Interlude Two: Updates, Itineraries and Housekeeping

Breaking continuity, I write to you not a tail of the past, but one of the present. That is, lets chat about things relevant to the now.

First up, if you take a look to the right, you’ll see two new sections; “Photo Collections” and “Videos”. The Photo Collections will lead you to my Flick’r Page, which I’m going to just fill with all the photos I’ve taken to date, not just the few that have appeared here. Once you’re on that page, clicking ‘tags’ will give you some extra sorting power, as will clicking ‘sets’ at the right.

The Videos are all brought to us via YouTube, and so far are just things I shot with the video function of my little still digital camera, edited together using my little iBeast here. At the moment, only one video is up; it’s actually more a test then anything else, featuring Cormac, a little dunk Irishman, footage I took at 4 on a thursday at James’ place. It’s good for a laugh. Expect videos featuring Krakow and Paddy’s Day soon; you know, when I get to slapping them together. Also, I’m bringing my actually video camera on my spring break adventures, so hopefully I’ll have something of alittle higher quality once I’m back. Which leads us to...

My travel plans. Tuesday morning, I leave on a fieldtrip to Wales and Cornwall to see Castles; kind of like a part two to the previous Castles fieldtrip, this time with less people and three days long. I’ll be back late thursday, giving me just afew days to gather myself before Pat and I set out on our Grand Spring Break Adventure. We leave on sunday for Amsterdam (Yes, I’m going to Amsterdam; think what you will) for afew days, then onwards to visit a friend on mine in Berlin for a week or so. From there, we’re heading to Switzerland, in search of mountains, and perhaps skiing and/or bungie jumping. From there, we go where adventure takes us, either to the French Riviera or down through Venice, towards Rome ‘till our time runs out. Maybe all of the above.

Either way, we’ll be back around May first, which will give me eight days to ready myself for my first final, which go off one after the other for 4 days. For the rest of May, I plan on taking it easy, touring around Ireland, heading over to London to visit friend and duel citizen B-Nutt, and maybe making it up to Scotland. May 29th, my lease runs out, and I head home. And by ‘Home’, I mean LA; the tentative plan is to stay for a week, then fly up to the family for some much needed R & R (sometimes you need a break from your vacation), then back down after 3 or 4 weeks to settle down in LA for the long haul, for this is truly the last vacation I plan on having in quite awhile.

Rereading this old Blog afew days ago, I realized that I hadn’t mentioned my classes sense that first excited blurb. Now that my classes are over, I thought I might return to the subject, a nice bookend.

Welsh History was indeed as interesting and fun as I’d thought it would be. With only four people in the class, my goodness it had better be. Prof. Graham Isaac, gotta love him, didn’t even bat an eye when I was the only one to show up. We focused on the Welsh (Cymru) literary tradition, tracking the evolution of culture through poetry. Normally, yawn, but considering that I was learning about my birthright (Muerig Family, ten generations back; we have a castle on Angellsey), I was pretty captivated.

My English Seminar turned out to be a Poetry writing class. With the exception of my first poem being termed ‘unsalvageable’, it was a good class, all in all. I actually just assembled my final portfolio tonight, to hand in tomorrow. What else can I say; I’m not a poet. I don’t understand poetry; at best, I throw words at a page and hope to avoid the fallout.

The Medieval Castle, you’ve heard enough about, in that I’ve told you all about Keiren O’Conor. Well, maybe not ‘all’; I have a final paper due in that class, a ten pager due on May first. Well, I wanted to travel until May first, so I sent him an e-mail; ‘cry cry could do it cry cry not my best work cry cry three day extension’. I get an e-mail back; “You didn’t come to Ireland to write papers, you came to see Europe. Here's my home address, just send it to me, say by the 15th”. Best. Teacher. Ever.

A History of Two Irelands, I checked out of about a month ago. I still went, Lord knows why, but I certainly didn’t take any notes; I’d use the time to compose blog posts, or write some screenplay ideas, or just doodle; mostly doodle. It takes a certain kind of special professor to bleach 70 years of strife of all things mildly interesting, but Stutterin’ John Cunningham, you win the big one. And despite all this, I still got an A on my midterm essay.

