Camera Shy

The following photographs were taken in Dublin without the knowledge of the subject.  Most were taken secretly, my camera at my waste and my thumb pressing the trigger every chance I got.  A couple were taken more deliberately. You almost wonder in the faces of some of the people if they know they are being photographed; their eyes seem to be directly facing the lens.  This is all about capturing a moment in life when people least expect it.  I remember seeing a photography exhibition of a photographer who hid a camera in his jacket and took pictures of people on the bus, this is what I thought of while doing this experiment. I tried to get as close to the action as possible to really answer the question: What do you do when know one is looking?

Newgrange

I stand in front of Newgrange, the massive circular mound of earth that is flanked with stone walls all the way around.  I imagine the Neolithic people who built the structure some 5,000 years ago.  What spiritual or political figure might have dedicated the monument when it was completed.  I am transported, back in time, a spectator in the ceremony.

“Welcome my brothers and sisters!  This morning the final stone has been laid, and our monument to the spirit world has been completed.  Each of you have put your blood and sweat into the construction of our shrine.  Some of you have inherited this task that your fathers started, and others have died before they finished what they began.  It is my great honor, bestowed on me by the great gods of the stars, to honor the cycle of everywhen which we all take part. 

The stones that form the foundation for our great monument come from the mountains to the north.  Like the strong base of the mountains, these stones form a base for our structure.  The mountains reach up into the cosmos, where souls of our great shamans live among gods which rule the processes of earth.  Our monument sits atop the substance of the mountains so that the souls that pass through it may be transcended into the cosmos.  The round stones are from the river that passes between us and the Boyne.  The goddess of water shapes these rocks with her mighty torrents.  We honor her as the lifeblood that feeds our crops and ourselves.  Through water, all life is shaped, and through rock all life is formed.  The spirit of these two forces enclose the tomb inside. 

The stone laid in front of the entrance has the everywhen cycle inscribed on it.  These interwoven cycles represent the cycles of life, death and rebirth.  Together, they create everywhen, a continuous cycle with no conceivable beginning or end.  It comprises time and space into one energy, and nothing (not even the gods) is free from it.  Inside the tomb we honor death, but we also honor life and rebirth.  At the winter solstice, a time that marks the death of the harvest and the rebirth of a new year and crop, the great star will shine inside the tomb and illuminate it.  The energy will lift the spirits inside into the cosmos, to join our great spirits of the stars.  This, of course, is reserved for only the greatest of our shamans, so they’re spiritual journey may continue onward from this world.  The younger souls will continue their journey on this place, dying within this cycle like our crop, replenishing our land and being rebirthed in a new age so that one day they may also transcend to the cosmos to continue their spiritual journey. 

I now will also continue my journey into the cosmos, as I sacrifice myself to our new monument, Newgrange.  May you all feast well tonight in celebration of our new achievement.  Let Newgrange persist for millennia, to serve as a humble reminder to future ages of the great scale of everywhen.  Let us not forget that the interwoven lattice of everywhen connects us all, and when one may feel lost they need do nothing else but look inside, for within each of us we are connected to all that is around us.  To Newgrange!”

The entrance to Newgrange in 1905, before any major excavation.

Trigger Happy

I walk up and down the streets looking for something to photograph.  I am getting tired of the same old shot of buildings and streets.  It seems that each photograph is the same, just in a different place and I want something new. I have an idea. I close my aperture, turn on the auto-focus, turn up my ISO and quicken my shutter speed.  I hold my camera at my bellybutton with my right hand, thumb over the trigger.  I nonchalantly walk down the street with my camera at the ready.  A man is walking toward me, hair frizzy and long, I make a subtle adjustment to direct my lens and click a picture.  The sound of the shutter is drowned out by the ambient noise around me.  I keep walking and he never knew he was being captured.  A few people lean against a building, I turn my camera to the side and snap a few pictures.  There is something exciting about this.  The uncertainty of what kind of shot I got and hoping no one has heard the click up my camera as the lens points directly at them.  It excites me and refreshes me from the same old shot; you capture something different, when the subject is oblivious to their attention.

