Really? Rain?

June 27, 2010

I just checked the weather forecast, and I don’t like it at all. Today: rain. Tuesday: showers. Wednesday: rain and wind. Thursday: rain.

We all knew it would come to this at some point, but I think everything may change now. We can’t go lie on the beach in the sun now, like some did this weekend in Kinsale. We can’t admire the blue sky above the Quad on UCC’s campus. But at least our raincoats will finally get some wear.

Weather is a popular conversation topic among the Irish. I discussed it at length with the woman who ran the Sunville B&B in Bantry, Bridget, who introduced herself as Brita. “It looks clear until Wednesday at least,” she had told me as we were about to venture for a walk Saturday evening. But outside, we were trapped by a five-minute mist above the center of the town as we were eating a picnic dinner of bread, cheese, hummus and chips. Behind us, a full rainbow appeared completely above the city, with the ends stretching to the edges and the mountains. (Was there a leprechaun or a pot of gold? We can only wonder.)

Apparently, Ireland had a harsh winter this year, Brita told me. They’ve hardly seen so much snow. And the past few weeks have been the warmest and sunniest in a while. The last two summers were dreadful, she said, so we should be thankful we were here now. Parts of the country were even experiencing a drought, but her husband still watered their yard occasionally to keep their gorgeous, bright roses healthy.

Bus from Bantry to Cork

June 26, 2010

Clément knows so much of the world. He’s not even from Ireland but he knows all about its land. He’s not from the United States, but he knows jokes about Sarah Palin that our media never picked up on. He’s a Frenchman who was bored in France and decided to move to Ireland.

“I signed a temporary contract at Amazon,” he told me as we were sitting on the bus from Bantry to Cork. He had started talking to us as Lindsey, Jared and I sat at the bus stop Sunday afternoon. He had been carrying a backpack with a flat round bag attached – a tent he later told us. Around his neck he had a shoulder bag and a camera bag. Every weekend for the past nine months he has gone off by himself to explore more of the country. “All the French stay together here in Ireland,” he said about Cork. “They go out and party and get drunk all together every weekend. It’s like they’re not even leaving France. I don’t like that.” So, he packs up after work to go somewhere new; the country has so many unknown but gorgeous places, he tells me. On one of the Facebook albums where he posted photos, he got comments from 19 friends who appreciated seeing somewhere that they probably would never go.

For this weekend, he left from Bantry on foot with a small sign in his bag that read “NOT FAR.” “You can get a lift anywhere,” he says. “But people won’t stop if they think you’re going too far. So if you say ‘Not far,’ then they’ll be more likely to pick you up and you can still probably get a ride where you want to go.” Clement seems to be able to make friends anywhere, and trusts anyone in Ireland. I told him how in America, you would never hitch hike anywhere, because of the possible danger and the stigmas attached to both the person holding up their thumb and the unknown drivers. He thought that was ridiculous.

I asked him where I should go in Ireland if I got the chance. Glenmalure is what he told me. To get there, you take a bus from Dublin to Laragh and then get a lift or walk the several kilometers more. The single youth hostel has no water, electricity, or toilets, he told me. “But the views are worth it,” he said.

We talked about other places in the world — he was interested in where I’ve been, and he dreamt about Greece as I told him that some of his coastal pictures of Ireland matched ones I have from my Mediterranean trip. As the bus traveled through the other small towns — Inishmare, Clonakilty, and others — he told me the names of each, and any tid bits of history he knew. “This is the bridge I mentioned earlier,” he said as the bus neared the edge of Cork. “Trains used to travel across it.” The inspector on the bus walked by, and I asked if the bus could stop at the university instead of the main station. “That will be much better for you,” Clement said. “We’re here in Cork for a couple more days,” I told him.

“Here’s my e-mail address if you want to meet up to get a drink,” Clement said, writing it down in my notebook. “You don’t have to though. I don’t force anyone to do anything.” I walked off the bus at our stop with Jared and Lindsey, wondering if I’d see him again. So many people pass in and out of your life in just a second, but there are some conversations you’ll always remember. I had meant to stare out the windows at the endless expanse of green or doze in and out of consciousness, but our conversation was more meaningful. I learned about the lack of separation of the government and the press in France, about what it’s like to work for customer service for Amazon, and about going off on your own to travel the world, finding bliss in the solitude.