The Rise and Fall of Rome; what a great class. I’m a legit fan of Roman history, due to both the fascinating subject matter and the charisma of the teacher, Adjunct Prof. Matt Peacock; its to bad he wasn’t rehired for next year. After three years, they decided to not even consider him for a full time position, so he’s back to England (He’s British; I think it was racism). Bleary eyed, unshaved, on the last day he cussed out all his bosses, gave us the questions for the final, and ducked out for the pub. A more fitting and apt response I’d be hard pressed to find. What a good man, who got treated absolutely wretchedly by the system.

Celtic Myth and Folk Lore “...is just a grand time” I had said. Oh goodness, how mistaken I could be. This, along with 2 Irelands, were the great gaps in my week. At least Prof. Lillis O’Loarie’s fault lie in his soothing monotone brogue, rather then his incessant stutter. Side note, the TA for my discussion section, Aofia; totally crushing on, and a super hero nerd to boot.

That's my world at the moment. We now return you to your regularly scheduled flashback. Oh, and here's a picture of Liisa and I:

Chapter Seven: Krakow? More like Kra-Wow!

... but the rest of the country? Not so much. But there I go, jumping ahead again. From the top.


At the price of .01 Euro, James 'Jimbo' Theinart, Patrick 'Peabody' Boyd and myself flew to the Polish city of Lodz (pronounced Woodge); our goal? Adventure. We'd already been on the road for 12 hours, with a three hour bus to the Shannon Airport here in Ireland, 'sleeping' on a bench for another 5, then a 4 hour flight. Now, we knew next to nothing about Poland; they attacked the invading Nazi's on horseback, and Krakow is 'The New Prague'- that was about it.

The information desk (labeled in both Polish and English) couldn't speak english. The bus driver couldn't speak english. Now, we didn't expect heavy conversations, but one does expect a basic level of understanding given a degree of pointing and hand gestures, but no; the people of Lodz seemed almost vehemently opposed to making the effort, almost as if it was insulting. We had though, 'hey, lets check out Lodz on our way to Krakow, see two Polish cities'. Create in your mind, if you will, an image using the following words: Communist - Eastern - Europe. Congratulations, you just took a trip to Lodz. Industrial apartment complexes, dirty streets, oppressive weather, billowing factories, and the most recent paint on every surface, the graffiti. We decided to give it a pass. Luckily, two Poles (on their way out of Lodz as well) took pity on our wide eyed American faces and let us follow them to the bus station; they even put us on the bus to Krakow. The seven hour bus to Krakow.

Before we continue our little narrative, you should know that, though Poland is in the EU, it still uses it's native currency, the Zoltych (or Zoley, Zoltar, or Zoltan, depending on our mood). Zoltych to Euro: 4 to 1. And yet, nothing is marked up; a 40 euro per night hostel will cost you 40 Zoltans in Krakow... keep this in mind.


Krakow is one of the oldest cities of Europe to escape the ravages of The War. It's the home of Copernicus, Pope/ Saint John Paul II (JPII, to the Polish, more Rockstar then clergyman), and Wavel Castle, one of the 8 'chakra points' of the world, along with Mecca and Jerusalem. The streets are old, the buildings, older, with most pubs in forgotten gothic cellars, and parts of the original city wall still poking out of the grass. We Love It!

How do your describe an Awesome Weekend? To recount it minute by minute wouldn't be dull, such was our fun, and yet we both have lives beyond this journal that we must be returning to all to quickly (it’s free bowling night with purchase of a pint; what a deal!). So, in the interest of brevity, let me present you with a series of select short stories and captured moments, the choice cuts of entertainment. May I present Collin, James and Patrick in...