The Big City

The sidewalk size has tripled to account for the massive number of people, which has quadrupled.  Like most Irish cities, it surrounds a river with a bridge every couple of blocks.  Statues of historic figures are all throughout the city, forever shamed by the pigeon poop that runs down their faces.  Flower stalls sit side by side, the owner scowling at the other when a customer chooses the other stall.  Street performers lean toward the theatrical: people dressed as statues or a man frozen in time fighting against a storm, his tie up-side-down from its normal position and his coat flaps flipped up while his frizzy hair pushes behind him.  Big stone buildings, reminiscent of DC architecture hold public institutions like the post office and Trinity College.  Some of the oldest pubs in the city stand two or more stories tall with intricate detail in their molding and up to four or five bars inside.  The city is saturated with historic significance: Kilmainham Goal, a jail which housed numerous political prisoners throughout the Irish revolution and civil war; the stomping grounds of many of famous writers such as James Joyce and Oscar Wilde; the Book of Kells, an illustrated book of the four gospels of Jesus Christ that is now housed in Trinity College; and much more.  This is Dublin.  

A Garden in the City

A tall light green fence lined the parameter.  There was a pond on the right surrounded by a herb garden as you walked in and to the left, rows of rhubarb, onion, carrots, the ever-popular “rocket lettuce” (which we call arugula), and many more plants covered the ground.  Two small greenhouses held tomatoes and “French peas.”  Beyond those two raised beds made an accessible working area for the disabled and on the opposite side bamboo grew on either side of the path leading to the children’s garden.  A small hut made of bamboo housed the pizza oven that they made from clay and straw.  More rows of potatoes grew further back and a row of raspberry bushes grew beyond that.  Opposite of these lay a massive pile of seaweed, which they brought truckloads of from the nearby beach to use as fertilizer.  A small shelter provided protection from the rain in which we enjoyed hot tea, some butter and jam on a scone and freshly made cake.  All sitting on a main road in a more residential part of town, it was across from a bus stop that was between the library and a church.  This was Ballybane Organic Community Garden. 

Taking a Ride on the Rugged Side

Sweat drips down my face as I roll up the sleeves of my flannel.  The road gets progressively rockier and each bump is a pain for my already sore bottom.  I have made it up a steep hill that seemed to only get longer with each downshift of gear.  Surrounding me are the stone fences that I have grown so used to, they go on for miles and miles, and I think to myself how far they could get lined up end to end.  To my right is a slow decent full of the rocky grazing fields before it meets with the Atlantic.  To my left I see the lighthouse, the highest point on Inis Mor and my destination.

           

My legs are tired and burn with each pump of the pedal.  I relax for a second when I approach a small descent.  The bike shakes and I stand on the pedals to reduce the vibrations sharply running up my body from the frame.  Leaning my weight further back the bike goes faster and faster.  Large rocks serve as tiny jumps and I start to forget about the burning sensation in my legs.  “Woohoo!” I yell for only cows and donkeys to hear.  I pedal up the next small incline to descend again, the adrenaline makes me want to go faster and faster. 

The road levels out.  The lighthouse looks slightly behind me.  I get out my map.  I notice that I missed my turn; do I turn back?  I can see the long downhill rocky road before me leading right back to the main town area where the hotel is.  I can either pedal up to the highest point on the island and take the main road back, or pursue this downhill mountain biking adventure.  I pedal forward.

A Resentment

Take this ye path
to fill you fools with gold.
Don't look back,
no one wants to see ye.

Rape my arse,
like you raped so many.
Find ye back here,
and ye will be hated.

Take my fingers,
and cut them off.
You need them more,
to make ye smile.

Find a pot of gold,
and keep it for yeself.
We don't want it,
keep it all for yeself.

We know you will anyway.

The Redemption of General Butt Naked

“General Butt Naked, is that his real name?” I think as I sit in the theatre waiting for the film to start. Sure enough, it is. The name is feared in Liberia, and during the civil war, only ten years or so ago, if you heard “General Butt Naked is coming!” you ran like hell. Butt Naked and his troop of young boys raped, looted and ruthlessly murdered every man, woman and child that go in their way.  How did he get the name? Simple, that’s exactly how he fought, butt naked.

