines of divisions splintering the city. Even open spaces like parks and football pitches are contested in areas

In sustainable planning I undertook a group project that has come to shape my understanding of Belfast as a city. Our group conducted a sustainability appraisal of The Crumlin Road Gaol Masterplan, the area I found myself in on that first walk around Belfast, in which we looked at all aspects of the plan and evaluated its overall sustainability in terms of environmental, economic and social aspects. The plan, which is still in discussion with the community and the city, would build mixed used development including improvements to the nearest health facility and school around the Crumlin Road Gaol, a popular tourist attraction in Belfast. Currently the Gaol is surrounded by an abandoned army barracks and an incredibly amount of unused land. The proposal seeks to feature the Gaol and museum as a focal point and surround it with housing, green space, shops, leisure facilities, and so on. Our evaluation showed that the developers had included lots of green planning such as garden space, renewable energy, green building material and water conservation measures and the development would have positive social aspects for the area in terms of construction and retail jobs as well as improved access to services. The only problem with this plan is that it lies smack in the middle of a highly contested space, flanked on one side by a Protestant community in decline and on the other a growing Catholic community, desperate for more housing and space. It essentially comes down to a turf battle. The Protestants don’t want to lose the space which they view as theirs and they see the development, which is being pushed as non-sectarian, as providing Catholic housing and many believe the entire development will be co-opted by those who live closest. The situation gets even more complicated when considering the services the development would offer such as health facilities and leisure centers, who will those belong to? Security issues are also a factor, not if violence will occur, but will people using the space will feel secure and welcome? The Crumlin project as a contested space is a case study in the dilemmas planning faces in Belfast. Traditionally Belfast planners have approached issues of contested space as a neutral authority. Not challenging territoriality but remaining impartial. One of my professors writes persuasively on the need for a new kind of planning in Belfast. One that challenges communities to air difficult concerns, discuss problems that will probably make people uncomfortable, but with the issues on the table communities will be able to make cross-community decisions that need to be made. It is this kind of difficult dialogue that will ultimately bridge divides, bringing down emotional and social walls not just the physical symbols of division.

While I’m still not sure the exact methods by which planning and management can positively affect communities and bridge old divides, I feel deeply that planning and planners have a role to play in making social change in regions. In recent weeks we’ve seen the role planning in Israel has had in pushing a government agenda and creating further divides and perhaps blocks to the peace process. Planning can act as an agent for political and social agendas, both positive and negative. More optimistically, divided cities such as Johannesburg, South Africa have created a new model of development planning in which planners also act as community organizers, helping identify and meet the short-term needs of communities

Looking towards my dissertation in the coming weeks, processing my course material as well as my undergraduate work, I am interested in considering what culturally divided communities in the US can learn from the planning exercises of divided cities such as Belfast. I think a more systematic, thoughtful approach towards bridging divides in the US will be ultimately more affective than just hoping towns and counties will have cross-community dialogue and air difficult concerns. I’m not sure where this inquiry will lead- check back with me in 5 months or so.

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March 2010 Reflection

Posted on March 1, 2010 by mbaum10

Reflections on Translating

“If you could describe this year in one word, what would it be?” Michael asked late in the evening as we waited in painted shadows for our flight out of Brussels. We were at the end of a trip to the European Union to visit the Irish Permanent representation. I forget what I answered at the time, though it was probably something like “carbon-footprint” in playful reference to our impending journey on a floating CO2-emitter. Thinking back on it now, I might choose the word, “shenanigans.”

Shenanigans: mischief, trouble, high jinks, tomfoolery.

Although we have had our fair share of shenanigans – Romanesque nightclubs with Sir John Leslie (who can bust quite a move at a spritely 94 years young), haphazard handstands on the Giant’s Causeway, bleary eyed mornings attempting to reinvent the Brooklyn Bagel in Ireland – please don’t get the wrong idea!

**

Bellies full of food and laughter, Mr. Jon Brestoff and I enjoyed one of many wonderful conversations with Keith and his wife, Madeleine, our gracious hosts during our trip to Brussels. Through the whirl of words Jon and I found ourselves responding to how we had gotten on last night in the city.

“Oh we had some great shenanigans,” I said.

“Ah! Shenanigans,” responded Madeleine. “You’re already becoming familiar with the Irish.”
“I didn’t know that was an Irish word,” said Jon, tilting his head to the side and smiling.

I seconded the sentiment and the room flooded with laughter.

How fascinating that a word as unique as shenanigans can get lost in the twirl and tumble of tongues! Shenanigans is a prime example of the nuanced romance between American English and Irish English. Same word and denotation to both of us but entrenched in different connotations. To Jon and me, shenanigans was a word laid in the common domain. To Madeleine and Keith, a word rooted in the earthy peat of Ireland.

It is easy to think that both Irish and Americans speak the same language… until you arrive in Ireland. I had come across another example some time ago, right when I arrived on the island. Someone had been asking how I liked Ireland and Trinity, to which I responded quite emphatically, “Awesome, really awesome, I really like it.” At this point, my compatriot in conversation chuckled, gently shook his head and said something on the order of “No, that’s not awesome. You Americans always use words that are too extreme! Awesome is when you are playing in the all-Ireland Gaelic football championships and you win in the last minute. THAT is awesome.”

The inflation of meaning in words (just as a currency inflates) is a fascinating concept. Of course my conversationalist was right and I am seeing it more and more. If I were to have said to an American that my time so far has been good, it would have translated to “ok, nothing too special.” To my Irish friend, however, good or its Irish equivalent, grand, would have carried exactly the same weight of meaning that I intended to convey with the word, Awesome. It is as if we speak in currencies that have the same name, but different values and conventions, much like the American and Canadian Dollars. Precisely because the two seem so similar on the surface are misunderstandings particularly likely. Each person tries to use the currency at his/her own value resulting in both parties coming away with something slightly different than intended.

As I slowly learn a proper exchange rate while I live and swim in Irish culture, I feel like I am gaining something really valuable. Not only does sensitivity to these differences make it easier for me to make myself understood within and beyond the Pale, but it also deepens the understanding of my own language, culture and self. I could have a grand time contemplating the origins of this value mismatch (advertising, Hollywood, Bill & Ted etc.).

Of course there are the more obvious lingual differences as well. The first time I heard my flat mate, Ronnie say, “Ya, We had great crack at Dicey’s last night, you should have been there,” I did a double take; “good crack? Like the powder?” Ronnie chuckled and gently shook his head (as many people seem to do whenever I open my mouth) then said “Good CRAIC. It’s Irish. Means we had a good time.”

