Written approximately 12:30 on-board Delta Flight 177 Dublin —> Atlanta, GA
I had thought that this would be different somehow—that I’d be choking back tears as we sped down the tarmac, or that I’d need to take a moment before walking out of my apartment for the last time. I had thought there’d be some awful pang in my chest in stead of a recurring heartbeat, that the Green Day song “Time of Your Life” would be soundtrack of the day.
I had thought that this would all be different somehow.
Instead, I feel like I did at my high school graduation.
(Brosef 2, Myself, Brosef 1 way back when in 2008)
There’s this big lead up to the event, a sprint towards the finish, an a ceremony you neither remember nor enjoy. All the meanwhile you’re rushing—one last exam, one last performance of the musical (in my case, Aida), one more get together with your best friends to play Mario Kart, and the vacant promises to everyone you know that you’ll “keep in touch.” (You won’t.) It’s weird, because high school has been your whole epicenter of life, your point of gravity for four years. You can’t imagine life before or after the winding halls. The whole idea of “no class until noon” sounds mystical, and the memories of recess are fading fast.
I remember this looming sense of dread regarding graduation. I had too much to do before that day in June, and I was rather content wit my bubble at high school. The teachers knew and respected me, I had a core group of friends, and my list of extracurriculars was phenomenal. I was involved in everything. I felt like a Queen Bee. College seemed so…far away? Different? New? Terrifying? I could’ve come up with a thousand excuses not to go, and every excuse to stay within that bubble I worked so hard to create.
(why, I wondered, would I ever want to leave a school where I had friends like this?)
The day came faster than I had expected, and my world effectively collapsed as I walked into an un-air conditioned gymnasium filled with caps, gowns, pomp, and circumstance. In a flash, the ceremony was over and—what was this? Why wasn’t I crying? Why weren’t the walls caving in, or the floor dropping out from underneath me? Why, in all of my pictures, was my smile wider than ever, my eyes sparkling, and my energy seeping through the film itself?
Because I think it all finally made sense. Goodbyes aren’t easy or fun, and generally I dislike them and avoid them like the plague. But high school, like all things, ends. And it’s usually because something better is around the corner like football games, editing classes, and three-month excursions to Ireland. I think it occurred to me then that goodbye is goodbye so I can get a chance to say hello. That’s the reason I hadn’t want it to end. I had had so much fun while it lasted, I wanted to just keep having fun. If I had been excited to go to that graduation ceremony, it would’ve mean that I had wasted my time. If I hadn’t enjoyed high school, or this trip, then it meant I had done it wrong.
(Dun Laoghaire, 2011, enjoying every single second of the life I lead now)
So, yes. I expected today to be different. I expected to cry, and to feel emotionally drained. But today, I am happy reflecting. Dear Ireland (and high school): you were great, and I loved you, but goodbye.
And hello, of course, to my new adventure.
We’re here at the very end.
If I had been updating this minute by minute, and every day instead of whenever the wind happened to carry me in front of my computer, I would’ve been writing this just before I crawled into bed my very last night in Dublin.
At this point, I’m going to go ahead and assume that you’ve been with me for a while—hello, old friends—but in case you’re new (or visiting my trip for the second time?), hello to you. You have a lot to catch up on though, so start reading.
Pretending that I’m still in Dublinland, I left you with me whimpering at the Luas bus stop, taking the trip home one last time.
(Inside of Luas a fair number of weeks ago when I was particularly bored on my way to work).
The trip is a lot quicker in the afternoon (I left work at about half one), and the Luas a lot less crowded. I made it to downtown in a flash, and strolled up towards the GPO to post a package.
I needed to post several things home because I was so worried I would go over the 50lb weight limit, and I refused to pay extra. I shipped home several books, stationary that I rarely used, and a few gifts I had bought.
After the post office, I gave myself a solid half an hour to meander ever so slowly up O’Connell St, taking in everything and hoping it would be enough to cement this perfect city into my mind. But, I also needed to get home and pack, because my room looked like this:
Two words to accurately describe my life: neat freak.
This, I’d like to remind myself, is what you live like. This is not all over the floor because you were furiously looking for something and didn’t clean it up one morning. No. This is what your room always looked like. Does it look like this at home, too? You betcha. Stop this. It’s not becoming.
While I am horrendous and picking dirty clothes up off the floor, I am outrageously gifted at cleaning up:
(I don’t know why the pic decided to twist like that. STOP IT.)