Butt Naked, who now goes by his real name Joshua Blahyi, preaches to a congregation as sweat rolls down his face and massive arms.  He screams “Praise Jesus!” to a group inside a makeshift chapel.  He is in a refugee camp in Ghana, fleeing for his life after admitting guilt to “no less than 20,000” casualties during the war. But it isn't the government who is after him, it’s the other men put on trial for war crimes who aren’t ready to face up to their hellish deeds.  Joshua had just asked for forgiveness the day before from three of his victims who were in the refugee camp and now in the congregation: a woman, who’s husband he shot; her child, who he blinded in one eye with the butt of his gun; and a man, who’s entire family he killed.  They all forgave him, but the woman tells the camera that “it’s hard to forget.”  She says that she sees the same strength in him as he preaches that she saw in him that day he came into her village as Butt Naked.

I was shocked to hear how freely Butt Naked confessed to all his past deeds, and I often questioned the genuineness of his apologies.  The film will both anger and confuse you leaving you with a pile of mixed emotions that makes you throw up your hands and say “oh well.”  The filmmakers did such an impressive job that the film almost felt staged. It gave me a much better sense of how emotionally and mentally dysfunctional Africa has been left by its former mother countries.  The exploitation of Africa’s people and natural resources has left the continent in a state of civil unrest.  It’s like a child, that we have spoiled and abused at the same time, leaving the people just as lost as you will be at the end of this film.

Panorama

Just past the city center, up a steep hill lies this view of Cork.

A view from Lady's View in Killarney National Park.  When the Queen of England visited Ireland with her 100 person posy, this is the spot where her lady's enjoyed the best view.  Notice the storm on the left side.

Outside of Dingle down a small side road lies this view of the Atlantic.  Farm land posses the left side while a trailer park sits on the right.

This is the view we worked so hard to see.  At Sleigh Head after a long bike ride the waves crash against the beach below.  Behind me is a large hill filled with sheep and an upright stone at the top, the tip of Sleigh Head.

On our way back from Sleigh Head we cut through the mountain so we could get to Dingle faster.  This is a view from the top.

On our way from Doolin to Galway we stopped to help a lady retrieve her camera that she dropped in a crevasse.   Rocky landscape littered the terrain.

Organic

Open                                     and                                       willing

The                                   cycle                                       which

runs                                   through                                    me

runs                                   through                                    us

all                                    Taken                                       by

 the                                   beauty                                     of

  life                                    We                                      are

    of                                    one                               thought

 moving                         forward                              in

      one                            instance                            But

        close                         your                             walls

   and                           you                           are

           cut                         off                          Unable

             to                       feel                     anything

  but                   the                void

that         consumes    you

Unable    to       see

anything but the
box you have

 trapped

  yourself

   in

 Take

   a second

     to see yourself

     from the outside

     You will find that you

    are    not     alone   as   you

    think    It         only     takes      a

        second     to         doubt      yourself     but

       it            takes          forever            to          find

              your           way             back                Open           your

            mind               and             your             body                will

             follow              Like                  a                        river                we

      individually                   flow                at                          a                different

     pace                               and                   in                 different                  currents

   but                        together                      we                       flow                           as

        one              

Galway

Canals cut through the streets flowing into the large river that breaks the city in two.  Swans collect in packs in the harbor and boats sit in mud when the tide is low.  Young people with piercings and skateboards roam the streets, among hippies with dread locks and baggy colorful clothing.  The usual Irish men with their traditional wool caps drink a Guinness in the pub.  The pedestrian road, Merchant Street, is lined with shops and constantly busy with people.  Wonderwall being played by a busker fades away as the drumming from another musician starts to be heard. The open-air market sits outside of the church in the main part of town where merchants sell handmade wool sweaters, woodcarvings, jewelry, hippie clothing, paintings, and fresh produce.  Indian food can be smelled from food trucks as one walks through the market.  A food truck reads “Food for Peace” in which an Irish man serves only vegetarian food among his Hindu decorations. Wooden barrels full of olives and cheese sit next to a sign reading “the only bison in Ireland” at one stand.  When night falls Merchant Street surprisingly gets even busier as what is probably mostly out-of-towners flock to the pubs.  A fire dancer waves her fire around to the beat of a drummer that sits behind her.  You cannot walk three feet without being stamped for free entrance and a drink to some nightclub. It’s mad, but the city is beautiful; we are in Galway.

