Abrasion

Abrasion [noun] (uh brah zuhn)

1. The process of wearing down or rubbing away by means of friction.

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Irene has transformed into an abrasion on my soul.

I was set to settle into my Sunday, lounge and eat and read and (check work e-mails) and enjoy this day of rest the way I usually do.  I was set to fill up my tank with 5-cent off gas and maybe, just maybe take my car to get washed. I was set to let the hurricane-hype roll off my back like water on a hurricane-battered window. 

I bought extra batteries yesterday. 

Foolish, I know. I like to think of myself as fairly independent in my decision making – don’t wait for me to follow the trend, you’ll be waiting a long , long time – and yet, here I was on a Saturday, waiting in line with my mom at Lowe’s to buy a 10-pack of D batteries “just in case.”  Foolish is a kind way to describe my actions.

I’d like to blame herd mentality, media swarming, and well-over a week of consistent water cooler chatter about Irene and the Chaos She Will Bring.  Of course, even I can’t believe my actions are completely devoid of personal fault.  I was there, after all.  The aforementioned list of perpetrators succeeded in getting under my skin and festering in the one area that my reptilian brain loves to loathe: fear.  In the battle between fight and flight, the latter was never an option and former would be silly (“Hey, Irene! Put up your dukes, put ‘em up!!!”). 

But I could do something in between – something small and seemingly insignificant, but still something.   I could go out and prepare to power my radio in the event that we lose power.  I could do that. 

Still, the purchase was foolish.  I have batteries at home: AA, AAA, C… but no Ds and my radio needs Ds.  To be specific, that radio needs Ds.  I’m sure I could dig through the closet and find a radio that runs on AAAs in the event of an emergency, but I had it set in my mind that this large blue boombox with a broken CD player from ’99 needed to be powered.  It needed it. 

Or maybe I did.  Just in case. 

As I reflect on my jaunt to find portable power at Lowe’s, the wind is wailing and the trees (thankfully flexible and resilient) are swaying like dancers warming up.  The batteries are upstairs in the office cabinet and I have settled back into my Sunday, typing, lounging, and channel surfing for a good movie.

I suppose if a little bit of a foolish, impulsive, societal-pressure of an action can give me back my Sunday routine, it couldn’t have been that foolish.  Not really.  

 

Contrite

Contrite [adj] (kuhn triet)

1. Deeply sorrowful and repentant for a wrong

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Irish yogurt.  An unappreciated breakfast item.

I love yogurt.  Creamy. Tangy.  Smooth.  It's a constant companion in the form of a small, nourishing, dairy-laden snack.  The curious thing about yogurt is that no matter where I've been, it remains a simple, tasty treat that simultaneously reminds me of home and gives me a sense of where I am.

China?  Yak-milk yogurt – heavy-bodied, silky, sweet!

Home? Light and Fit – fruity, smooth, 80 calories! 

Ireland.  Er, yes, Ireland.  That does throw a wrench in my theory.  Irish yogurt proved to be a cross between sour cream and cream cheese.  Thick, rich, and sour with a distinctive aftertaste that can only be described as cloying.  The only saving grace of this breakfast item was that it came with granola to mix in.  Of course, the so-called fruit syrup at the bottom of the cup almost made the granola's pretense null and void. 

If that yogurt could speak, I have no doubt it would have been quite contrite.

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.

Obdurate

Obdurate [adj] (ahb duhr uht)

1. Hardened in feeling
2. Resistant to persuasion

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I'm completely obdurate on the issue and you cannot convince me otherwise:

Traveling is enjoyable. Sorting through travel photos is not.


I took over 600 photos on my trip to Ireland.  While that means I have over 600 memories captured in film, er -- zeros and ones (?),  it also means that I have over 600 memories to sort, label, compile, edit, delete, regret deleting, and share.  This kind of activity requires a fair amount of momentum, typically granted by the glow of the trip upon one's return.  I rode that wave - showed my family all 600, unedited images, posted two days worth of photo albums online with captions, set my desktop background as a vista from the Cliffs of Mohr.

And then Wednesday came around.

Wednesday was the day I went back to work.  Wednesday was the day I attacked 700 unanswered e-mails.  Wednesday was the day reality trumped memories.

To say the least, my wave of momentum evaporated.

Nonetheless, a loss of momentum isn't completely to blame.  There's also cognitive dissonance.  I look at a photo of our trip to the Joyce County Sheepdog demonstration - look at Sweep fly around, herding those sheep (or more likely, staring them down)!  I captured that moment, but know, from memory, that the better shot would have been of someone in our group petting Roy, another sheepdog.  The reality of what I have captured is countered by what I know I could have captured, if I'd only known.  Opportunity cost meets cognitive dissonance.

The trip itself was lovely: green, hot, sunny, energetic, filling.  I wouldn't trade the experience.  The need to sort through my photos?  Now that experience I'd trade.  Thank goodness for travel-mates that love to point, shoot, edit, and share.

Assuage

Assuage [verb] (uh sway)

1. To make something unpleasant less severe

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I've found that the only thing that can assuage the fear of penning a long, boring, obnoxious blog entry is to set out with the objective to do just that.  To write a long, boring, obnoxious blog entry, that is.  Prepare yourselves, dear friends.  This is going to be a dozy.

I (and a couple thousand others on this planet, thank goodness) have a tendency to avoid that which has the potential to be unpleasant.  Take, for example, physicals.  Or cocktail socials.  Or poorly constructed, asinine, yuppie accounts about my trip to the Emerald Isle.

... not that the last example has anything to do with the fact that I have not posted for months. No, not at all.   *CoughCough*

On the one hand, it's comforting to know that shying away from such galling occurrences is more natural than not.  "Walk into that lion's den?  No, thanks," screams the human psyche.  "I'd much rather walk around.  Or starve.  Or go play this great game of cornhole I just found!" 

On the other hand (because there is always another hand), it's just as disconcerting that we lean toward cowardice when given the option.  I decided to avoid my own blog for months in order to maintain a false sense of literary bravery and accomplishment around in my proverbial handbag.  "Lion's den?  What lion's den? Let's get back to that game of cornhole," my mind rifts.  While I may now be an expert cornhole player, what have I really gained?

If you said, "Nothing," you're far too pessimistic.  If you said, "A growing sense of impending doom," gold star for you!

Today, I set out to leave cowardice at the door.  While it hasn't reached the entryway just yet (it's peering around my couch, right now), I know that only way to push it out will be to try.  This attempt may not be noble or iconic or bold or, heck, even good, but it's something.  And something is a lot better than the nothing I've been putting out.

Here's to second, third, and fourth tries.

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.