After exercising my ear and language cortex all this time, the lingual differences seem to be melding into second nature, as are the accents. I had not realized quite the extent this had been happening to me until my sister visited a few weeks ago. We went to see a play at the Abbey Theater in Dublin. At intermission, I asked her how she had found the play so far (good craic??) at which point she replied that she had been having an incredibly difficult time understanding the speech. During the second half, I translated for her!

All in all, I think that “shenanigans” is a great word to describe my time here. Encapsulated within and intertwined with good craic, is a testament to the translations of an intimate yet complex embrace between languages and cultures.

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March 2010 Reflection

Posted on March 1, 2010 by msolis10

Spring has sprung and much has happened since the swap of seasons. A few weeks ago I had a nasty encounter with a gang of kids who hurled a rock through my second-story window, sending shards of shattered glass all over my bed and pillow. My Irish roommate broke my bicycle after he and his friends decided to “make love” to it one morning at 5AM, for lack of ever seeking out real live people. And how can I forget the toy dog ran into my feet on the promenade, nearly causing me to wipe out?

But I’m not going to focus on those things at all. Just happy thoughts…think happy thoughts…

Happy thought number 1: Lady Gaga. March marked the month of Gaga in Ireland, and the Mitchells and I went to see her in Belfast. I also saw her in Dublin two days prior to her Belfast concert, which either makes me a stalker or an obsessed, googley-eyed fan. Sadly Plan A for meeting Lady Gaga – sneaking backstage – was foiled, but no need to worry, for Plan B has gone into effect, which entails auditioning for American Idol and winning by singing nothing but Lady Gaga songs.

Second happy thought: Monaghan Castle. After our mid-year retreat in Belfast, the Mitchells spent a few days on the estate of Sir John Leslie. We were given a tour of the castle by Sir John himself, the sprite, 94-year-old concentration camp survivor who can remember the color of Rose Kennedy’s dress the night he danced with her (though we never heard what the color actually was…my money’s on purple). To thank Sir John for his hospitality, the Mitchells treated him to a delicious Indian meal and danced the night away with him at his favorite club, the Forum.

Third happy thought: my program! Academically things have been very exciting this semester, and I’ve been able to engage more with the diverse, international group of people studying at the Irish Centre for Human Rights. One of my more interesting interactions occurred after I circulated an Avaaz petition against Uganda’s Anti-Homosexuality Bill to our department’s Google group. Most of the students were supportive of the initiative and expressed interest in signing it. However, I received a disconcerting response from a Ugandan student who accused me of having no idea what Uganda was. He informed me that Uganda has one of the most religiously tolerant cultures but is incredibly rigid when it comes to “behavior.” He said that demanding rights for LGBT people is perceived as “western” and as “a sign of selfishness and greed.” He also felt that any lobbying on behalf of the LGBT community would only make matters worse.

I was shocked since I thought a Ugandan lawyer like my peer would have been able to see that the Bill does not constitute justifiable law in a democratic and free society. In essence the Bill stigmatizes an enormous sector of Uganda’s population (500,000 to 3.2 million people) and threatens it with a host of violations, including the prospect of capital punishment and/or arbitrary arrest and detention. Further, because the mere act of speaking for the rights of LGBT people and people living with HIV/AIDS would be compromised, those people would have no hope of mobilizing themselves without some form of highly clandestine resistance.

The response I framed to my Ugandan peer, with the help of my gurus of all things Uganda – Lauren and Jon Parnell-Marino – inspired me to write about the Anti-Homosexuality Bill for my minority rights term paper. Throughout the paper I touch upon the notion of derogations given that non-compliance with international human rights law must be justified in any argument structured in favor of the Bill. As highlighted in the Siracusa Principles on the Limitation and Derogation Provisions in the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights, restrictions on human rights can be justified for the maintenance of peace and security. However, such limitations are required to be both necessary and proportionate to the aim, with necessity implying that derogations be based on grounds that justify limitations recognized by the relevant articles of the Covenant, that they respond to a pressing public or social need, and that they pursue a legitimate aim. As I show in my paper, the Anti-Homosexuality Bill outlines fundamentally flawed aims that run counter to international and domestic law and compromise peace and security rather than preserving it.

Perhaps the most disconcerting truth with respect to the Anti-Homosexuality Bill is the mass support in Uganda for it. What the Anti-Homosexuality Bill is doing is mobilizing a large portion of the Ugandan population that is concerned with stabilizing its identity in extremely narrow terms – one where religion, conceptions of the family, and sexuality are supposed to conform to a single, exclusive, and majority-based norm. Even in a place with so many diverse ethnic and linguistic groups, Ugandans on the whole have not adopted an attitude that views sexual minorities as a rights-deserving group of people. Unfortunately this phenomenon is not unique to Uganda, and even in “western” countries the struggle for LGBT rights remains ongoing.

However, it is important recognize that there are exceptions to the anti-gay norm in Uganda who do support the civil rights struggle that LGBT Ugandans continue to wage. The Anti-Homosexuality Bill is something that seeks to diffuse and silence the voices of these exceptions in a deliberate attempt to condemn an innocent portion of the human population to both the shadows and gallows.

So perhaps this third point didn’t end up being a happy thought after all, but I remain hopeful that the combined work of activists in Uganda and the international community will bring about the defeat of the Bill. I also hope that this debate will lead to a wider understanding that egregious human rights violations cannot be allowed, especially when they are directed against vulnerable segments of the population that are already subject to State-sponsored suppression and abuse.

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March 2010 Reflection

Posted on March 1, 2010 by aharbison10

One of the main reasons that I wanted to study rural development in Ireland was its similarity to my home state of Alabama. Ireland and Alabama are roughly the same size in area and population, and both possess a strong agricultural history. Having lived and studied here for the past six months, I continually make new comparisons while constantly challenging my concept of rurality.

Agriculture was the center of both economies at one time and continues to play a role in both societies. With the presence of farming, both places have significant rural populations that are facing a litany of problems in the 21st century, which of course fits my interest in economic development. With the spread of technology, market forces, and the advent of farming subsidies, smaller family farms are constantly challenged as agriculture declines. Both places now have a farming population with an average age of 55 (or older in the case of Ireland), which is demonstrative of the younger generations that no longer see farming as a viable career option for them. Young people are now driven towards high paying jobs in urban areas, and this brain drain only exacerbates the problems that rural societies face in being able to thrive or even sustain themselves.

