a public service announcement

For anyone who has any ambitions to travel, EVER, please allow me to provide you with a possible destination- Ireland.  I promise, you will never regret it.

We didn't have class last Friday, so most of us took advantage of the long weekend and set off to other places around Europe.  Some went to Barcelona, Amsterdam, Edinburgh, but a few friends and I chose Galway, Ireland.  Why Galway, you ask?  I definitely got a few incredulous "Galway? Why Galway?" comments from my host family and our program director.  After a few preliminary google image searches (yes, that is, in fact, the level of sophistication I use to make major life decisions), we realized that there really was no other choice.  Quaint and colorful streets, rolling green hillsides, the Cliffs of Moher, and castles.  LOTS of castles.  It also happens to be the birthplace of the "claddagh" ring that pretty much anyone of Irish descent owns, and is right next to the Aran Islands, which are famous for producing those unbelievably warm and perfect Irish wool sweaters.  What's not to love?

So, last Thursday, off we went.  Tube, train, plane, cab.  I received my first ever stamp in my passport at the Shannon airport and then we were picked up by our very own cab driver, Pat #1 (both cab drivers we had that weekend were named Pat), who met us with a sign that said "Meeting Samantha Weber."  No big deal, they love me there.  A particularly surly Eastern European man checked us into our hostel, but after that, every single person we met in Galway proved that Irish people are SO friendly.  Our waiters, the ladies working at the wool sweater stores, our tour bus driver, Billy- all unfailingly kind and talkative.

Billy is the man responsible for convincing me that Ireland is the most magical place in the world (apart from Harry Potter world, obviously).  Sure, the full Irish breakfasts, the Bailey's coffee, and the pilots and flight attendants-themed stag party we encountered were all great, but the places we got to go on our bus tour were incomparable.  I can't attest to the rest of Ireland, but the Western coast is straight out of a fairytale.  There's no way real people live there, they all must secretly be sprites and warlocks and princesses.  Simply saying the names of the towns we drove through- places like Lisdoonvarna and Ballylaghan, make me feel as if I'm casting a spell.  We saw a bunch of old castles, usually with some sort of creepy legend attached to them, and a few faerie forts.  They have faeries! With an underground network and secret powers and special enchanted trees! The entire landscape was crisscrossed with mortarless stone walls, which looked as if they had been magically summoned there centuries ago.  As enchanting as all of this was, though, my favorite part of the weekend was our visit to the Cliffs of Moher.  These 700 foot sheer cliffs are the ones featured in the horcrux-in-a-cave scene in the sixth Harry Potter movie.  You just can't get more magical than that.  The sun was finally fighting through the rain clouds, the endless rock faces were reigning over the tumultuous sea below, and the wind- well, the wind was just having a party.  Near the highest point of the cliffs, it was most likely gusting at speeds of almost 70 mph.  I'm not even exaggerating, it completely blew out the windshield of another tour bus earlier in the day.  People were walking diagonally, struggling against an invisible opponent, while spluttering through the sea spray and desperately clutching to railings and small children.  It seemed like Mother Nature was attempting to erase the entire landscape and start over.  It was freezing, it was ridiculous, but most of all, it was a complete blast.  Most people towards the top were just laughing hysterically at the absurdity of it all.

I do hope to go back there one day during slightly milder weather, but for now, I'm more than satisfied with my brief stint in Ireland.  Honestly, I can't be more serious when I say that everyone should try to make it there at some point.  Everything about it is endearing and beautiful.  Except for black pudding, maybe not that.  If you don't know what it's made of, give it go on the ol' google machine and try to keep down your lunch.  Besides that, I couldn't be happier with my first foray into the rest of the EU!

the gospel according to joan

            I’ve been in the land of queens and tea for a week now, and believe me, it’s been a whirlwind.  It’s important to note that I’ve spent the past week in a constant state of awe, a foolish grin perpetually plastered to my face.  Since taking off in New York, in fact, I think I’ve had that half-dazed, happy go lucky look.  And yes, in case anyone was wondering, I did indeed listen to the song “London Calling” as my plane swallowed its landing craft back up.  No shame, I’m just happy to be here. 

