Gallivanting in Highlighter Green, Part 2

Back to Irish adventures! See previous post for the first part.

Monday: Found the Kiwis! By which I of course mean my New Zealand friend and her New Zealand friends. One of the Kiwis rented a 7-person car, and off we went for a terrifying careening drive through the Irish countryside. I thought Ecuadorian roads were bad. They have nothing on the narrow twisty full-of-blind-corners Irish lanes.

Sidenote I found myself thinking how the Irish flag is so perfectly representative of Ireland. I have never seen grass so naturally green. Suburban Americans kill for that color green in their lawns. The countryside is full of beautiful rolling hills blanketed in what my Kiwi friend referred to as “highlighter green.” The hills are criss-crossed by rows of gros (goss?), a hedge plant with bright yellow flowers (okay not quite orange like the flag, but close.. see what I mean?).  Add sheep and low medieval crumbling walls, and it is quite idyllic.

I just told this to my dad, and he scoffed “Grass is just green. It can’t be greener.” YES. YES IT CAN. (clearly never been to Ireland. scoff.).

The Glendalough round tower

After braving car sickness, we and the Kiwis first enjoyed a traditional Irish restaurant where lots of stew and lamb and brown bread were eaten.  Then off we careened to Glendalough, an ancient monastic village set between two lakes in the mountains. Saw some nice ruins and some adorable newborn lambs. Tried to not think about that we could have just eaten their siblings. 

And then my friend Ziyi and I were purposefully abandoned by everyone in Wicklow, a town on the Irish coast, where we set up camp at Captain Halpin's Bunkhouse (really). Went to one of two restaurant-pubs (synonymous words in Irish) where we ran full force into Irish hospitality. Irish lads bought us both the “usuals” of Guinness and Jameson+ginger ale, and then after a bevy of some of the worst (and increasingly unintelligible, see previous post about the Irish accent-to-alcohol ratio) pick-up lines I have ever heard, attempted to sneak a kiss when posing for a photo with us .There is an  excellent photo of a shock-faced Ziyi getting kiss-bombed which I will post as soon as I kidnap her camera. Too much fun. 

Tuesday: I cannot get over how good Irish brown bread is.  It is so much better than any other brown bread I have ever tasted and I have no idea why.  They pride themselves in it and the pride is completely deserved.

After filling up on bread, I spent the morning on a long run along the coast of Ireland while waiting for Ziyi to wake up. Yes I ran on vacation (insert Hildabeast friends’ collective gasp of horror, then my subsequent eye roll). Ran along some rivers, meandered through some fields, and skirted the Irish sea.  I love using a run to explore new countries, such a unique way to see the detail of an area. College running buddy Jenna, you would've loved it. Then, tricked city gal Ziyi into hiking by telling her we were going walking. Win! (an astute person would point out that walking is essentially what hiking is of course, but for some reason walking sounded less intimidating?). We hiked about 5 miles up a trail along the Irish coastline.

Sidenote Irish hospitality is truly touching. The Irish are the friendliest people I've ever met. We had three separate Irish elders greet us while walking and spontaneously explain exactly how to reach this beach full of seals and how to get back. We didn't even need to beg for directions. Friendly to tourists? How refreshing.

We hiked to this hidden-away cove where seals were known to sunbathe. No seals on the beach. Disappointing. And then I looked over the rocks, and lo and behold there they were frolicking in the bay! Baby seal was unsure what to make of me: kept popping up, staring at me, looking at mom, and then cocking its head and staring some more  I watched them for at least an hour. I love wildlife.

We then saw some lighthouses (Grandpa Dykhuizen, I'll send you a picture) and hiked back into town. Then this morning I woke up at 5 a.m. and started the journey from Wicklow to Oxford.  sidenote Not that I support this idea, but if anyone is ever thinking of sneaking into the U.K., they should definitely do it through Ireland. Minimal customs on the way in, no customs on the way back at all? Huh? 

Clearly the mark of a successful vacation was my perfect 5-for-5 in the Days in Ireland: Days Drinking Guinness ratio! Everyone should be so proud of me and my low tolerance. I may never drink Guinness again and my body hates me at the moment but at least I made the Irish proud.