Anyway, I packed, I made dinner, and then Beth, Chelsea and I slipped out for one last night out on the town: to the Temple Bar!
I’ve been pretty good at avoiding the region of Temple Bar.
It’s expensive, clustered, and every step there is another student group paused for eternity in the middle of the sidewalk screaming in some foreign language wearing the same coloured backpack and not acknowledging anyone elses presence on the street. Hmph.
I don’t really like the Temple Bar, clearly. I think there are way cooler places to go grab a pint in Dublin, and as such, have avoided this region successfully for most of the trip. But I don’t think I’d be a very good visitor to Dublin if I didn’t visit one of it’s landmarks: THE Temple Bar. I’m not talking about the region here, I’m talking about the place. The Temple Bar is a huge, huge bar that stretches across an untold number of rooms: some in, some out with a new bar at every corner.
We went. We drank. We left.
That was the long and the short of our night. (Veni, Bibi, Licti? I came, I drank, I left?) I’m glad, in a way, that I left The Temple Bar for the very end because I think if I had gone there at the very beginning I would’ve been too overwhelmed by the size and the expanse of the place. You could easily lose yourself in there. (I’m listening to one of those kickass Chrysler commercials on TV. Vague Eminem reference necessary.)
It was a decent night, a calm farewell to the city I’ve grown to love. I’ve grown up a little bit here. Discovered myself a little bit here. I’ve met some excellent people. I’ve done some excellent things. I’ve seen some excellent places.
This blog is my time capsule. It’s where I’ve put my thoughts, my fears, my excitements, my memories, myself. It’s where I’ve placed a measuring chart against myself to see how much I’ve grown (I’m still 5’5”), and where I’ll go back to to relive everything that was so great about the summer of 2011. Ireland changed me. This trip changed me. And I cannot believe this has all happened to me, this whirlwind of a perfect experience.
My twitter is located on the right hand side of the page (——>), and I was scrolling through my tweets the other day and saw the tweet I made the morning I left. It’s perfect, and apart from my last post coming tomorrow about my thoughts on speeding down the tarmac, this is adieu to the world of blogging via dublinternships, so the best way to say farewell is how I said it myself before:
Remember: this is see you later, Ireland. Not goodbye. I’ll be back sooner than we both think.
up next: the last one
(want to join me from the beginning?)
Well. I’m here at the end.
Or I was there.
Currently I’m here in America. But on August 11, I was there. The key to my heart: Ireland.
August 11 (Thurs) was my last full day in my blessed country. My last day at work. My last day seeing the hills. My last day walking on what I feel to be sacred ground. (At one point, I walked barefoot down O’Connell St. Dublin and I have gotten up close and personal).
My last day was filled with tying up projects—was everything done? Did everyone know where everything was that I had worked on? I answered phones, as usual, and watched the day sneak by me, going too fast (or too slow, I never decided which). Around lunchtime, everyone gathered in the pseudo-library, pseudo-storage room and we had cakes: one apricot cake, and one chocolate cake.
I’ve never had either, but I enjoyed both. The apricot cake looked like a quiche and had chunks of actual apricots on them. I’ve never even had an apricot, but it was pretty decent! I wonder if they make the same sort of thing in America? I also had my very first piece of chocolate cake. I don’t really like chocolate all that much, and usually say that you’d have to pay me a hefty sum to actually eat a piece of chocolate cake willingly—especially one with chocolate frosting and chocolate shavings on it. It sounds awful. It smells awful. And for as long as I can remember, I bet it tasted awful, too. However, I ate a piece of that cake, not wanting to pull the “Oh, thanks that you got that for me but I’m gonna be supa lame here and decline it on account of being all childish and just not liking chocolate all that much” card. So. I ate it.
And you know what? It tastes kind of like a glorified brownie. Interesting. I’m not going to tell you that I’ll crave chocolate cake again any time soon, or that I’ll be thrilled if another piece is ever offered to me, but hey—I’m also not going to lie: chocolate cake isn’t awful.
After lunch, I shut down my computer and started the truly awful part: the goodbyes.
I thought it best to do these one by one. Each one of these people had done something different for me, taught me something new, and each one of them had been terrifically kind to me. Doing a collective goodbye seemed like I was cheating somehow. So I went from room to room, smiling and practically bowing at their feet thanking them for such a perfect little adventure. I truly meant every thing I said to each one of the individuals—they know what it is. They were awesome. I couldn’t have asked for a better internship.