------------The Really Awesome Meal-------------

Our first night, we're bleary eyed, tired, woozy, and forefront on our minds is our stomachs, which haven't been filled in over 20 hours. We decided to treat ourselves to something nice. Swanky, though we were in our t-shirts and jeans. We chose a real class place, Italian or French, not too far from our hostel.
"Djen Dobre" (Hello)
"Err.... Hi?"
"Ah, Englesh. Hello. Ta-bowl fort Tree?"
After Lodz, any english was good enough. Smiles all around, we sit down. Our waitress (what a cutie) couldn't tell us the size of the steaks they offered; she could only make a shape with her hands; larger then a human head.
"We'll take three".
Carpaccio, soup, bread, Steaks (Porterhouse, about 20 oz. i'd guess, drizzled in a mushroom sauce), roast vegetables, potatoes, 2 rounds of beer, 3 rounds of Jagermeister, and for dessert, Tiramisu, with complimentary glasses of champaign. The price? 120 Zoley each, 30 Euro, about 45 American. We felt like Kings, Mad Tyrant Kings who could have anything they desired for pennies, and we lived the rest of the weekend accordingly.


---------- Patrick gets the Pole's Pole--------------

We're walking back to our hostel, a walk which cuts us through a parking lot, complete with traffic cones. James leans over to me, and slurs, "We should steal them"
"Wha? ....No" I reply.
My opinion apparently doesn't figure highly in James' rational, because he grabs one and sprints for it. I roll my eyes in disgust, until I see from the corner of my eye a 50 year old, burley security guard, wielding a large plastic pole like a club; I run like hell. Patrick, unfortunately, wasn't privy to any of this. All he realized was that his friends were gone, and an angry man was bearing down on him wielding a club and screaming in Klingon.
100 yard's away by now, I hear screams of "GOBBTY FLURGITY GOOK!!!" and Patrick’s plaintive "It wasn't me, it was HIM!", over and over, followed by the thud of a blunt object against squishy human parts. I run back (can’t leave a man behind) and return the cone; Pat is in battle mode, ready to start something, which from mild mannered Paddy was quite a shock. I scream at him through his rising blood lust to “walk away!” (I think the Guard liked that, my yelling at Pat) and make supplicating gestures to the guard while backing away, like one would deal with a wild cougar, or madman.
Patrick had a bruise on his arm for a week. Good times!
Epilogue: When I got back to the hostel, the Germans who were staying in our room with us had these pissed and disgusted looks on their faces.
"Err, what's up guys?"
"You friend? He vomited on the wall."
James had crawled into bed (top bunk), but after a bit had felt alittle off, so he spit on the wall, no big deal. Except it wasn't spit; it was vomit. To his credit, after I woke him up and explained the situation, he helped me clean it up; we did a pretty good job actually, using various cleaning tools and soaps.

Now, it's not good to vomit on a wall. True. But you know what? Sometimes it happens. The German's didn't seem to understand that. In fact, I believe the quote of the night was, "Americans. The only things they do well are making war and vomiting". Right then was when I stopped caring about their sensitive little noses; they almost got a quick history lesson- Americans do one other thing well; kick European tush.

---------- Trips out of the City---------------------

It wasn't all debauchery; I swear it wasn't. We spent a day in Wavel Castle, and took two day trips while we were there, out to the Salt Mines, and to Auschwitz. I really don't want to talk about Auschwitz too much; it's everything you think it is, and then worse. James said it best by tagging it, "The most evil place on Earth", and I in no way disagree.

The Salt Mines? Not evil at all. In fact, fairly jolly. They're these incredibly deep mines that Polish peasants had been working for something like afew hundred years. They'd spend so much time in the mines that they carved statues, rooms, and even chapels out of the salt itself. Once the mine was closed, two artisans turned one of the larger caverns into a cathedral, which you can rent out for parties, weddings or concerts. "Where are you guys playing tonight?" "Oh, you know, The Salt Cathedral".
For some reason, I couldn't stop licking the walls; while unsanitary, the guide had encouraged us to give it a try, and well, i couldn't stop. It was like walking through a house of candy, only the candy was.... salt.
And Wavel Castle, well, was also cool, two highlights being the Armory and the Dragon. The Armory was filled with what you’d expect from a European collection, though my eyes were particularly drawn to some excellent fencing blades, and a curiously large number of gun/sword hybrids, which i thought had been condemned as utterly impractical; no one told the Polish i guess. The Dragon? Well, take a look:


-----------Poland Wants us Gone------------------

It was weird, but the city that had welcomed us so kindly, after three days, excluded almost a palpable malice. Maybe the Polish just really hate mondays, but by the end of our time there, frankly, we wanted out. We went to a dessert shop; my chocolate tort was uncuttable by knife or fork, nearing the consistency of leather. While we were eating, this little boy offered to sell us postcards. Of course, we declined, to which he took a moment, perhaps searching for just the very best answer: "You Motherf@ckers". And then he just strutted off, while our less then stellar desserts fell from our agape mouths. Leaving our shopping to the last day, all the souvenirs that had seemed so enticing turned into the cheapest of knockoffs, and the salesmen, charlatans and con artists; "This is two hundred year old Polish sword" "... since when is Honk Kong in Poland?".

And then, even on the train as we made our escape, the ticket collector comes buy, and harangues James and Pat for having their feet on the seat (not me though, I guess I'm just too class). He asks for their passports; he's going to write them tickets. He drags them away, and then, rather then give them a ticket (which he had apparently just scribbled on a piece of scratch paper), he rubbed his fingers together and slurred like a stereotype; "Money Money". Get us out of here!

So, that was Poland. Three weeks ago. What's happened since then? How did Paddy's day go? Find out, err... Soon!

Chapter Six: Rag Week

This blog isn't for everything. It's not for day dreams, or song lyrics. It's not for poetry (and oh yes, there has been poetry). It's not for deep, troubled introspection, not that I have much depth to trouble. It's for that reason, the exclusivity of this blog, that certain adventures get omitted. For that reason, this entry could read thusly:

"Once again, I got sick. This time, it was a rather crippling case of stomach flu that kept me in cold sweats and time trials to and from the bathroom. Now I am well, except for a sore throat and swollen lymph glands."

But that wouldn't be honest; it wouldn't be fair. There are aspects of life here that can't be brushed under the rug just because you're uncomfortable with our liberated European ways. I can't, in good conscious, ignore my Irish heritage just because of what you may think; judge me if you must, but know that you judge a glorious culture, with a glorious tradition.

"Collin", you say, "To what tradition do you refer?"

The tradition I refer to is called Ragweek, and is a right of passage for all Irish students. The goal is nothing more or less then to be drunk. For a week. Dawn to Dusk.

Let me tell you right now that I couldn't do it; the onslaught of the aforementioned stomach flu, yes, but I really haven't been drinking all that much, at least not to excess. 3 or 4 nights at the pub a week, and then it's only 3 or 4 pints, maybe; with Guiness like a meal, we're talking buzzed, at best. To be drunk for the amount of time Ragweek demands is not only financially infeasable, but a horrible health risk. But perhaps I should just tell my story.

Part of the fun of Ragweek is that almost every student does it; thus, the professors know that their classes are going to be empty, and having Ragweeked themselves in their youth, don't want to harsh anyone's buzz. So classes are basically canceled for a week. Thus, come Monday, Pat and I feel totally fine about tipping afew cold ones back at noon and keeping it up through the early evening. Slowly, his few Irish roommates become more and more, and soon we have 9 guys in his house. Now, we're buzzed, but they're hammered, and have been that way for hours. Two guys get into a fight in the hall over a vacuum; i think I saw another guy's junk. The point is, it's a good time. They all head out, but Pat and I want pizza.


