Soak

Soak [verb] (se ow keh)

1. To make thoroughly wet or saturated by or as if by placing in liquid.
2. To take in or accept mentally, especially eagerly and easily

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It happened in a pub.

The musty booth was obtained.  The fish and chips were ordered.  The music was picking up.  The crowd soaked in Guinness from the inside out.  All was well.  And then the people in booth next to us – to my completely shock and horror - started talking to us.  Animatedly.  Interestedly.  Without pause.

My reaction: What the heck do you want? 

O'Shea's!  Packed with chatty tourist and locals alike.

In public, friendliness is a smile, a shared joke about poor service, a “don’t worry about it” if you have to move your chair for someone to walk by.  I believe that general concept is well understood in the States.  If not that exact wording, at least the sentiment of privacy even in crowded spaces.

Not here, not in the pubs of Ireland.

It happen almost every night.  In Dublin, in Doolin, and Westport, too.  Complete strangers would strike up a conversation with you out of the blue.  One moment you'd be sitting by the bar, nursing your diet Coke (okay, stop your judging), and listening to the music, and the next you've been swept up into a conversation by locals who you could have sworn were not there a moment ago.

I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t off-putting, that it didn’t make me feel uncomfortable and want to go back to my quiet, question-free room and lock the door.  The first time, I may have done just that.  But (and there's always a but when there's something to be learned), by the time I boarded the plane for Boston, I was more open to the giving people the benefit of the doubt.  Don't be mislead: Never did I turn into Sally Social  – that would have been devastating to my introvert credit.  However, in the end it seemed like people were motivated to ask questions at the bar because, well, they had a question.  Curiosity was the motivator most of the time.  A desire to show thankfulness another.  Or, my favorite, visible opportunity to show commonality – Obama did just leave Ireland the week before we arrived and it was a chance to talk about something we both understood.

The very first batch of Irish fish and chips. And mushy peas.

On that night in Dublin, with old men singing and fish and chips and our chatty booth mates,  I learned not only that mushy peas are really, really mushy, but also that our neighbors were all siblings, regulars to this pub, loved the piper (who was only 16!) to pieces, and had no idea where Vermont was in the States ("By Montreal.  Just in the States and with more confusion about health care.").  

And it all happened in a pub.

Specious

Specious [adj] (spi suhs)

1. Seemingly true but really false
2. Deceptively convincing or attractive:

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I am in Dublin.  No, really - that's not specious statement.  I, Kristen of the Green Mountain State, am sitting on the tile floor of my room in the buzzing city of Dublin, Ireland.  A little worse for wear in the sleep department, I must admit, but generally whole and ready to take this city by storm!   

And “by storm,” I do mean at a steady, marathon pace that will leave my feet relatively intact. 

Wanting to keep my brain intact, as well, I’ve decided to rely on numbers to summarize my first days in Ireland.  So, without further ado…

Dublin (and travel so far) by the Numbers:

• 21: the row I sat in during our 6-hour flight to Dublin Airport. 
• 0: the percentage of joy in my heart when I found out that not only did we not have WiFi in the room, but that my iPhone couldn’t dial out OR receive data.  Here’s to purchasing an international call and data plan for nothing.  (Bitter, me? No…)
• 10: minutes that we waited to see the Book of Kells at Trinity College.
• 6: the number of faces that dropped when I ordered chicken liver pate at our first group dinner.  Note: It was delicious – particularly when you stacked the croute with liver and fig compote.
• 8:  the number of times I thought we were driving on the wrong side of the road thus far and that we were surely going to die.  Or be wounded. Or simply have a heart attack.
• 1: cups of tea I’ve sipped.  This unexpected cuppa was sipped this morning, with milk and sugar, before heading to the Loughcrew.  The poor waitress has a look of horror when our group descended on Caffrey’s – it was 10:30 AM the morning after the Barcelona v. Manchester United match and there were two dozen of us after all.
• A LOT: The hills I’ve climbed today. After a trip to Loughcrew (a fantastic (and very windy) megalith burial site) and the Hills of Tara, I wouldn’t be exaggerating to say that we climbed 20 different hills – tall, short, steep, steeper, green, yellow, rocky, and covered in sheep poop.  These sites would have been nothing if it wasn’t for Kelly, our beloved guide (and archeologist and Champlain professor – she’s like Indiana Jones, people).   I never knew turf-encrusted tombs could be so…. alive.
• 17: The age of the pipe player at O’Shea’s Merchant, a pub in town.  He quietly took our breath away and got out of feet tapping while we munched on fish and chips (and “mushy peas,” I kid you not).  Then men in the pub jumped on the bandwagon and sang a capella to the room.  The gentleman next to us (lovely and now educated where Vermont is in comparison [AKA not near Michigan]) egged them all on,  hand clasped around a bottomless pint of Guinness.  Only in local pubs.

What's up for tomorrow? Tomorrow: a walking tour of Dublin, visiting Champlain’s academic center, Irish Parliament, and an Irish House Party for a little craic (AKA entertainment – get your mind out of the gutter!).  Oh, and yogurt.  Can't forget that yogurt... (stay tuned for an entry on that little beauty of breakfast).

 
[Note: Internet connection is poor, so no images yet.]

Caprice

Caprice [noun] (ca pris)

1. Sudden, impulsive, and seemingly unmotivated action

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While traveling means being at the mercy of every whim and caprice from a slew of factors*, there is one thing that remains in your complete and utter control: packing.


I've always loved and loathed the process of packing.  It's one thing to calculate what to bring on a trip; it's another to change those calculations into a reality that will fit into a single bag. 