Both Alabama and Ireland saw growth in manufacturing jobs in rural areas, which helped to provide outside opportunities to farmers and other residents. Ireland gained from American technology corporations like Dell moving in during the Celtic Tiger years, while Alabama successfully recruited foreign automotive companies like Mercedes and Hyundai. Both were quite prosperous in a boom that lasted for more than a decade until the global economic recession brought it all to a screeching halt. Both faced soaring unemployment rates and economic hard times. For example, rural Alabama has been the hardest hit area in the nation losing more jobs than even Detroit! In Ireland, the toils have taken a heavy toll on the Irish psyche as many fear the island could slip back into history with rising poverty.

Standing alongside the jobs and economic issues, services in rural areas are both weaknesses and opportunities for growth. One of the worst issues is of course rural transport. In Alabama & Ireland, rural dwellers are dependant on their personal cars to get anywhere. Buses in Ireland do travel through rural areas, but as I have learned in my travels around the island, these are not dependable or effective. This issue is one that leaves many rural citizens, especially the elderly, in a state of isolation and social exclusion. Likewise, it makes it difficult for tourists and visitors to venture and explore the picturesque small towns or farms and scenic landscapes that rural areas offer.

Rural Alabama & Ireland both struggle with limited health care access, a dependence on unsustainable energy, a failing and inefficient education system, and a general lack of connectivity without broadband internet capabilities. These weaknesses have the possibility of redefining and rejuvenating rural areas through innovative ideas like the facilitation of entrepreneurship through incentives, enhanced tourism promotion, and alternative energy development. Luckily, both places have begun to realize the importance of such rural investment, including broadband initiatives in Alabama and Northern Ireland, but there is much work to be done.

There are key areas of divergence in my rural comparison of Alabama and Ireland that should be pointed out. There is a drastic gap in farm sizes, as the Alabama average farm is more than 100 acres larger than that in Ireland, which means the scales of production are quite different as well. Along with farm size, proximity is an interesting area as most people in Ireland are easily within an hour or two from the island’s largest metropolitan areas, especially in Northern Ireland. However, rural citizens still feel the need to have top of the line services in every community. Last fall, there were strikes and public outcry over the closure of some rural post offices as everyone would no longer be only two miles from the nearest facility. Ireland also has rural planning laws that govern developments in rural areas. Although these rules do get bent, development of housing and businesses for the most part are only allowed in small towns while a greenbelt of open countryside surrounding such towns is protected. Moreover, planning guidelines dictate how homes will look and can even force a farmer to build a new house in the town and commute instead of allowing one to build on the farm land. In a state like Alabama where people have take great pride in defending their property rights, I guarantee that’s a dog that won’t hunt.

Still I take great pride in having the experience to be able to study rural development and explore these kinds of interesting comparisons, which can even focus on the ridiculous. As many people know, Ireland is actually made up of two countries: Northern Ireland, which is part of the UK, and the independent Republic of Ireland in the south. Likewise, Alabama can be looked at as two different regions with different dialects and cultures. Nestled in the foothills of the Appalachians, North Alabama is the region I call home with its rolling landscape and an agricultural base of livestock such as poultry and cattle. To the south, you have what we refer to a LA, or Lower Alabama with their flatland and fertile black soil suitable for large scale crops such as cotton, peanuts, and soybeans. The trained ear will even recognize the difference in accents which includes a more pronounced drawl in the south. It’s not two separate countries, but for Alabamians, it has a use in joking with each other, or in Irish-speak, slagging.

I have become so comfortable here that I forget Northern Ireland is not North Alabama. I have found that rural culture is never too different as even here you will see tractors driving down the road or people lifting one or two fingers from their steering wheel to wave to passing cars while driving. Just having passed St. Patrick’s Day and the beginning of spring, it’s slurry season for farmers here, which means the sweet, pungent smell of cow manure really makes me feel right at home!

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March 2010 Reflection

Posted on March 1, 2010 by sshah10

The Northern Ireland/Republic of Ireland border is not a far distance from Dublin. It’s so close that were Dublin and Newry in the United States the distance between them would seem a lengthy but tolerable commute. It’s quite likely that many people in my hometown, a suburb of Atlanta, commute a farther distance just to work in the city. There is something that is just pleasant about living in a small country where things are but a day trip away. It allows one to get familiar with even the most minor topographical features and the name of places in a way that isn’t possible in the dynamic urban sprawl of many American cities. One of my favorite things is to take a big map of Ireland and daydream about all the places I haven’t been to which were waiting to be explored. Even Wexford.

The border between the Republic and the North is practically non-existent as a physical boundary. However crossing the border does lead one into a different sort of Ireland, with a varied and diverging history and, of course, its own set of splendid vistas and natural wonders such as the Giant’s Causeway.

During our mid-year retreat I learned more about Northern Ireland such as what it was like to live through the Troubles, how to live in and manage a post-conflict situation, the practical realities of working in a political system dominated overtly by sectarianism rather than policy, what it is like to live on the border between the North and South, and even what sort of shenanigans the remnants of the aristocracy of Ireland get up to in the 21st century.

One of my favorite experiences on this island this year has been an early morning walk along the Antrim coast. The snow on the ground had fallen the night before covering everything in a white coat. Not knowing quite where I was going, I followed ever narrowing roads and paths to the sea. As I walked toward the water I rather unexpectedly stumbled upon the ruins of Dunseverick Castle perched precariously over the sea. In the early morning that moment of discovery was shared between just me and the sheep in the farmland. I enjoyed in silence the snow, the ruins, and the sea.

Spring has arrived in Dublin and I am now in the midst of making as much progress on my thesis as possible. I’m looking forward to exploring the rest of the island, learning more about its people and history, and stumbling upon more surprises.

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March 2010 Reflection

Posted on March 1, 2010 by scolvin10

It’s Sunday afternoon. Unrelenting rain. I put aside my fourth finished book in two days as the clouds stubbornly cling to the Shannon. Not adjusted to spending most of my time indoors, I’m restless; desiring sun, just one full day of sun. The evergreen countryside and mild climate of Ireland comes with the price of constant moisture. Lazily, the clouds separate. Without a second thought I bolt out the door, not certain where I’m headed, but anxious to have an adventure and let my thoughts wander as freely as my feet. My apartment is just next to the river, and as I cross it I notice the pedestrian bridge just downstream is still closed. Underwater during last semester’s floods, the city still hasn’t come up with the funds to repair it. Luckily, the flooding only came into the elevator shafts of my village and not into the ground level.