People of Cork

Inside Currach Boatbuilders two builders stop to talk while
cleaning up for the day.  The man on the left told
me they build mostly for individuals.

Three of the builders talk next to finished vessels after a days work.

The English Market is an upscale permanent food market.
Among butchers, bakers, and cheese makers sits this fish stall.

The front man at Bresnans Victuallers, a family butcher in the
English Market, walks over to help interested customers who
stand out of frame.

I noticed this man a few days before I took this picture.  He
stands on a small street using nothing but his powerful voice
singing Irish songs to attract the attention of passerby's.

This nun waits by a bus stop.  "I hope I didn't break your
camera," she adds after I take the picture.

City Living

Cars whiz by, buildings outnumber trees, and concrete replaces grass.  People barely acknowledge you as you walk by and giving a friendly greeting is usually ignored.  The more I live in the city here in Ireland I find myself become more irritable and more easy to be caught up in drama.  Trivial things become necessary to keep my attention and it takes a conscious effort to remember that its all about having fun.

At home I surround myself with people who are caring and thoughtful.  I can walk outside and immediately be in the grass, and trees tower over the streets.  I am easily at peace, centered in my own mind and spirit.  It becomes more and more clear to me that we are affected by our surroundings.  The fast pace life of city living, where the exchange of currency takes precedence over almost everything reinforces a nature within us that is obsessed with possessions and puts more value on things than relationships.  Buying clothing becomes our new meditation. 

When I leave the city and visit small towns like Dingle or Cobh where the blue skies with white puffy clouds create a backdrop for mountains full of green grass I feel at peace.  I am reminded of the grander scale of life and it humbles me.  Simple things like exploring the town or finding a good place to eat become more meaningful as I can once again enjoy the finer things in life.  A plastic, hollow world evokes hollow emotions.  But a world with weight that is connected on every possible scale evokes a fulfillment in the mind and body.  

Journey to Dingle

The mountains are growing higher on either side of us.  Cows and sheep litter the side of the mountains and the valley.  We are on the bus on the way to Dingle and I couldn’t be more excited.  We know very little about it and crossing our fingers that the hostel we found on the internet still has vacancies, if we can find it.  But right now, as I see in the distance a big poofy white cloud hovering over water through a crack in the mountains, I don’t care. 

The road is tiny and as I look out the front window I’m surprised the bus can even fit in the lane.  I see a sign for Dingle aquarium; we must be getting closer.

We stand outside our hostel, a yellow modest looking house down a small street next to the shore.  A young girl answers the door. Confused, we ask if this is the hostel.  “Yes,” she says.  The owner comes up from behind us and greats us kindly in her Irish accent.  She shows us our room and around the house.  We already have one bunkmate, a mid-30s man from Australia who is here to surf.  He says he just got finished working in London for four years as an engineer and plans to travel for six months or so.  Jealousy runs through me.  Our room has three bunks and a sink, fairly simple.

We go for a walk outside to explore. Dingle is basically one main road, the majority of which is filled with pubs.  Like most Ireland towns the buildings are colorful and historic looking.  Murphy’s and O’Donnells are common names on storefronts.  Murals line a wall depicting men fishing and views of the harbor.  The sky is beautifully blue with big white clouds and the ocean is a dark blue.

We decide to find a small bite to eat and are excited as we see signs for live music at almost every pub.  The restaurant is full, but we find a small table at the back next to the kitchen next to old posters of fishermen with piles of caught fish reading, “Now I deserve that Guinness.”  Kelly and I split a plate of mussels while Heidi and Jessica split a seafood bake.  The steaming plate of mussels was covered in a white garlicky smelling sauce and tasted like salty fish heaven. 

After dinner we went next door to listen to traditional Irish music accompanied by a frothy Guinness.  Two men were playing a guitar and an accordion.  The guitarist later revealed a traditional Celtic drum called a bodhran drum.  It looked like a large tambourine but was played with a stick.  His hand moved up and down the back to create different pitches.  I sat there staring at him, amazed by the sound he was producing.

The next morning we woke up early, and, at the suggestion of our host, went to rent bikes to bike the Sleigh Head loop around the peninsula. “It’s about 22 miles, so it should take two or three hours depending on how many stops you take.”  Not thinking about how long 22 miles for the average biker was we all nodded and said it would be fine. 