We hunt pizza. We hunt pizza girl. Pizza girl offers us Garlic Sauce for our pies; the guys know what that means, but for the ladies, when a cute girl offers you anything, anything at all, you say yes. Pat and I consume our garlicky delicious pizza's, quite happily, and head off to a pub. And head back home. Our tummy's weren't feeling good. I crash on Pat's floor. Perhaps it was the fact that we each ate 16 inch pizza's; maybe it was the 12 hours of casual drinking; my bet is that the Garlick sauce was probably left out all day (just like all creamer, grossly enough). Regardless, Pat and I moan and groan out of both ends for almost an hour before we fall asleep. Until 2; that's when his roommates get home. Remember that they've been not just drinking, but tanked, for almost 18 hours; the first thing we hear is a chair being thrown down the hall, later, we hear breaking glass. They commence running around the house for the next 4 hours, until they all black out or combust around 6.

When we wake up, this is what we find. Just take these in for a minute.





That's a chair that was lit on fire. The bottles were just hurled against the wall with Nirvana fueled abandon. Someone peed on a chair. Plainly put, Irish youth are like animals. And their capacity to drink has been, if anything, underrated. It's like they've been bred to drink, like it's their genetic imperative; it's as if God Himself hid these people away on an island far from anything, specifically so that he could one day go drinking at a pub where everyone could match him shot for shot. Animals.

Tuesday sucked. My Ragweek was already blown, because I couldn't imagine touching a beer, let alone going out. I stayed in, napped, and eventually went to Mel and Elizabeth's (from Belfast), where Mel made us Jumbalya. My mouth had forgotten what spicy tasted like. Note to all Californians: When I get back, the name of the game is Burritos, the bigger the better. Then i went home and watched Firefly with my flatmates. That night, my stomach cramped up again, this time i think from my trip to flavor country.

Wednesday seems to have escaped me. I'm sure this is do to a complete dearth of interest, rather then the onset of dementia or abuse of the drink. We might have something with that dementia idea, actually...

Thursday, feeling better, I bought a bottle of a Tonic Wine called Buckfast; made by monks, it's this syrupy sweet wine that's beloved by the Irish for it's inebriative qualities. Pat and I began early (by American standards; the Irish were already drunk), and at about half a bottle i was close to smashing it against my own head. We went bowling, which was fun, and at that point i'm feeling pretty lousy, a mix of booze and some kind of demon that had apparently begun to incubate in my small intestines. As we left, i stole my bowling shoes. I'm not proud of it, but i've always wanted a pair of bowling shoes, and i'm trying to be more impulsive. Also, the demon may have been influencing me.

Then, for the next two days, i did time trials... ah yes, we're caught up.

I just wrote an essay for my History of Two Irelands in the 20th Century class, 4 pages. It was the first work i've done all semester. I almost enjoyed it. Almost.

Chapter Five: Dungeons and Dublin

I told myself that I wouldn't post again until I could do it from my own computer. Well, between this, that and the other (read: 800 euro importation tax, refundable when I leave) it's taken me awhile to get it. Then, when it was gotten, I was forced (forced I tells ya!) to catch up on all the television I'd missed. Mission accomplished. And now I'm here.


Lets take a trip back to a few weekends ago, to my Castles fieldtrip. Now, to understand the fieldtrip, you must understand the man behind the fieldtrip; Keiren O'Conner. The very image of the absentminded professor, he is, in fact, the direct descendant of of the last High King of Ireland. He goes home to his own castle in Co. Mayo, and refuses to excavate certain castle sites because they were once owned by his family. We think that on weekends he paints himself with Woad and single handily defends Ireland's shores. Anyway.

The first castle we tried to get to was blocked off, due to rally car races; if any of us weren't such huge nerds, we would have known that. The second castle we couldn't get into, due to the caretaker's mother having just died. But the third castle...

...or "Towerhouse" (twelfth century), was totally awesome. Its seems so simple, just two stories and a roof, with various arrow loops and murder holes, but it was just grand. We all decided that we must have one.



The fourth castle, funny story, I'd actually been too on my last trip to Ireland. However, I'd had to keep a respectful distance, due to the imposing barbed wire fence. Not so Keiren. He just found us a section to hop over, and away we went. Conamara Castle, circa 11th century I believe, is little more then a ruin now, but you can see from the earthworks how massive it must have been. You're an invading barbarian, and you have to run up a 40 foot hill, only to be faced with a 20 foot wooden wall at the top, archers raining arrows down the whole time? Tough gig.