The Vegetarian Eats Seafood

June 25, 2010

Seafood is big in Ireland. There are coasts everywhere, so everything is fresh and much of it is local. Though I’ve only eaten seafood a few times in the past couple of years, I’ve decided to enjoy it here as I feel like it.

In Bantry, I knew it was time. The coast is littered with boats of all types and sizes, and every restaurant has a chalkboard listing the specials of the day. We walked through town past several restaurants, but I was looking for the perfect place. And that place was the Fish Kitchen. Located upstairs above a fish market, it was a tiny place with about 10 or so tables. Brightly painted orange walls gave the place a charm enhanced by local art and a boat mobile. A chalkboard above the register listed the specials of the day. I asked our waitress question after question about each dish, enough that it was apparent she was annoyed with me.

I chose the goujons of cob with salad and chips, though prawns, crab, and hake were among my other choices. (Goujons are like chicken strips or fish strips, I’ve gathered.) My dish came out with strips of fried fish, a lovely green salad with tomatoes and a plate of “chips,” aka fries for you Americans. The restaurant quickly filled (I think that Irish eat meals later than we do because it was about 2 p.m. by now), and some greeted each other. It seemed we had found a local favorite that was also featured in Lonely Planet.


It’s this type of restaurant where you’re going to find the best food and the best atmosphere. Stingray’s is one of my family’s favorites on the Eastern Shore, because even though it’s in the back of a gas station, it has the best seafood. Eating at a generic restaurant, like a hotel or a fast food place, doesn’t appeal to me as much. Sure, it’s okay every once in a while if there’s no other choice or if that’s what a group wants to do, but I’d rather find something real, something to remember.

The Blarney Stone

First you have to wait in a long, long line, that winds up narrow spiral staircases through the ancient stone castle. Once you're at the top, you have to lie down, reach to hold the two metal bars behind you're head, look down hundreds of feet in terror, and then pull back to kiss it.

That's how you kiss the Blarney Stone.

So many legends are behind the stone so no one knows for sure where the stone is from, but everyone around the world knows what it is now. Even Winston Churchill and Michael Jackson have kissed the stone.

I knew that I wanted to do it, despite the awkwardness of the process. But once the line wrapped closer to the stone, butterflies shook my stomach and I became anxious. Could you fall through between the walls? How many other lips have kissed that stone? Is it smooth or rough?
But there was no need for my fears. Though it was a tad scary to dangle there, it was just for a moment. So I did it, I bought the picture, and now I can say, “I kissed the Blarney Stone.”

A Brief Conversation

June 23, 2010 - Cork

“Where in America are you from?” he asks me from behind the checkout counter at H&M, while scanning another woman’s purchase.

“Virginia,” I reply, explaining that it’s on the east coast, near Washington, D.C. I stand at the next register where a quiet woman takes the security tags off my clothing as she rings up each item.

“The Redskins?” he asks with an excitement growing in his voice.

“Oh no,” I say, surprised that the Irishman knew that piece of American culture. “I’m not a football fan. Soccer is my favorite sport.”

He shakes his head, still bagging various shirts and dresses and accessories, as the woman at my register asks me to sign the receipt.

The line behind us grows longer and longer. But us being Americans, as Lindsay completes her purchase, she asks for the Value Added Tax form. He looks around to see what to do, obviously not used to such a request.

“I’ll just put these numbers on there,” he says pointing to the boxes on the blue form. “The VAT people can figure it out.” We agreed and thanked him for helping us as the line continued to lengthen. I’m sure everyone was wondering what was taking so long.

Of course, it was the Americans.

The “Fickle” Weather

June 23, 2010 - Cork

“The light in Ireland is such a fickle blessing,” writes Richard Conniff in his National Geographic article “Ireland on Fast Foreward.” Well, he was so right. As I sit looking out the window this evening, the sky as changed yet again in the past five minutes. I was warned of the rain and advised to dress in layers, but I wasn’t sure what that really would mean here.