Now ready to bury my nose back in the books.  Cheers Ireland.  Until next week! LP

Paddy's Not Patty's! Part 1

Hola!

Just hopped off the plane from jolly ol' Ireland, now sitting in London Luton airport waiting for a bus back to Oxford.  A recap of this weekend's adventures:

Friday:  Took four trains and then a ferry across England, Wales, and Ireland with 11+ friends from Oxford.  Played lots of cards. Set foot on Ireland for the first time and realized how many old medieval walls,well-trimmed hedges, and unintelligible accents there were everywhere (unintelligibility level directly proportional to level of alcohol consumed by the Irishman in question). Set up camp at my Irish friend's dad's apartment in DunDrum, a quaint suburb of Dublin. Geared up for the next day which was....

Saturday: St. Paddy's Day in Dublin! Features of the Dublin Paddy's day experience:

• I have never seen a party with so many generations involved.  Got to the pub at about 2 p.m. and we were dodging the strollers being pushed around the bar. Walk on the PACKED streets, and we ran into green-decked grandparents along with the typical teenagers-wearing-things-they-shouldn't-be-wearing. It wasn't only tourists, every Irishmen in the country was in the streets of Dublin (source: Irishman on the subway). 
• I was expecting that the whole wear-full-body-green phenomenon was something that the U.S. had interpreted as something the Irish would do, not something the Irish actually do. WRONG. So much green. They even lit up Trinity College green. In a spurt of unwarranted panic about not enough ridiculous green clothing, I bought this huge green hat that said "Who's your Paddy?" However, speaking pf something that the U.S. interprets as Irish but is not Irish: No green beer (thank goodness!) (it's all we drink in the U.S. on this day).
  
•  St. Paddy. Do not make the mistake of saying/spelling Patty. Do. Not. Apparently Patty is derived from Patricia, which is just not somethin you call an Irish fella, ya hear...particularly a famous one. 
• Did I mention how many people there were out and about? I can't emphasize enough how huge this party was. Filled the streets of Dublin. Put Mardi Gras to shame. And it was sustained. All day and all night the crowd didn't die down. Too cool!

We went to a pub, and then toured around the streets, and then ... another pub.  And then we watched the England v. Ireland Rugby game with every other Irishmen in a standing-room-only pub. Which was not a favorable outcome for Ireland but seemingly did not change the partying plans of anyone (celebrate if you win, drink if you lose= same result). After several more stops and some jigging with random Irishmen we ended the night at a three-floor club with a live brass band playing dubstep music. It was an excellent 12 hours of Paddy's fun in Dublin. 

Sunday: Sidenote Kudos to what must be an excellent Irish street cleaning crew, because when I went home at 3 a.m. it was raining and the streets were coated in beer cans and green paraphenalia. When I was back in the city at 10 a.m. there were hardly any signs of huge party that filled every street in the city the day before. Nice.

The view of Dublin from the top of the Guinness factory, beautiful.

Guinness tour day! After resolving to go with the (less-sleep-deprived) morning sightseers, I dragged myself out of bed and zombied (not a verb? should be) over to the infamous Guinness Storehouse, which was an incredibly well-done museum and tracked how the beer is made and the history of the brand. Did you know that the Guinness factory buys 2/3 of the barley produced in Ireland? I'm sure this useful knowledge will come in handy in some pub trivia night in my life. Because of this, ended up having free hangover Guinness for breakfast and lunch. Regretted this. And then went to another Irish friend's house and was treated to a huge barbecue with lots of dancing (with Irish parents) and dental hygiene tips (from Irish parents). Good food, good friends, good times.

Monday: Found the Kiwis!

But this post is getting long and my bus to Oxford is coming soon so I will post in two parts, stay tuned for adventures in the Irish countryside with the Kiwis and Ziyi and I getting kiss-bombed by Irish lads at a pub on the coast, among other exciting tales...

British Non-Senioritis, American Stubbornness

Ode to this blog....
I can't tell you how much I love writing this blog. Writing is like catharsis. For awhile I thought I would be a journalist; all through college I had a writing outlet in the college newspaper; by senior year I was writing opinion-editorials about whatever topics I wanted, like the disease of "senioritis" and healthy partying. My favorite elective class I took was memoir writing. I wrote a blog all  through Ecuador. And then I graduated and suddenly I had no outlet for writing. And it made me realize how much I love it. It's such a good way to take a break and reflect on life.