Striking north, I walk briskly along a portion of Lough Derg Way–a network of paths that stretch from Limerick around Lough Derg to the northeast. About three miles behind me, the path has humble origins in the heart of the city, lined with loose bricks and flanked by overlapping layers of colorful graffiti. Far from the political and manicured murals of Belfast, the spray paint ranges from obscene words and gang symbols to representations of plants and comic book characters–a terrifying, yet beautiful menagerie. It typifies the struggle of troubled youth who paradoxically look for creative freedom through a destructive outlet, until the poor reputation of “Stab City” becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. If only Limerick was the sole city with this problem, but having a convenient nickname makes it an easy scapegoat.

I mentally trace Lough Derg Way as it comes out of the city, having run on it many times in training for the Athens marathon. It runs parallel to a malodorous canal (supposedly running through a bird refuge), turns into asphalt and shortly doubles as a road. Gradually the sounds of cars die out, the swans float out of the canal into the Shannon River under a white metal bridge. Now graveled, it winds upriver to the university campus, the start of my afternoon journey. Shaking my thoughts clear from the violence of the city, I actively try to take in the fresh air, sights, smells, and sounds of the countryside. The gravel path yields to more back roads with farmland dotted here and there by a country house. A farmer and his wife take advantage of the clear weather and clear weeds along a wall. I can see an afternoon tea laid out through the window of the traditionally thatched, whitewashed home.

After cutting across a sheep pasture, I climb up the side of hill to find a canal on the opposite side; a diversion from the river not shown on Google maps. It’s nice to know the internet still doesn’t have all the answers. The grass is grazed short by sheep crowding the steep banks. There are stepladders to hop over each fence as I walk east on the top of the embankment. The town of Clonlara had looked deceptively close, but the sun is already at its zenith. I inspect a large map of the trail system by Shannon Development, which is now as faded as the Celtic Tiger that erected it years ago. Girls passing by ask if I need directions. Even after living in Ireland several months it is obvious I stick out. There are more signs of the recent floods and inability to finance repairs. Swans meander around a broken sluice gate and half-submerged boats.

A young couple sitting by the canal become lost to sight as the path dips under a bridge and along a sunken stream bed, hiding the small strip of beauty from the countryside. All the trees are bare from winter, save for winding ivy and deep-green holly. Weeds enveloped with stout green thorns boast small, soft yellow flowers. Odd, how such a hideous plant can produce such a beautiful flower. The river comes back into view, lined with Sunday fisherman engaged in a contest. A pastel blue and red houseboat floats lazily upriver next to the town of O’Briensbridge. Children are playing in the park next to cultivated river walk. What a fragile thing a peacefully afternoon can be. Soon the clouds will come back. I’ll go home to read about a bomb in Newry (after passing through myself only a few days earlier), debates of the EU on whether to provide loans to Greece, or the latest church scandal stemming from the Murphy Report.

On and on I walk, thoughts racing as the wind picks up speed. It is coming from the southeast, an unusual direction, and brings drier, sweeter air from the middle of the island. I arrive at the outlet of Lough Derg. A wall of concrete and steel diverts some of the water into the calm, controlled canal while the rest spills into the Shannon. Though the expanse of water calls me to explore, the lengthening shadows remind me I must turn back at some point. Strangely, I had also forgotten all about dinner. Craving something warm because of the wind, I stop at a small cafe in O’Briensbridge and order soup and brown bread. This is one of the few times I have ever eaten out alone, and you naturally observe the other customers as a result. An older couple to the right finishes their desert slowly, chatting through the open kitchen door to the owner. A family with a special needs child are enjoying the afternoon at the other table, laughing and animatedly telling stories. The seamless way they interact inspires me to strive for the same with my clients at my music therapy placement.

It is apparent I will not get home before dark, so I take time retracing my steps. Even so, the return journey seems much shorter. Fishermen are returning to their cars, laden with carts, 20-ft fiberglass poles, and relating stories to each other. Conveniently, the stories could be elaborated as all the fish had been released back into the river. The sun sets over the canal, silhouetting sheep against the red water. Compromising my childish impulse, I run breathlessly down the embankment instead of rolling down it. Old couples stray from their houses for a stroll in the half-light now that the wind has ceased. The only sound comes from the occasional cars wait patiently to pass by on the single lane road. I trip more than once trying to catch glimpses of the elusive stars and walk at the same time.

Before long I see the LED lights from the living bridge between the county Clare and county Limerick sides of campus undulating gently up and down with the crossing pedestrians. Also in view are the ruins of a castle tower house not 150 yards from my apartment. It is hard to comprehend how many hundreds of years the structure has stood, still young compared to the earliest settlements in county Limerick 5000-5500 years ago.

The three flights of stairs up to my room conclude a 16 mile walk, just as mist settles around the lampposts outside my window. The moisture has returned. This is Ireland. Today I felt immersed in the culture, concluding it by writing letters home in a newly learned Celtic script. Writing about the spontaneous adventure made me realize just how positively my thoughts changed in the course of one afternoon. Amazing what a little sunshine can do. Any more and I might be tempted to stay longer.

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March 2010 Reflection

Posted on March 1, 2010 by nferron10

I. Reduced to Our Achievements

Recently our class had the privilege of touring the well-mannered jungle of bureaucracy that is the EU capital, Brussels. For two days we met with Irish diplomats, ministers, and business strategists, and at the beginning of every meeting there seemed to be an obligatory reference to our bios.

“Looking over your CV’s….”

“What an impressive…”

“At such a young age…”

It was gracious of them to give such compliments, but as each dignitary made reference to our bios, I began to reflect on all the experiences that are not, and maybe cannot, be condensed to a single paragraph on a website. If each of us is to be reduced to our achievements, then it should be acknowledged that each of us must have a shadow bio as well–a list of all the personal failures and moments of paralyzing doubt that are a part of our history. Why list such things? Why conceive of it as a reduction to be represented only by one’s honors? Maybe it is my literary background that points me to such questions (I have been trained to look for the cracks in an individual as a guide to his or her true character), but I would argue that each one of our successes is directly bound to failures and our responses to them.