We set off, confused as to where we were going but enjoying the country air and the green fields ahead of us.  A couple of hours in we started to become curious as to where we were headed and how much longer it would take.  We stopped in a shop where we were pleasantly surprised to be greeted by ancient Celtic artifacts, some for sale. I bought a “handloomed woolen sweater” and a clay pipe found in Amsterdam from the 1680s, well worth the stop. The shop was owned by an archeologist who had his personal collection on display.  The lady working told us it was only a few more miles to the head, so we continued.

We began to climb higher and higher and the water became further beneath us until we were eventually riding on a one-lane road on a cliff.  Too excited to be scared we continued to the head of the peninsula.  Hungry and thirsty we pushed ourselves through the cold and wind.  Ahead of us we could see the massive hill, upon which stood an upright stone, that was Sleigh Head.

When we reached the head Heidi and I quickly ran to the top of the hill after taking pictures of the view.  Grazing sheep were around us on the grassy hillside and rocks emerged from the ground.  The rolling hill quickly dropped off into a cliff at the edge and a few islands lay out in front of us.  Looking back toward the mainland large waves crashed against a sandy beach at the bottom of a cliff.  Above the cliff lay a mountain covered with pastures fenced off with stonewalls in which sheep and cows grazed on a constant slope.  A cloud skimmed the top of the treeless mountain and small houses, cafes, and old stone ruins lay on the mountainside.

We left and finally made our way to a café.  My seafood chowder and biscuit was mouth-wateringly delicious after biking the distance we just had.  We had to catch the bus back to Cork at four and it was already one, so we asked the women working for a shortcut.  She told us a way that led us over the mountain, a two mile road that was way to steep to bike up, so we walked it.  On the top was an amazing view of the ocean on either side and the bike ride down was much easier.

We made it back to Dingle with 45 minutes to spare, just enough time to reward ourselves with a Guinness as the posters had suggested to us the night before.  Exhausted and feeling dirty, we felt satisfied with our adventure and agreed it was well worth it.

Blarney Castle

Click, click click. I can’t stop. Click, click. I’m getting trigger happy. Fern, moss, tree. This is so cool! I check my map. Where am I? I have traversed the entire grounds of Blarney. There’s too much to see and too little time.  It’s pouring rain and I am soaked, my camera is soaked, it’s cold, but I don’t care.  The moss creeps up the trees and mushrooms grow in patches.  Lilly pads cover the lake and the air is fresh. I wouldn’t be surprised to see a fairy fly by.

It’s the first time I’ve gotten out of Cork and been surrounded by nature and I’m incredibly glad I did it alone.  Not only was it easy to get there, but I have complete freedom.  I don’t have to worry about where everyone else wants to go.  I explore on a whim and it’s surprisingly exciting.  “I should do this more often,” I think to myself.  I have no one else to influence me, and instead I can completely emerge myself in my environment.  It’s a time where I am able to reflect on how my surroundings make me feel and center myself, which after being in the hustle of the city is a necessary thing.

The Castle, my last stop.  It’s interesting, but oddly I find it less so than the rest of my exploring.  Maybe it’s the endless organic forms in the gardens where I can always find something new to look at, or maybe I have just tired myself out from the excitement of roaming free. It was great, nonetheless, and well worth the trip.

L'Orchestre d'Hommes-Orchestres

I hear women yodeling as I approach the Spiegaltent.  The tent is one of the last of its kind.  A wooden traveling tent, it is decorated with various murals on the outside and stained glass windows near its peak.  Intricate molding and woodworking decorate the colorful walls and posts inside.  The French band is called L’Orchestre d’Hommes-Orchestres, and they are performing songs by the cult favorite American artist (now deceased), Tom Waits.  From what I hear, Tom Waits has a very unique style that is characterized by different instruments he uses (like a megaphone) and his raspy growling voice.  But L’Orchestre takes his performance a step further, using over 100 props onstage as instruments.  Unusual sounds are creatively mixed to produce a performance that surprisingly sounds familiar to the original songs.  The sounds of dominoes hitting a table, a cork being twisted in and out of a wine bottle and even things as ridiculous as a golf club attached to a helmet that bangs against a frying pan mix and meld to create a hilariously entertaining show.  Despite the ridiculousness of the act it was still obvious that the members were very musically talented.  They were able utilize everyday objects, accompanied by a guitar most times, to create melodies and harmonies that would leave you thinking the song was written that way.