The two-page, two column list.

What does a successful packing venture come down to?  Transmogrification.  And lists, but mostly transmogrification.

I know, I know: "Why are you bringing magic into this?"  But truly: I have no idea how it happens otherwise.  When you're 24-hours away from takeoff, staring at a two-page list of must-have items, it seems like the only thing that manages to get everything stuffed into your bag is something mystical.  

The mystics were with me today.   As of last night, I had a packing list, a pile of clothes, toiletries, electronics, and snacks, and a bag** longing to be filled.  As of the time I sat down to write this entry, I have a filled carry-on and 47 lbs. of  checked bag goodness.

We're packed!  AKA Victory!!!

In a few hours, I will step on the plane to Ireland.  I have no doubt that I'll be fighting to control my excited caprices every step of the way.  And by "fighting" I do accepting without question.  I am traveling to Ireland, after all - what's a journey abroad without embracing the new and unexpected?  See you in Ireland! 


*including but not limited to: Thunderstorms, cranky and/or drooling passengers, and Icelandic volcanoes.  

** His name is Maurice, by the way.  We've been through a lot together, so it was only fitting to christen him.  

Lucid

Lucid [adj] (loo sihd)

1. Clear, intelligible, and easily understood

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Does a lamb shank make a good souvenir?

I suppose if one addresses this question in a simple and lucid manner, the answer would likely nest in the negative.  "No, my uncouth friend," One would begin, resting behind a large gilded desk with one's fingers tented. "A lamb shank does not an acceptable souvenir make." 

And this, dear friends, is where I grow concerned, as a lamb shank was one of the first souvenir ideas I had after learning I would be heading to Ireland, the land of (some of) my forebears.

I am of the camp that declares edible gifts to be some of the best gifts to receive.  Food from exotic lands is exciting - it's new, it's culturally significant, it's not FDA approved!  A slice of packaged turtle jelly, a hunk of freeze-dried poutine, or a bundle of seaweed "rice cakes" all say so much about the place they were sold and the people who by it.  I've never been so excited as when someone brought me Pocky sticks from Japan - well, except maybe that time I was brought Vietnamese coconut candy or those Mexican sugar skulls.  The excitement stems from the idea that you're partaking in a small, but significant piece of another world.  After all,  food is culture, culture is food.

Turtle Jelly. China 2009

This week, I'm preparing to depart for Ireland by adding footnotes to my packing list ("...what's missing here? Headphones? Nope. Toothbrush? Nah. Maybe - oh, SOCKS!"), agonizing over my ticket (Me trying to call the travel agency: "No, seriously, where is my ticket?  What about my confirmation number?  THERE'S NO NUMBER HERE!!! FOR THE LOVE OF PETE...oh, sorry, ma'am, wrong number.") and, being a somewhat crazed individual, calculating my souvenir list.  This list is currently chock-full of food - most of which I cannot begin to know, A) If I can find, B) If I can bring back, and C) If it would survive the trip.  And yet, here I am, homing in on finding Cadbury chocolates, rashers (AKA Irish bacon), and Marmite. Oh, and a lamb.  A lamb would be nice. (Mr. Norton - the lamb's name - could masquerade as a guide dog, no?)

Of course, I have a foodie list for my culinary delights while I'm in country, too.  Irish stew, Shepard's pie, fish and chips, baggers and mash, freshly steamed mussels, boxty, and even black pudding make the list.  With so many interesting gastronomic options before me, it seems almost rude to not offer a sliver of this experience to those at home.

So, does a lamb shank make a good souvenir?  Yes.  Yes, I do believe it does.

Impervious

Impervious [adj] (ihm purh vee uhs)

1. Impossible to penetrate
2. Incapable of being affected

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My memory is far from impervious, but there are certain things that seem to stand the test of time.  Specific events become ingrained in the mind -  they evolve into more than just a passing thought and become a building block of personality and whim.  Like one afternoon in the third grade. 

It was most definitely a Friday.  The herd that was my third grade class was bouncing off the walls.  Pencils, paper airplanes, and multicolored erasers flew through the air to a chorus of high-pitched giggles. Unlike the moody teenagers we all would become in a few short years (lucky us), our excitement was not due to the close proximity of the weekend (ah, almost within our grasp!), but rather because our teachers had gathered us with the promise of something "fun" to do.  Insert montage of glee here.

With a flourish only known to one who has 50 pairs of doe-like eyes focused on them, a teacher emerged from the A/V room with a TV and VHS player in hand (or, you know, cart).  She put in a tape, pressed play, and welcomed 90-minutes of calm into her afternoon.  And an introduction to Ireland into mine. 

Through The Secret of Roan Inish, I traveled to the shores of Ireland.  I felt the pebbles of the beach massage (and prick) my feet, the wind chap my face, and the salt of the sea crust my hair.  I let the native brogue saturate my ears, the music lift my feet in rhythm, and the weight of the land's myths and legends imprint my soul.

Now, after almost two decades, the wee lass that once sat transfixed by a film on a Friday afternoon will actually set foot on the Emerald Isle.  Thanks to Champlain College's Office of International Education, I'll join my fellow alumni to Discover Ireland for 10-days next summer.  With a jam-packed itinerary, there are few stones left unturned  - from the must-see sights, to Irish pubs and dance, to Champlain's Dublin campus, and even Northern Ireland.  Maybe I'll even see a selkie (or, you know, jump into the sea and go in search of a few). I'm sure it will be a whirlwind - but the kind that will leave you breathless with the marvels you've seen.

Next year, I'll finally meet the real land of Roan Inish and that's something I'm not likely to forget.