An example. My classmate Ivan stopped by my apartment yesterday to grab a tea between library sessions. “ARTHUR MILLER was totally BROKE before Death of a Salesman!” (Ivan is prone to hysterics.) “The guy was THIRTY, with a WIFE, living in his parents’ basement, wondering how many more plays he could write for the dresser drawer–nobody was reading his work–did you know that?! Does ANYONE know that?!” Ivan had actually conflated some of the facts of Arthur Miller’s life, but his enthusiasm for an alternate view of Miller points to something. We hear the name Arthur Miller and we think Pulitzer, Marilynn Monroe, pillar of American theatre–there is no room in that picture for a man doubting himself, struggling, writing for no one. And so it seems a shame that we haven’t found a way to list those failures and moments of doubt beside each achievement. There is a violent concealment here, just as there is a certain violence to admiring the roast turkey on Thanksgiving–plump, savory–without acknowledging the butcher’s role in all of this.

II. To Forget My Own Past

I’ve been sweating through my latest play. In part, I’m trying new narrative techniques, and while it excites me, it’s a leap into unknown territory. I’ve also been putting unreasonable amounts of pressure on myself (this is your big year on scholarship, Marina Carr is reading your work, you better make this play the greatest play ever written by anyone), and this has led to self-doubt. What’s funny is how easy it’s been for me to forget my own past.

An example. In undergrad, I earned an award for a piece of short fiction, titled Kalighat, which tracked the thoughts of a young man (me) who was massaging oil into a dying man’s skin at Mother Teresa’s Home for the Sick and Dying in Calcutta. (The content of the monologue is a tribute to human failings: the young man fantasizes about the old man dying in his arms because he wants to know what it would feel like to be touching a body in the exact moment that life slips out of it.)

The story was written months after the actual experience. I was back in California–mildly depressed, fifteen pounds underweight, ducking into the English Department bathroom in the middle of the day so I could cry without anyone hearing me. I felt like my life was falling apart. I didn’t compose the piece during those months, I hardly wrote anything during that time, but if I hadn’t gone through that time in my life–if Calcutta hadn’t shaken me as it did–I wouldn’t have needed to tell stories like Kalighat. And in this sense, writing (and human life) is like a mysterious kind of farming. Seeds and stones are planted alongside each other with no method for discerning what, if anything, will sprout.

III. It Might Have Been Otherwise

After two days of EU meetings and tours, Lauren, Sarang, Michael, Shane, and I take a day-trip to Bruges. The sun is up, we nap on the train, life feels leisurely and warm. Around lunch time we find a restaurant with outdoor tables near the main plaza. We order mussels, freshly-caught fish, frites. The beers arrive and we toast George Mitchell. Speaking his name reminds us of how grateful we are to be here–how privileged to be given this time to pursue our passions, this money to fund our studies, this money to be in the sun in Bruges on a Saturday in March.

And what separates this moment from any other moment in the sun, is that we have toasted George Mitchell, and in doing so we must acknowledge, as the poet Jane Kenyon reminds us, that things could be otherwise.

“I got out of bed

on two strong legs.

It might have been

otherwise. I ate

cereal, sweet

milk, ripe, flawless

peach. It might

have been otherwise…”

I’m sure that George Mitchell means something different to every one of us, but for me, he serves as a reminder that we must actively work to make this world a livable place. Each one of us received this scholarship not just because we possess a list of honors but because we have chosen to extend ourselves into communities. We are aware that there is a need for reconciliation at all times, between all types of people, through as many means as possible–politics, social work, the arts. It is good to drink Belgian beer and enjoy the sun, but it is not enough. The world, with its beautiful moments, is more complicated than that.

After the toast, we dip frites into our mussel-nectar, and whether we imagine him or not, George Mitchell is traveling across the Middle East, working, struggling. At the same time, as we dip our frites, a winner is declared for the EuroMillions lottery–44 million Euros for guessing the right seven numbers. Across the ocean, my 12-year-old sister, Anna, spends her last weekend without braces. And at the same time, as we dip our frites, two women are making their final preparations for a human tragedy that will take place in the Moscow subway the following Monday. In the days after they have carried out their plan, sources are uncertain but they posit the women were young. In their twenties, like us.

And what are we to make of this? Sitting in Bruges, with plates of fresh food and a table of friends. Does this seem palatable? Somehow will these events all come together–will Russian separatists find a George Mitchell, someday peace, someday everyone’s bio will acknowledge their achievements and their shadows? This is why I am honored to share a table with Mitchell scholars: while each of us has our specialties and realms of expertise, we are connected by an approach to this world. We are grateful for moments of beauty, we know that there is affliction and suffering, and we understand there is work to be done, always.

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March 2010 Reflection

Posted on March 1, 2010 by cfaust10

Springtime arrived in Ireland on February 1st, a unique Irish tradition that begins my favorite season a month and a half ahead of the US. It’s official, I’m not leaving.

Originating as Imbolc, a festival honoring the Pagan goddess Brigid, it marks not only the beginning of spring but the onset of lactation in ewes. As usual, Christians adapted the Celtic goddess and holiday to suit their own motives and now the Irish recognize February 1st as Saint Brigid’s Day. It is still considered the beginning of spring, but the day is named after Saint Brigid of Kildare, a nun converted by Saint Patrick and named after the county she died in and the one I call my own, Kildare. Although Christians have changed Imbolc, agriculturally February 1st still carries the same meaning, which means that now, in March, our countryside is blanketed with adorable lamb twins.

As a side note: although the Irish like an excuse to party, they don’t celebrate Groundhog Day (perhaps it would have to be Badger Day?), nonetheless my classmates find it an amusing American holiday.

Even though we have had snow since February 1st and frost almost every morning, the birds and trees seem to know spring is here. The days are getting rapidly longer, and freezing rain isn’t as frequent. In fact, the past week has gone by without a drop of water from the sky, making the trail running alongside the Royal Canal extremely pleasant.

Canals criss-cross Ireland, linking the multitude of natural waterways to ensure Ireland’s pastures stay their characteristic vibrant green. The Royal Canal that runs through Maynooth meets the Liffey in Dublin and connects to the Shannon River over 90 miles west in County Longford. Although sometimes it seems more like an avenue for garbage disposal, it is my favorite part of my village. The Royal Canal was originally built over 200 years ago, then it fell into disrepair in the 1970s. Fortunately, the royal canal is now fully functional, with over 46 locks for small boats, theoretically, to pass across the island and a footpath hugging the shoreline its entire length. Sometimes the path is a bit more rugged, but alongside towns it’s usually perfectly paved for pushing prams on sunny days.