Cork Street Art

In a quiet part of town this light grey art that nearly blends in
is on multiple buildings depicting whimsical scenes of pigs
and men in traditional Irish clothing.

Down a small rode that gradually evolves
into a walking path, this art is painted on
the side of a hostel.

Cars whiz by on the rode outside of this nook where a colorfully
cartoonish city scene is painted.

Among other messages of peace and love lays this artwork
that can do nothing but make you laugh.

"Ballot Box" is tagged on various garbage cans down this
street.  The message is up for interpretation. 

Meeting with a hobo

This is an interpretation of what happened one night through memory.

Slightly inebriated I sit on the couch in our common room looking out the window while listening to Tom Waits, who my roommates are introducing to me.  I’m watching a homeless man.  He’s lying on a blanket outside of a Chinese restaurant drowning in jackets piled on top of him, when suddenly I get the urge to help this guy out.  I head for the refrigerator.  I get out the left over tortellini I made earlier that day–I have to admit that I wasn’t disappointed with parting from it because it wasn’t very good.  I approached him with a false sense of confidence from the alcohol flowing through my bloodstream, pasta in hand.

ME: How ya doin tonight mate? I brought you some food.

For whatever reason, it felt appropriate to attempt my best Irish accent. 

MAN: Eh? No I don’t want any of dat.

ME: Oh come on now. I brought it out for ya.

I hold it out in front of his face.  He has a very rough Irish accent.  He looks about sixty from the wrinkles on his face and headphones are in his ears.  The slurring of his words is no surprise based on the alcohol on his breath.

MAN: What is it then?

ME: It’s tortellini.

MAN: Oh no, I don’t eat that stuff. I eat meat.

ME: This is just as good.

MAN: No, no.

ME: You’re pretty picky for a homeless guy.

MAN: I don’t want it I tell ya.

ME: What can I do to make you take this?

MAN: Nothin, I don’t want it.

ME: I’ll heat it up for ya. Be right back.

I run back up to my apartment.  My roommates are very confused as to why I have just run off with pasta, but I don’t let them in on what I’m doing.  I put the pasta in a bowl and stick it in the microwave.  The timer beeps and I grab the bowl and head outside. 

ME: Here you go. I heated it up for ya.

MAN: All right thank ya very much.

ME: I need that bowl back.

MAN: What this? Well what have ya given it to me for?

ME: Well I need it back it’s not mine.

MAN: Well I don’t give a fuck who’s it is.

ME: Regardless, I need it back. I have this bag you can put it in.

MAN: All right, all right.

He pulls out a small sandwich container and starts to put the pasta in it.

ME: What, you don’t want my bag? Don't trust me?

MAN: I don’t fuckin’ trust no one, only me and myself.

ME: Well all right then.

I sit.

MAN: You see dis isn’t my spot. I just wanted a spot of food or some wine right in here.  But these chinks run me out de did. And you know what I’m gonna do?

ME: What?

MAN: I’m gonna go in here later and fuckin rob ‘em I am. I swear I’m gonna kill ‘em I will. I don’t fuckin’ care.

An old hobo who looked like he was too drunk to even stand, I wasn’t convinced.

ME: Well I did somethin’ for you and now I want you to do somethin’ for me.

MAN: Oh no, I don’t owe you nothin. I don’t owe nobody nothin.

ME: Just promise me somethin.

MAN: No, no. Look, I appreciate what you did for me. I really do.  I think you’re a lot like me I do. I’d help someone out if I could, but I tell ye I don’t owe nobody nothin.

ME: Just promise me you won’t disturb these people.

There is noise coming from the side of the restaurant.  It sounds like someone is taking out the trash.

MAN: Eh! Shut the fuck up!

An asian man looks at us.

ME: Can I ask ya somethin?

MAN: Yeah? What is it?

ME: How did ya get like this?

MAN: What?

ME: On the streets, how did you end up on the streets?

MAN: Well I’m from. . . 

Most of what this man said was pretty inaudible, so I didn’t catch the name.  Also, being a pretty stubborn guy, he didn’t seem to want to give many details.