Supermarket quirks...
Aubergine? What's an aubergine? (for US: eggplant, apparently) Why are there no cranberries and so many potato choices? You're not even going to ID me when I buy alcohol? [for Brits: It doesn't matter that I'm well over 21. ID'd every time in the U.S. I look in the plausible range of 21 and they are meticulous] Also, they don't believe in frozen cookie dough! The horror! Additionally, where's all the light beer? And the processed cheese-like Kraft Parmesan and Velveeta?  They only eat real cheese here, where I'd guess if you look in the refrigerators of Americans, a HIGH percentage of them have processed cheese. That might be an improvement. But the lack of light beer is not.

Quidditch

Every Saturday we have frisbee practice, and on the pitch (for USians: field) next to us there are Quidditch games going on. Quidditch at Oxford. How fitting is that. As far as I can tell, one plays this sport by running with a long stick or broom between one's legs, and trying to pass and throw a ball in to one of several hoola hoops hung from trees. And then the two other people (seekers) have to go look around for a Snitch that's hidden somewhere.  I think? I'm not sure  Clearly I need to try this. I think St. Hilda's (my college) has a team. I was saying something snarky one time about the two Seekers wandering around our frisbee practice with brooms between their legs, and then my teammates pointed out we were playing Ultimate Frisbee, and therefore really had no ability to say anything about odd sports...Fair point.                         

Things I've gotten wrong this week...

Pudding in the U.S. = Soupy dessert substance that comes in chocolate, vanilla, or butterscotch. 

Pudding in the U.K. = Dessert. No specific reference to the soup-like dessert substance. Huh. 

Brits are Immune to Senioritis

In the U.S., a fairly well-known disease among college students is called Senioritis.  It occurs towards the end of one's senior (for Brits: 4th) year of college. Seniors already have the majority of their credits (for Brits: grades in every class adding up to a cumulative Grade Point Average) and are 'coasting' through the rest. Senioritis is characterized by a lack of motivation, coupled with laziness and revulsion towards doing schoolwork. And also usually accompanied by a copious number of keggers (My senior month of May = the long-standing tradition 30 Kegs in 30 Nights).  And then we blame it on this incurable disease. 

In the U.K., there is no such thing.  3rd year (for US: only 3 years of college, lucky huh) is characterized by preparing for final exams. Which determine your grade for ALL OF COLLEGE. Literally the evaluation of your work for the last three years. For obvious reasons, Senioritis hasn't spread here. Which is a pity.  On a side note, in my senior year I published an op-ed on senioritis, and got comments from my  professors for days. Good times. 

American Stubbornness

In the U.S., we have this notion that everything should be fair and just.  If it isn't, we argue. And argue and argue. Until we speak to someone high enough in the chain of command who will listen. If nothing else, we register our complaint.  We're used to being able to argue for our rights.  Example: If my dad calls a help line and the person doesn't help him, he'll ask to speak to his supervisor.  If the supervisor can't help, my dad will ask to speak to his boss. If that's not possible, my dad will ask the name of his boss so he can personally tell his boss what a bad job the supervisor is doing. And then suddenly the supervisor pays attention and makes things happen. It's a well-established mechanism of making things happen; one only needs to look at student activism campaigns on college campuses (to get rid of bottled water, for instance) for less-dramatic examples.

In the U.K., it is impolite and much less common to do this.  Everyone is expected to do their best to help you, and if you question this it is considered much more offensive. I think there isn't a preconceived notion of entitlement as much as in the U.S. Example at Oxford: Our program wrote essays four months ago now that haven't been graded, and won't be graded til May. The U.S. in me wants to argue til I find the right person and point out the ludicrousness of this. I will bite my tongue. 

Caveats: yes, yes, I know this isn't true of everyone, there are exceptions, these are sweeping statements. etc. 

On that note, it's the home stretch of the term! Back to essay writing.  Bleeeerrrrgggggggghhh.  Enjoy the snow Michigan! - Lisa