Now, Pat and I had wanted to go to Dublin that weekend, to see a cool concert (The Decemberists) and visit his friends. But we also didn't want to miss the field trip. So, after Conamara, Keiren had his lead TA drive us to the nearest train station. How great is that? He was really concerned that we'd miss our train too, hurrying everyone along, just adorable.

Dublin was much bigger then I'd remembered. Its still rather tasteless, but it's just huge. Funny tangent; the house doors are all painted different colors. This is so that when the Husbands come home blind drunk, they can just tell the taxi, 'Blue door... blue dwarrr....". Good system.


The concert was pretty great; i missed alittle, but it was still worth it. Then we met up with Pat's Dublin friends, friend's from high school actually, and we went to a good old American house party. And then walked 4 miles to their house, because they were too bleary to remember how to get there faster. All the while carrying Pat's friend, who had just been dumped. But I was feeling no pain, so all's well, right?

The floor i slept on was heated. They had heated walls. It was the polar opposite of my own place (which i'm actually doing better with, thanks).

Dublin wasn't really much new for me, having seen the three interesting things before. Book of Kells (oldest complete Bible, fully illustrated), Old Post Office (home of the 1916 rebellion) big Needle thing in town (Why a 100 meter tall spike in the center of your downtown? Who knows...) St. Stephan's green (park) and the world's greatest slide guitarist, who was just on the street and blew our minds for almost 40 minutes. On the train back, we stocked up on chips and beer and Pat taught me to play Texas Hold-um.

Flash forward: Last night. James (different James) and I went to see another of my professors sing tradition Irish folk songs in a pub. It was very soothing. Mom, if you had been there, you would have jumped up and joined in, I'm sure, and for once it would have been completely appropriate. Then we went and got beers bigger then my head.

Chapter Four: The N.Irish Get Me Sick

My oh my, it's been awhile dear friend. No, don't worry, I haven't forgotten about you; oh no, pull up your chair, bundle yourself up in that fancy duvet you've got yourself, and lets hear a tale.

I went to Belfast and got sick. Then I got well.
That story wasn't very good; let me elaborate.

First off, it turns out that the Irish do, in fact, have house parties. What they don't have is drinking games; we did our best to teach them Kings (the great uniter) but they couldn't quite wrap their adorable minds around the concept of waiting to drink until you lose. "How's drinking a punishment?" How indeed, my Irish compatriots, how indeed. That was two Thursdays ago.

The next day, we (60 international students including good friends Patrick and James, James who is a married grad student with the exact same hat as myself and a 3 year old he's teaching to swear- best dad ever) piled into a bus on a trip to Belfast, land of the troubles. I'm going to skip the 9 hour bus ride, just saying that the bus driver probably had a hangover just as large as ours, and jump right into Belfast itself.

For those who don't know, Belfast is the capital of North Ireland, which is it's own country, completely separate from The Republic of Ireland, and part of the U.K. (think of it like this; Ireland hates the Queen, North Ireland loves the Queen). The first think we noticed in Belfast (besides the IRA graffiti tag), was that Belfast felt more like London then Galway, or even Dublin. Wide, straight streets, tall buildings, rude people- it really was a different country. What did we do when we got there? Come now friend, you should know me well enough by now; we went drinking. We hunkered down in this little pub called FibberMagees, the traditional section of a five part "super pub", and settled down for a nice pint. After awhile we made best friends with the old Irish women next to us (Len, oh Len, we love ya) who must have been drinking since 5, and basically we just jawed for hours. There was a club down stairs, which I danced within, then came back up and danced to the house band, which played every 'Irish' song you could think of (from 'Come on Eileen', to 'Zombie' by the Cranberries). One interesting thing about Belfast is that it's fine to smoke inside a pub, which you eventually forget about entirely, until you shake your clothes out the next day, to discover that you had, in fact, partied in flavor country all night. We drank with Americans (Elizabeth and Mel), we drank with french (Jim and Alexandra) there were even lovely Finnish girls (Liisa and Yanicka, my dancing partners). A good time was had by all, until James realized he'd been buying everyone drinks for the evening- we thought he was just being generous.