Running along the path I encounter other joggers-mostly middle-aged men in skintight spandex, dog walkers, and the occasional couple in love. I’ve also developed a rapport with the caretaker of the Royal Canal Way in Maynooth; he’s always ready with a smile and short greeting. If I get outside a 2-mile radius of towns, I can usually sing to myself without anyone cringing, which is absolutely delightful. Occasionally I spook a heron, which usually ends up scaring me more as it takes off and almost brushes my face with its large wingspan, but the pairs of ducks and swans are usually eager to see if I have spare bread.

Second semester started the first day of spring, and it was good to be back to the books and more importantly, tea breaks with classmates. Despite a more technical coursework load (LINUX, anyone?), I’ve still used my spare days, especially if there is a break in the clouds, to travel and experience Ireland. With graduation looming and final papers piling up, I am becoming keenly aware that my time to travel around Ireland is diminishing rapidly. Delightfully though, the more I see of the country, the more I love.

Sunsets are prized by travelers and locals anywhere you go, and I’ve seen my share of sunsets. Although I’ve experienced some spectacular 2-hour long sunsets in Antarctica, the sunset I watched from the Cliffs of Moher will be forever remembered. I took two dear friends (a former housemate and her new husband) to Galway when they visited Ireland. I wanted them to experience one of my new favorite places (I’ve been three times in the past two months) and we boldly rented a car to drive through County Clare to visit the famous Cliffs. Matt braved the narrow, winding roads and skillfully dodged both fox and tractors that took more than their fair share of the road. It was a clear day and the wind was barely noticeable, so we camped out at the Cliffs of Moher with delicious Guinness fudge to watch the orange sun dip into the Atlantic. It was a rare sight and will be remembered for its beauty and company.

I have had the privilege to host many of my friends over the past few weeks and will host many more as the weather becomes warmer. Ireland seems to be a prized destination for many Americans (I like to think they come to see me though). I’ve traveled to Howth, a peninsula north of Dublin, five times now and still find something new every time I bring someone. The Wicklow Mountains, just south of Dublin, are another of my favorite places to bring friends. The shores of Glendalough in the center of the mountain range makes a great picnicking spot, but the wind blowing across the lake mandates a warm scarf and gloves. Visitors get my version of Ireland, I like to hope it is fairly accurate, but I am always grateful for an Irish friend to add their (more accurate) version.

Although I have a small sliver of Irish in my genes, I never planned to come back to my ancestors’ homeland. I usually seek out developing countries for places to study, volunteer, and visit. I plan to work towards conservation of ecosystems and promotion of public health in developing countries, while living there, of course. I will begin with work in Borneo next year. However, my experiences in Ireland have aided my future endeavors immensely. Immunology coursework, seminars on diseases of poverty, independent research of geographies of health, and biotechnology site visits have illuminated factors that influence health in human populations and mechanisms currently used to combat inequalities. I’ve also benefited from conversations with friends and others throughout travels.

With the improving weather, I can’t help but spend most of my time enjoying the country however I am also increasingly anxious about leaving. Walks along the Royal Canal inevitably become longer than planned and trips across the Island are becoming more frequent. I’m grateful for the introduction to Ireland and am looking forward to adventures in the next few months and to coming back in the years to come.

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January 2010 Reflection

Posted on January 1, 2010 by bdetwiler10

So the second most often question I am asked, after the quality of the pubs in Belfast, is about the food in Ireland. Usually my questioner has already assumed that the food is terrible, I’m barely subsisting on scaly potatoes and leeks and I can’t wait to get back to America where the horn of plenty overflows with our supreme diversity of crops. And almost always they are surprised, shocked even, to discover that the food, in Belfast at least, is great in terms of both market produce and quality restaurants.

I’ll begin with market produce. I have an admission to make . . .I am a foodie. What is a foodie you might ask? Well Wikipedia (oh I’m feeling scholarly today) gives the following description.

Foodies= Amateurs who simply love food for consumption, study, preparation, and news. Foodies want to learn everything about food, both the best and the ordinary, and about the science, industry, and personalities surrounding food. For this reason, foodies are sometimes viewed as obsessively interested in all things culinary.

I love and, yes, live for good quality food, carefully and lovingly cultivated and crafted into great meals. I try to eat as close to the earth as possible, which means I am always searching for the best farmers market I can find. This is also the first year in a long while that I haven’t had my own garden, so I am depending entirely on the market, which, in Belfast, is no loss at all. Belfast’s St. George’s market provides an abundance of everything from local root crops and fish catches to stalls filled with exotic spices and seaweed. Though not everything is local and organic, it is all reasonably priced and very fresh. For less than 20 pounds I can buy and abundance of food (and even drink!) for the week as well as snag a fabulous seafood chowder lunch and desert crepe for the way home. Some lazy Saturdays I stretch my market visit to a whole half-day, two meal experience. I start with juice, coffee and waffles, wander through the crafts for a while listening to whatever this week’s live band happens to be, then I grab lunch followed something terrible for me like a snicker milk shake. And I always buy more groceries for the week than I can carry. My favorite weekly purchase is almost always from the fishmongers that line the stalls along the back of the market. This week it was fresh mussels, last week was whiting. The vendors, like most Irish, are friendly and helpful with any questions I have about their products and even welcome my probing questions about water quality and harvesting methods. So no, my market produce shopping is not suffering at all.

But I must admit there are a few things I do miss from the states when I am cooking. Namely things that I always took advantage of like canned pumpkin, apple butter, a variety of cream cheeses and so on. There are even things that am SO embarrassed to admit but I miss none-the-less, like peanut butter. There is a big difference between American peanut butter and peanut butter over here. Our peanut butter is smooth and creamy but here, even ‘creamy’ peanut butter is grainy, sandy tasting almost. What’s missing? High-fructose corn-syrup. My mother would be so ashamed after all the trouble she has spent keeping me off the gooey stuff but I had to bring back copious amounts of JIF. King Corn and I have a very complicated relationship, but I’ll give him this one, peanut butter needs him.

As a foodie I take cooking very seriously. I don’t worry too much about getting things perfect, but I do love to play with new produce and flavors. I especially love cooking with and for people. When I first got to Belfast I started cooking with my English housemate Ben. Sometimes we would cook together and other times one of us would cook and one of us would consume. But after a few weeks I noticed Ben was a glowing example of everyone at home’s assumptions about food in Ireland. Ben is perfectly happy with potatoes and tuna and almost never seasons his food. One day, after a week of fresh, complicated meals, Ben wanted to reciprocate for the cooking I had been doing. His meal choice, Heinz tomato soup. My jaw hit the table. For a girl who has been known to spend 4 hours making her own pasta sauce I was a little stunned. But for Ben it was just as delicious and satisfying as the 2 hour meal I had prepared the night before. This however is not typical of what one would find in Belfast restaurants.