ME: Well what are ya doin here for?  Why don’t ya go out into the countryside or somethin?

MAN: Now what the fuck would I do out there?  What does it got for me?

ME: Well, it’s a lot prettier than this.

MAN: No, no. What are you? Where are you from?

By this time my accent had been oscillating between an English and an Irish accent.  I told the truth, but didn’t drop the accent.  Hopefully he wouldn’t notice.

ME: I’m from America.

MAN: From what? What is dat den?  Oh right from, what do they call it? They call it somethin.

ME: Oh, the United States.

MAN: Yeah, yeah dats it. You living up here?

He points in the direction of my apartment.

ME: I’m staying over there.

I point down the street. I guess I’m hesitant to trust him too.

MAN: Well you got any spot of somethin? You got a can up there for me?

I lie.

ME: I don’t have anything right now.

He already seemed sufficiently drunk.

MAN: You don’t got nothin? No can? Come on you have to have a can.

ME: I don’t have anything, I’m all out.

MAN: Oh come on.

ME: I got to go.  Good luck to you sir.

I stand.

ME: What is your name?

MAN: My name is John.

ME: Mine too.

After I get ready for bed I look out the window and John has gone.  All that’s left is empty asphalt.  The next day I walk by the place and see a half full sandwich container of tortellini.  “That picky asshole,” I think to myself, “I’m not helping any of these lazy bums out again.”  I later scold myself for this thought.  I realize giving food or a euro isn’t what is going to help John.  Sitting and talking to him, and making him feel like a human is the best thing I could do.

University Cork College Architecture 

Inside Aras na Mac Leinn (Student Center)

Aras na Mac Leinn

Aula Maxima and Main Quadrangle

Gate Lodge

First Impressions

I look out the window of the coach on our way to Cork from the Shannon airport and think of my roommate from home who would certainly see the Shire in this countryside that is so new to me.  Cows and sheep share a pasture full of lumpy grass on rolling hills.  Men dressed in trousers, plaid shirts and sweaters as they walk down the streets. Women with red hair and pale skin walk confidently with reusable bags full of “irish beef”, fresh produce and Murphys stout, and to me they all look the same.  Like a child, once again the world is new to me.  I see no noticeable difference in class.  Our couch driver seems no different than the businessman driving his Mercedes (indeed, our vehicle is a Mercedes itself).  His thick Irish accent has a noticeable undertone of joy that is infectiously contagious.  Makes of cars that I have never heard of litter the streets and parking lots, and not surprisingly there is not a Ford in sight.  Even the larger tractor-trailers seem rather modest compared to the semis that crowd 81. 

           

Culture is noticeably different in even the smallest of ways.  A man at ease, happily waiting as traffic takes its turn, replaces the authoritative stop hand pedestrians obey in the states.  The walk light depicts a man cheerfully swinging his arms as he crosses the street that is named both in English and Gaelic.  Even dogs are trusted, like the one I just saw freely following her owner across the street without a leash.  The flats we are staying in at University College Cork have separate rooms for each student complete with separate baths.  The common room has leather sofas, a television, a stove and a wooden faced refrigerator.  There is not a scratch on the wall and the sofa has obviously been treated well.  It is as if they trust their students to be responsible.  Every outlet and appliance consciously has a switch on the wall and the water is turned on overnight while a “boost button” gives tenets the option to heat water at other times of the day.  A compost bucket sits above the sink for eggshells, orange peels and napkins.  To be emerged into such a socially and environmentally conscious society is unfortunately a brand new experience, but exciting nonetheless. 

            

Styles range from the more conservative oxford sweaters to a mixture of grunge and punk, but friendly attitudes and a general ora of happiness (despite all the clouds and rain) suggest there is a since of pride in being Irish that rises above the superficial. 

           

I am lifted up by this new place.  I have forgotten what a thrill it is to have lost a since of complacency and be completely vulnerable to the environment around me. I am soaking in every detail around me and working the pieces like a puzzle trying to figure out how the Irish talk, dress and live, and most importantly why they do it that way.

            

This all may just be my tendency to romanticize. As the puzzle starts to fit together, I am sure I’ll find the worn and damaged pieces that I find so commonly in the states.