We took a tour of Belfast the next day; a black cab tour. We all know about the troubles. I mean, we all know that there are troubles, but the specifics escape us. Let me tell you. Belfast has a wall, running between the Protestant and Catholic sections of town. On the protestant side, there's a collection of murals depicting heroes of the Ulster Freedom Force and other such pro-protestant regiments. These include a mural to a man nick-named 'Top Gun', who is a swarthy dude you do not want as an enemy. Well, head down Shankill road, through the wall, and into the Catholic district. The Catholic district has a memorial, with acouple hundred names, everyone who's fallen from the troubles. Our guide pointed out about 10 of the last column- these were people that Top Gun, the man hailed as a hero not a half mile away, had killed. Some of these men were IRA supports, but many where just whoever he could find driving around- an old man coming out for the paper, a woman walking her kids to school. And the IRA is just as bad to the Protestants. That's the Troubles. It kind of floored us.

I found a comic book store in Belfast. Of no interest to anyone, I'm sure, but it was two levels, toys and back issues, a slice of home that made me just abit sick (in the good sense).

The last day we went to the Giant's Causeway, which is the large run of Columnar Joints (I did learn something last year!) that runs from North Ireland into Scotland. The story goes that the Giant Finn McCool built it to challenge the largest Scottish giant to battle, but when he got there, Finn had to run off, because he was clearly outclassed by the much larger Scottish giant. Well, the scotch giant followed him home, and Finn McCool's wife dressed little Finn as a baby, to hide him. When the Scotch giant saw the 'baby', he could only picture how big the Dad must be, and ran off himself, tearing the causeway up behind him. By Irish standards, that's a win.

Needless to say, N.Ireland is a cold, windy place. We all looked forward to the relative warmth of Galway, and we all know how much I've been whining about that. On the bus ride home, I got cold, then shivery, then, yes, feverish. For the next three days I shook and moaned in my cold room, quite sick, and when I eventually made it to the doctor I was told 'Bronchitis'. Bah. I'm fine now, and it makes recounting last week easy-

I did nothing. I was sick.

My computer is being held hostage by Customs. I chafe to know what all my favorite chums are up to, like Jim and Pam, Adama and Starbuck, Matt and Jordan, and who could forget the that adorable tyke J.D.? I also miss real people. But less so. Except for Dan- someone please hug him for me.

Until next time my dearies, have a hot coco for me.

Interlude One: A walk by the Sea

Perhaps you've heard, but the Irish enjoy beer.

Now, I don't want to alarm anyone, but I do as well. It may amuse you to hear that, much like we look upon a Guinness back home and think, 'Ah, the delicious novelty'so to do the Irish look upon, say, a Bud Lite. When you corner one of them and demand to know what hair brained logic leads them to savor that watery and tasteless brew, he'll inevitably look you calmly in the eye and tell you, 'American television told me it was the King of Beers". The Irish, Ladies and Gentlemen.

Afew nights ago I met an Irish Chap at a pub named James (the chap, not the pub), a single serving friend. It turns out he has a Grandma Kelly, who recently passed. He then became convinced we were lost cousins, and didn't let my glass run dry all night; the next morning, I'd wished he had. The Irish men are easy to meet; by 10 at night at any pub, you're practically peeling them off. Its the women that are giving me trouble.