As for restaurants, well just around our neighborhood, off Botanic Avenue, there is a bounty of ethnic cuisine. Around the corner is Café Renoir, famous for their 5gbp wood-fired pizza special. Beside it sets the new French Village who serves a great Panini and a decent attempt at pancakes, though I haven’t found a great American pancake place yet. Adam and I may have to open a Cracker Barrel-like establishment to feed our need for buttermilk pancakes and chicken and dumplings. On the opposite corner is Boojums, our Chipotle approximation as well as Clements, my favorite coffee house. The whole of Belfast has a lot to offer to the hungry traveler. Adam and I should get VIP seating for the amount of time we spend in Nando’s, a Portuguese-Mozambique chain famous for their Peri-Peri chicken, and Ravenous, a great local sandwich shop. Throughout the city you can also find great meal deals where you can get 2 or 3 courses plus a bottle of wine for two people for about 20gbp. Fabulous.

So if you find yourself traveling to Northern Ireland don’t worry about subsisting on potatoes and parsnips, there is a bounty of food options waiting for you!

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January 2010 Reflection

Posted on January 1, 2010 by mbaum10

Emerald memories flit across my mind as I begin to travel back to Dublin. It is winter break. As I watch the snowy New England woods and frozen marshes speed by my train window, I find it hard to believe that my time in Ireland is one third over. Where has it all gone?

****

“We missed our chance!” Neil said.

“No. It’s ok. It’s ok, I countered. Let’s just quickly circle left and look for an opening.”

“Maybe we can creep in a little closer? Sarang offered.

“Good idea, but we need to make sure we box out these people on the left,” said Neil. “They look like they are going for it too.”

“Ok,” we said in unison.

Then we saw it: an opportunity! Go, go, go!

When the dust cleared, we had won the day, or least something that made my day: a few words with Seamus Heaney, Ireland’s acclaimed Nobel Laureate poet. Trina Vargo had told Neil, Sarang, and I to say hello Mr. Heaney if we went to his talk for the Irish Human Rights Council. So it was out of a wish to fulfill Trina’s request (or perhaps out of fear of displeasing her? haha) that we braved the sea of full wine glasses and raised spirits in the shadow of priceless art at the National Gallery reception. Although our own glasses were empty by the time we reached Mr. Heaney, they were soon filled with the kind smiles and laughter of his greeting: “Ah, Trina’s Mitchell Scholars; pleased to meet you.”

********

I am now at Logan Airport in Boston waiting to board my flight on Aer Lingus. I laugh softly to myself as I wonder what security will make of the plastic tub, hydrometer, airlock, thermometer, bottle capper, and fifty feet of coiled copper tubing that is in my checked bag. Nothing scandalous. Just some beer brewing equipment for the nascent Dublin University Brewing Society (DUBS) that a few friends and I are trying to start at Trinity. I am going before the Central Societies Committee tomorrow to make the pitch as to why DUBS would make Trinity a better place. We are already deep in the bureaucratic rabbit hole: a drafted (draughted?) brewing constitution and one hundred names, student IDs, and signatures showing support.

When I dropped off the constitution for consideration, one of the administrators complimented me on making a beer club sound remarkably philanthropic. I will let you decide:

The proposed brewing society would aim to acquaint members with the science and history behind the art of beer brewing. Members of the society would brew beer of a variety of historical and modern styles, taking the beer all the way from grain through mashing, fermentation and finally to bottle. Beer tasting workshops of the end products would also be held in order to promote a robust social dimension to the society.

I am excited to acquaint the Irish with the great American tradition of closet beer brewing!

****************

“You have been a Trinity student for three years and you have never seen the old library?” I asked Bryony, a student in my MSc program. “That is just unacceptable. We are going there right now to remedy the travesty.”

In we went, past security and ticket booths, past the book of Durrow and the book of Kells. Suddenly, the wall opened up. I ran my eyes over the high wooden ribs that arched into the ceiling of the Trinity College Long Room like an inverted tall ship’s hull. On my left and right were Socrates and Demosthenes, stony guardians of the dusty tomes lining wall after wall. Up ahead, my friends Cicero and Bishop Berkeley silently welcomed me back. I imagined what the room would have been like back in the day when the shades – now drawn to protect the delicate parchment from the sun – were pulled back and the room undulated in rays of shadow. I could feel the ancient bustle of a scholar ascending the spindle-like spiral stair over my left shoulder.

“This is a library,” I said softly.

********************************

Now back in Dublin, I hear the rich intermingling of Cork and south Dublin accents on the street. As I sit here writing this sentence, Leinster House is to my left, the National Gallery behind my back, and the Long Room at my right hand. As I turn my head to the front, I realize that I am home. I hope I will find the time to live it thoroughly.

****************************************************************

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January 2010 Reflection

Posted on January 1, 2010 by sshah10

One of my most enjoyable experiences over the last few months has been reading Joyce’s the Dubliners. I can imagine that some may balk at the fact that it has taken me so long to read Joyce’s collection of short stories about the denizens of early 20th century Dublin. I admit that I’ve been busy calculating eigenvectors and monopole fields but when I found a copy of the book in the bargain section of Eason’s on O’Connell Street I knew I had to make time to read the book. What I have taken away from reading these stories is that while Dublin has changed in many significant (and beneficial) ways since the the time Joyce wrote these stories, it has remained the same in a few very important ways. Sure the city no longer has street cars (replaced by the Luas, buses, and Air Coaches), gas lamps, and shipping traffic up into its upstream quays, but it is still wet, often dark, and full of people from all social strata meeting at the same pubs and bars every week. The stories consisting the Dubliners are often about the clash of hopes and aspirations with the natural tendency to become entrapped within routine and social hierarchy. What is best about these stories is that they reflect how it is to live like a real person in a real city and that even as the times change, our concerns and hopes remain the same.

I also enjoyed spending Christmas in Dublin. It was the first time I enjoyed mince pies, Christmas puddings, and Christmas dinner on Christmas. While the slippery ice may sometime get me down I nonetheless enjoyed seeing snow and all the lovely Christmas lights in Dublin. The festive atmosphere really made the stay worth it (although I missed seeing Bono, Glen Hansard, and Damien Rice perform an impromptu concert on Grafton Street on Christmas Eve as I was in Belfast doing what everyone in the Republic does, going up north for cheaper prices on Christmas shopping!).

