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.

Chapter Two: The Land of Cold and Damp

It's cold here. Cold and wet. And windy. No one turns on their heaters, for fear of using up their precious 'oil'. Subsequently, when you're walking outside, which you have to do from time to time, you're probably pretty warm; you're physically exerting yourself, and you're bundled up in 9 layers of wool and scotchguard. The wind is blowing you over, which teams up with the rain to hide the frozen tears pouring down your face, which have nothing to do with sadness and everything to do with the wind and rain. Then, when you get back to your 'flat', and peal off your layers... you want to do nothing but put them right back on, because the Irish have this self-flagellatory instinct that keeps them from being warm, even in their own homes. They want to save what few Euros they have, presumably to purchase more Guinness at the Pub. Ironically, it's my theory that the reason they feel the constant need to drink is because it's the only way to chase out the cold that has sunken bone deep.



The Irish school system is, unique from its American counterpart. You don’t choose classes for the first 2 weeks; rather, you just go about, taking what you want, trying them all out. They’d hate to have you sign up for a class that was less then what you expected; that wouldn’t be fair.

None of their classes have a single assignment due, the entire semester, nor is any of the reading required. Rather, your entire grade is based on a 3 hour exam, or an essay, generally either/or. The essay is generally around 2,000-4,000 words.
That’s about 6 pages.

I don’t want to sound condescending of their adorable education system, but compare that to USC, any American University really, where 3-5 page essays are due biweekly, along with assignments, mandatory readings, midterms, finals, and a 15-30 page final paper. It’s no wonder none of them come to study with us.

I’m still ‘crashing’ with Ms. Peck, however, tomorrow I meet her friend Ben, who may have a room to let. Ben and his 4 housemates are German. Ben has a red, chinstrap beard, and long, wavy blond hair. I’m to go over to their (hopefully my) home tomorrow evening, to meet everyone, but I feel like it will all go down swimmingly. We shall see.

Next Time: I Invade The Germans!

Chapter One: An Inauspicious Beginning

It was the last night of 2006 and I was a mere 6 hours from a flight that was going to carry me half a world away from anything remotely close to my 'comfort zone'. I still needed to pack. I still needed bus tickets. I remembered being excited to travel abroad, but that had been 5 months previous, when it had been just one of many hair brained schemes, like driving to the beach at midnight, or pan frying hot dogs. Now my hand had been called, and I had to follow through with my braggart's claims.
Plane Ticket? Check.
Clothes? Check.
Passport? Check.
Acceptance Confirmation? ....

Could it be true? Could I have really been that careless, to be mere hours from travelling to Ireland, a country that's not at all America, and yet have absolutely no hard evidence that I actually had a berth waiting for me when I arrived?

Oh yes friends. I could be.

The National University of Ireland, Galway Campus (NUI Galway from here on) had told me I was in, but I had never received a hard confirmation, a guide telling me when and were I should go, really anything that one would expect to received. Of course, it's New Years, a holiday the world over, and no one is in their offices.

Can I push my plane flight back, giving myself another day to confirm something, anything before shipping myself to the Far Side of the World? "No, sorry, not unless you'd like to pay 1200 dollars". Not on your life, Sister.

So I was packed, on a plane, and hurtling onwards towards my uncertain future. But did I panic? Well, yes. But it was that special brand of panic that I do so well, wherein I completely divorce myself from all possible consequences, a kind of hedonistic Zen.

On the plane the movie was The Queen: I question their choice to show a film about the British royalty on a flight full of Irish, but at least it distracted me from the fact that the sleep aides where doing nothing to knock me out.

At Dublin customs, the Garda in charge ("The Hated Garda", Irish police) and I had a chat:
"How can you be going to school? Where are your papers?"
"I don't have any papers, Sir."
"How can that be? The school knows, they must have sent you your papers. I'll turn you right around and throw you out of the country, so help me God I will."
"I'm sorry Sir, I must have forgotten them. I'm the confirmation of all lazy, incompetent American stereotypes perpetuated by our vapid Must See T.V.'
He let me through. It took everything I had to not spit back in his face, "Papers? I don't need no stinking Papers!"
I kept it to myself.

The bus to Galway stopped every 15 minutes, never once announcing what town we were rolling into. Perhaps because of the 3 hours of sleep I was running on, I choose the holistic approach; "the other people my age on the bus must be going to school too. I bet they know where I'm going. I'll just follow them." One day that logic is going to betray me- it hasn't yet. It also helped that Galway was the end of the line.



It only took 10 minutes off the bus to realize that, despite my fears, Galway was worth the trip; this town is adorable . Unfortunately, there were another 170 minutes before I could pass out, during which I got lost in the sudden, pounding rain. The rain didn't faze me; I stayed warm and dry in my fine new Hound’s-tooth Long Coat. However, the raw, blistering wind was a small shock, but judging by the number of Galwegean's wielding broken umbrellas, it was a shock to all.

I slept for 14 hours, only waking once, at 7, to inquire about breakfast from the front desk of my hostel. They thought it was odd that I wanted breakfast at night. With the sun only being up for about 8 hours here, I took this as a reminder to always check the AM/PM function of my watch.

The next day, I crossed paths with the estimable Ms. Kate Peck, USC Alumnus and former Fencer, who gained 1,000 points for offering me her flatmate's bed while her flatmate is still AWOL on Christmas break. She would have gotten 1,100 points if the bed had come with flatmate inclusive. Ms. Peck is a graduate student who enjoys being snarky, reading high concept vampire literature, and trying to find a job to support her [paused] drinking habit.

And then, it's orientation. I tremble, afraid with the distinct possibility that I would be going home far sooner then expected. The strongest reason I have to think that I belong is that USC didn't let me know otherwise; I'm willing to follow strangers across a country on a bus, but trusting USC to that degree seems foolhardy even to me. I find my advisor; I pour my heart out to her. I all but cry at her feet. Like a kindly den mother, she lifts me up, and looks me in the eyes:
"Of course you're registered; you're here, aren’t you?"



It turns out, NUI Galway hadn't sent anyone, anything. That’s just how they roll.
The Custom's policies had recently changed, hence why I had no papers.
As for the Hated Garda, he had to let me in to the country for at least 90 days, it's the law; he was just a jerk.

And that was the first half of my week. The Adventure is Over; Welcome to the Adventure.