I under the firm belief that I missed the day in middle school where all the young boys were taught how to talk to the opposite sex. Its the only explanation I've been able to come up with. An example, to illustrate:
I was at the comicbook shop, as is my want, perusing (and I use the term correctly, fellow bibliophiles; "to examine intensely")the action figures, when I saw, from the corner of my eye, a comely Irish lass. Now, regardless of the country you're in, a girl in a comic shop is a rarity; a cute one is unheard of. I noticed that she was casually fingering through the Neil Gaimen trades. Now, Neil Gaimen's bibliography is not only something I can discuss indepth, but I can discuss it with some flare and elegance; the perfect set up.
"So, have you read much Gaimen?"
"A bit"
...
"Cool"
...
And that was it. When it was apparent that no other words were going to flop out of my agape mouth, she walked off, as shocked as I was that I had been completely unable to form a second thought. If I can strike out at a Comicbook Store, I think I need to seriously consider handing in my man card. Perhaps donate it to someone who could actually do something with it, like Rachel.

Over the weekend I walked to the sea with Pat; it was very romantic, a fact that we felt forced to constantly bring up, to our mutual discomfort. However, we did find the loneliest Palm tree in Ireland, which I imagine is constantly thinking to itself, 'Why oh why did I have to be different and float north alone". I could sympathize.

It turns out that the Irish have went and made the perfect food while the rest of us weren't paying attention; Shepard's Pie. It's meat, in sauce, bounded on all sides by potatoes of many varieties, and then topped with more potatoes. What do I want most in my meal? How about, Meat and Potatoes?
Done. Roll me home.

Chapter Three: The Long Week

(Technical note: I've adjusted it so that you don't have to have a blogger acount to comment. So everyone should say something, even if it's just 'hey smelly, get a haircut').

I've been here for just under two weeks, and I'm doing pretty good. Really, as well as can be expected, which isn't great, but isn't really that bad.

I haven't meant any Irish students yet, which is odd, considering that this is their university; I'm convinced that they don't actually go to school. However, I'm confident this will remedy itself in the next few weeks, as my smaller classes start up, along with clubs and fencing (oh fencing, I miss you).

The weather is still garbage, but walking to school today I realized that it's really no big deal. I'm fully capable of dealing with some moist rain, and the fact is, when it's really bad, it's not like the Irish are immune to it themselves, they're just as miserable as I am. Plus, my room is getting warmer and warmer (or perhaps I'm getting colder and colder, who knows).

My room. Yes, I'm living with The Germans; Ben, Mattaius, and Andrea. They're good people, really nice, who are all hip deep in major mid year projects. I'm told that once those are done next week, we're throwing a "No more essays/Welcome the New Roomate/Ben's Birthday" house party, something they were infamous for last semester-I feel like I've chosen my home well.

Classes are all good. I've settled on four of the six I have to take, the two not having started yet being Welsh History (which is going to be a very small and fun class, if the professor is any indication) and some English Seminar class, which will probably be a film class (what a dork). The other classes I'm taking are The Medieval Castle, which meets everyday for a month and then ends, The Two Irelands of the Twentieth Century, which I view as an investigation into this whole "North Ireland" malarky, The Rise and Fall of Rome, the professor of which teaches the class with a Roman Gladius as a pointer, and Celtic Myth and Folklore, which is just a grand time. Between those classes, I'm going to have two field trips; one around Ireland to see castle sites, and the other to Rome and Greece for 4 days. That, my friends, is why we study in Europe.

I've even made new friends (acquaintances, really) with other international students. A young man from USC, Pat Boyd, and I have become oh such good Friends, though back home we'd probably never speak, let alone be known as 'Pat and Collin'.

So what's bad? I have, literally, 20 Euro in my pocket, and that's it. I have a credit card, but that only works half the time, and then only at larger establishments. So I have no money, which means no shopping, which means no food, warm blankets or comic books (I'll let you determine which of those are most important). I don't want to be a cry baby, I'm sure everything will work out (certain processes have been put into motion) but still, it's kind of lame.

And my feet hurt.

Pat and I determined that this really is as close to America you can get abroad. The most foreign concepts here are really just their position on heating their buildings, and that's a pretty easy one to wrap your head around. That and the fact that T.V. is treated like something to do after the pub, which in my opinion is completely turned around. So far, the culture shock has been pretty negligible. Then again, this might be a false read on the situation; perhaps by next Wednesday I'll be a blubbering heap.

But that, friends, is a story for the future.