I also used my travel stipend to soak in some culture and some sun. I had previously traveled to England and the Czech Republic and was in the mood for some place warmer, so I went to Malta, Sicily, and Rome. I had never been to a Mediterranean country so I particularly enjoyed the good weather, good food, and the surplus of art and ancient ruins around every corner. I even took a bit of time on Sunday morning to experience my first Catholic Mass in an old church on the outskirts of Palermo, Sicily. I also enjoyed learning a bit of Italian and especially Maltese which is the first semitic language I’ve encountered first-hand. In addition to learning more about art and religion I also found exceptional enjoyment in studying the knots, fractals, and tesselations found in the mosaics and adornments of many of the churches. The same goes for Irish knot patterns I’ve seen, such as the ones around an old church near the Rock of Dunamase. While designed hundreds and even thousands of years ago, many of these designers had a sophisticated intuitive knowledge of a certain type of mathematics which the western world has rediscovered only in the last century. I’ve appreciated the opportunity to travel as it has given me a better understanding of language, culture, and even the history of ideas in science and mathematics.

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January 2010 Reflection

Posted on January 1, 2010 by msolis10

Before coming to Galway, Seena Perumal, a former Mitchell Scholar, informed me to be wary of the city and its curious nickname: the graveyard of ambition.

The graveyard of ambition? I asked myself with a laugh. Is she telling me that my aspirations are going to wither away and die in Ireland? That they will decompose and crumble until there’s nothing left but the dusty, skeletal remains of prior passion buried six feet below a patch of soppy grass and mud?

With no intention of seeing my ambition perish, I planned to hit the ground running upon arrival. In the literal sense, I trampled all over the town as I prepared for November’s marathon in Athens. In the non-literal sense, I did everything possible to keep busy and channel my inner muse. I wrote non-stop – short stories, articles, chapters of books. I started drawing again, taught myself how to play Poker Face on my tin whistle, and even created a Medusa head out of paper mache.

I kept myself occupied in Galway but was careful about staying in the city for too long a period of time. I took trips to Belfast, Derry, Dublin, and Kerry. I also travelled abroad to listen to the glockenspiels in Bremen, bask in the glory of Athena at the Parthenon, and purchase a pair of shiny silver dance pants in Paris.

But with all that one-on-one time, I began to wonder if I was losing something in the process of protecting myself from Galway’s supposedly insatiable thirst for dreams.

No, I decided. I couldn’t run away anymore. It was time to face the town I had chosen to live in – time to embrace my so-called life in graveyard land…

Stephen’s Day. I went out with Lauren and Shane, two Mitchell scholars, and Jon, Lauren’s husband, to the local gay bar, the Stage Door. The middle-aged DJ Pat blasted muffled pop music from a half-broken speaker as Irish men and women drank, shouted, and fought. A random girl slapped Shane across the face for no apparent reason. We stared at her inquiringly until she stumbled drunkenly away to dance with her friends.

Oil painting class on Tuesday. I listened as my teacher Aideen instructed me on how to prepare canvases, mix colors, and paint from dark to light. I nodded enthusiastically, pretending like the information was new to me since it was worth 185 Euros. By the time I finally sat down to begin painting, Aideen informed us that it was time to break for tea. As we sipped from steaming cups and munched on crumpets, the other students, most in their fifties or sixties, asked me questions about life in Galway and my classes at NUIG.

My apartment at 7:30am on exam week. I woke up early to write a term paper on gender crimes. My Irish roommate Johnny, who had recently gone nocturnal, was up after an unproductive night of studying. As I typed away at my essay, he wanted to chat about Barack Obama, Gentlemen’s C’s, and how Ireland didn’t qualify for the World Cup.

“Ireland went and did the most embarrassing thing: they asked for us to be the 33rd team. We’re the laughing stock of the world now…fookin’ Ron Delany with his big fookin’ head. What was he thinking? It’s supposed to be 32 teams for a reason. You know, it’s supposed to be 16, 8, 4, 2!”

I stared at Johnny blankly. He then proceeded to gab about global warming, Israel, and gangsters in Kilrush.

The fast food chain Supermacs in the dead of the “Big Freeze” at 2am. All Irish men and women in town were plastered. Young female students walked barelegged in short skirts, and I wondered how that was possible when outside I could see my breath. Students talked gibberish and stared at each other with hazy, half-closed eyes as they inhaled mayonnaise-lathered fries and burgers.

Taffes Pub with Lauren and Jon. A young Irishman man rubbed his fingers through my hair and muttered something about how I resembled a sheep. The words that followed were unintelligible and coated with the sour stench of beer. He proceeded to mash my face into his cushiony stomach. Lauren and Jon stared, aghast.

Coyote’s club at 1am on New Year’s Eve. A drunken girl in a blue dress mounted the mechanical bull in the back of the Coyote Ugly-themed club. The bull rotated for one second before the girl slid clumsily off the side, accidentally flashing a crowd of drunken onlookers. The operator of the bull sighed and muttered, “Next.”

So…after several attempts to integrate myself into wild and crazy world that was Galway, I found myself wondering what I had accomplished in the process. Where was the magic that had inspired Yeats to write about the Galway races? Where were the people who lived for things beyond beer and chatter? What did a person do when he or she just wanted to do something?

Monroes Tavern at 10:30pm on Tuesday, Irish dancing night. I watched older men and women gear up in their clunky dancing shoes and then stomp on the floor and spin each other in circles a la Leo and Kate Winslett from the dancing scene in Titanic style. Before long a drunken man pulled a friend and me into a circle of dancers. We tried shuffling our legs to the sounds of fiddles and flutes but ended up bouncing off one another like pinballs while untroubled dancers shouted out instructions. Eventually we caught on and were stomping, spinning, and laughing just as hard as the doomed ship’s star-crossed, albeit fictional, lovers.

It was then that I realized there was a rift in how I had been living life in Galway and the way it was meant to be lived. I hadn’t come to a city that people try to race through. Its inhabitants, for the most part, are in no rush to get from point A to point B, and many stop to take pleasure in simple things like conversation, food, teatime, and drink.

I don’t see or hear much in terms of grandiose plans or what people want to do with their lives. But that’s not to say the place is one devoid of dreams. Hope for the unrealized exists, I think, but in the meantime people find comfort in laughter, dialogue, and the occasional pint or six.

Graveyard or not, it still strikes me as a strange way to live, but it is also one that has me wondering what the big rush is when there is but one life to live and so many chances to stop, talk, and dance.

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