It means that sometimes, the mornings start off sunny and warm, a poor indicator of what the day may actually be like it seems. “No need for a jacket,” I think to myself. But you never know, because later in the afternoon, when you’re at the furthest point from the dorm, is when the clouds could cover the sky. As they darken, eyes look upward, daring the sky to pour down rain.

So far today there were just drops of rain, like the heavens were testing us to see if Ireland was ready to end its idyllic but rare sunny spell. On our first days there was not a single cloud blocking the pure blue sky that shined above us on the campus quad. It didn’t seem real to be in such an Ireland. The weather report in the Tuesday paper proclaimed that it was time to bring the umbrellas out again though, as the coasts were bringing in the winds and the rains. And thus, today the skies were completely filled with clouds; no need for sunglasses when wandering the streets.

But even with the clouds, the light never ends. The sun wakes up early to fill the sky — early being around 5 or 6 a.m. at least — and just like us, doesn’t want to say goodbye to the day and only sets around 10 or 11 p.m. The days are long, providing plenty to do.

While to me it seems like you can’t expect what the weather will be like, to the Irish that’s not the case. On the bus into the city center, I sat with a 70-plus woman who was venturing out to run errands. I mentioned that I had my raincoat in my bag, just in case. “Oh, you won’t need that,” she told me. “It always rains here. You know when it’s going to rain because it always rains.” Since on that day the sun was still peeking out from behind the few clouds, she meant that today would not be a rainy day. You will know when it will actually rain.

Right now, I hope that it doesn’t fall for awhile. Rain often puts a damper on the day, making moods drop and activities wearisome. But, the weather and the light are fickle and unfaithful, making each and every day into a surprise. It adds to the adventure and to the unpredictable nature of Ireland. Even now, as I look out the window near 10 p.m., the sky is still bright but blocked with clouds, some with a red hue sprinting across the sky to avoid nightfall, and other white wisps making shapes, playing before ending the day.

The Calm of a Church

June 22, 2010 - Cobh

I wouldn’t describe myself as particularly religious; I go to church every now and then when I’m home, and I believe in God, but at this point in my life religion isn’t always a priority in my life. But when I walk into a church abroad, that feeling completely changes and I wish that I could spend ages mesmerized by the stained glass and architecture.

A feeling of calm washes over me when I enter into the cathedral that most likely has a history longer than I can imagine. I immediately felt this way as our group walked into St. Colman’s Cathedral in Cobh (pronounced Cove) on Tuesday. Though this church had no sign at the entrance ordering visitors to be quiet, the eight of us instinctively hushed our voices and hardly said a word inside. We walked up the aisle with slow steps, taking in the woodwork of the pews and the carving of the marble columns.

For me, it’s the stained glass that draws me in. The light that shines through the different colors makes me feel like everything can be okay, even if there is so much else going on in my life. Whether in a design or telling a story, the windows are more than just windows to me. They represent God and religion, and even when you’re thousands of miles from home, the church is a universal connector.

Ireland is a traditionally Catholic country, though the importance of the religion has wavered in recent years. Churches across the continent — from La Sagrada Familia in Barcelona to Notre Dame in Paris to the tiny ones that I’ve attended services in Greece and Spain — tie together a group of people. Though I may not understand what the priest is saying or know the words to the songs the choir sings, I know what the others in the congregation are feeling.

In Cobh, most of us remarked about how gorgeous the cathedral was. The impressive “carillion” (bell tower) towers over the small port town and is the largest in Ireland with 49 bells. But we didn’t discuss what we were feeling. I don’t know if other people felt the same way when they walked through the wooden doorways, but for each person, religion is also personal. Through the church, we each went at our own pace, each of absorbed in our thoughts, whether about the day so far or our lives back home. There’s no rush to be anywhere in a church (except when a sermon is too long). Instead, the church is like a home, a place to be calm and at peace where you are.