In the past seven days, I’ve successfully learned how to ride the tube, perfected my listening skills so that I can understand everything my fabulous host family says (most of the time), learned some ways to obscure a bit of the flashing “American” sign constantly hanging around my neck, and consumed countless cups of tea.  That’s one British stereotype that’s absolutely true.  I think they might actually have tea in their veins, instead of blood.  

Over a cup of the British elixir the other night, I got to meet one of my host family’s matriarchs—the almost 90-year-old Joan, or “Nan,” to everyone else.  I could honestly sit and listen to this lady talk for hours; she was fascinating.  Call it a naïve case of ethnocentrism, but I never thought to consider how different living through WWII would have been for people here in the UK than it was for Americans.  Nan told us stories about sleeping in the tube tunnels and hearing bomb fragments drop on top of the bus she was riding during an air raid.  The remarkable thing was, she said all of this with a laugh, as if she were just relaying a joke.  Diane, my host mom, looked horrified and my roommate and I tried to bridge the gap between humoring the old woman and hiding our own disbelief at her flippancy. 

Then, Joan said something I don’t think I’ll ever forget.   “We still had ourselves some fun.  I just lived for the day.”  And I thought to myself, if this woman can say that about living through airstrikes and war rations, I can certainly live that way today.  She also told me to “Make up your mind about what you want to do, and go do it”—Joan’s just chock full of wisdom, she should have her own daytime talk show.  So, from here on out, my semester in London will be governed by the gospel according to Joan.  In addition to what she’s told me, I’ve come up with a few of my own rules to guide myself as I stumble through cultural nuances and public transportation systems:

1.   Stop being late.  If you know me well, you know that these are really fightin’ words.  Friends at home frequently refer to my own personal clock as “Sam Weber time,” and know to expect me at least ten to fifteen minutes after I say I’ll be somewhere.  A friend recently told me that this is “unbecoming,” but I really hate being early to things.  I am not a patient person and frankly, I would rather swallow thumbtacks than wait for anything.  It wasn’t until a few months ago, when a girl I barely knew identified me as “the girl that’s always late for geology class,” that I realized maybe it’s time for me to stop being that girl.  Also, I’ve been told that our professors here think American students are exceedingly rude, for reasons including unreliable punctuality.  So, take this as my promise to the world—my habitual tardiness is a thing of the past.

2.   Don’t complain.  No matter how much I dislike a certain professor, how confusing the night bus system is, or how much I want the Dr. Pepper to taste like it does in America, whining isn’t going to make it any better.  You just have to roll with it.  I’m in London, for heaven’s sake, there isn’t actually anything to complain about if I look at the big picture—really, I’m just happy to be here.  I’m kind of a big whiner, so this one’s going to be a work in progress.  My friends are going to like me so much more when I get back home.

3.  Don’t say no.  I’ve already caught myself almost choosing to go home instead of embracing spontaneity and exploring the city.  If someone asks me to go see something cool, or try something new, I promise that my answer will always be yes.  Obviously, this does not apply to sketchy men in dark alleyways. 

4.  Don’t do anything that I could do at home.  This is a given.  Anytime I go somewhere, I always try to avoid chains and such that could be found around Erie, PA.  That means no Starbucks and no “MacDonald’s” (as the Brits refer to the golden arches we Americans are so fond of).  Also, no sitting around on my computer while there is an entire city waiting to be admired.

5.  This is sort of an inverse of #4, but it’s just as important to make sure I do all the things that I could only do here in London.  Some people may be too cool to play tourist, but not me.  I wear my camera around my neck and a constant expression of awe upon my face with pride.  Tourist attractions must be popular for a reason; if I don’t see them all, I think I would regret it after returning home.  This means I need to go ahead and take all the obligatory tourist pictures (i.e. standing in a red telephone booth, trying to get a Buckingham Palace guard to smile with me), buy the kitschy shot glasses, ogle at Big Ben and the Tower of London, and eat fish and chips.  Of course, I won’t always being wearing my “Annoying American Tourist” hat, but I don’t think there’s any harm in doing it every once and a while. 

I think that sums up my rules and regulations for the semester.  Too many would make it seem like actual school.  JUST KIDDING, this semester actually promises to be more academically rigorous than a normal semester back in the good ol' North Country.  That's another story, though.  I'll let you know how my rules go, but until then, just imagine me hanging out with the Queen.  I've heard that Kate and William need a babysitter.