As is my typical thang, however, I couldn’t leave with just that. So after my goodbyes, I grabbed all of my stuff, dropped off my keys, and discretely taped a note to the door before I left addressed “To Everyone.” It was a broad au revoir note, with my typical email so if anyone felt the need to contact me, they could. The note was to everyone (obvs), but that, too, came from the bottom of my heart. I don’t know who read it or saw it or what has come of it, but there it is. I loved that job. I’ll never forget it, or all the experiences and lessons that came with it, as long as I live.
Leaving was awfully difficult. I knew it was going to be that way, but I guess it didn’t strike me until I was waiting for the Luas on my way home that this wasn’t simply see you next summer, or whatever. It was goodbye. It was a “thanks for being such an impact on my life. Goodbye.” sort of deal where I walk out the door and I don’t see any of them ever again.
I got emotional, as I do, after I left, and let a few tears sputter down my face while I waited for the tram. It wasn’t fun that I had let these people create a space in my heart, and before I was ready, they were gone. In an instant. Just like this summer as a whole, it has flashed by. I’ve soaked it all in, and I’m so content with what I’ve done, but it doesn’t make it any easier that it is over. I felt so sad thinking that I saw these people for about 80% of my time in Ireland, and that’s gone.
It was good. It was great, even. And I don’t think any other internship will ever match up to the things I did, the people I met, and the things I learned.
up next: the one about the last day (part 2)
(want to join me from the beginning?)
Today was the marking of the end of the adventure: the going away parties.
I’ll start with my work one.
We went out to lunch today. We went to The Counter in Dundrum, which was pretty much the most stressful dining experience of my life. In a good way. The Counter is the home of the custom built burger, giving diners the ultimate experience of having precisely the burger that they want. Their menu is extensive, to say the least, and gives you literally everything your could want or need on a burger.
Do you want a turkey burger? No problem. Want it on an English muffin? Sure. Have you been searching for a burger with brie on it? Look no further. Or what if you wanted apricot sauce on the burgers? You don’t even have to ask—it’s on the menu.
The Counter was one of those dining experiences where I didn’t know what to do with myself because I was so excited about every option. I eventually went with this: a 1/3lb turkey burger on a whole wheat bun, topped with gruyere cheese, roasted corn and blackbean salsa, spicy pepperoncinis, and mixed greens. I decided to not put a sauce on my burger because I wasn’t sure how it would all mix together, but in retrospect I think a sauce would’ve been a good choice.
Everyone ordered their own burger, and we got regular fries (they actually call them FRIES at this restaurant! Yay! We laughed for a while that “fries” was the right word to use when describing FRIED potatoes, while everyone else argued that “chips” was more proper), onion rings, parmesan fries, and sweet potato fries. I don’t even like sweet potatoes, but I could’ve eaten ten thousand pounds of those sweet potato fries.
But here’s where the “party” (ahem—lunch) took a turn. I got a present! Or, presents, shall I say? Before I knew it a bag was produced and a whole bunch of thank you’s were expressed. Inside the bag was a thank you card, signed by everyone in the office, another envelope containing some money to compensate some of the cost it took me for transportation, and a Swarovski crystal bag. My jaw dropped.
Swarovski? I can’t afford Wal-Mart jewelry, let alone something so respected as beautiful Swarovski. I’m always afraid to go into that store because a) I can’t afford anything and that makes me sad, and b) I’m so afraid I’m going to break this beautiful stuff that I stand in the corner like a deer in headlights. When I received the bag I stared wide-eyed, stammering a thousand thank you’s before I even opened my gift, a perfect, beautiful, amazing little clover pendant to remind me of my perfect, beautiful, and amazing time in Ireland.
It’s so cute!! I wear it every day, and am a thousand times appreciative of it. I think I must’ve said thank you about a hundred times, and even then I don’t think it is enough.
My second going away party took place in the centre of Dublin at 101 Talbot. This was a restaurant tucked away on Talbot St (an extension of Earl St N, right by the spire), and was amazing. I’m a little peeved I didn’t know of this place before.
The event was a going away dinner thrown by EUSA, which meant FREE FOOD! Sort of. It meant I had paid for it when I had paid for the trip, but the idea was it was food that I didn’t have to pay for right then, which was just about the most appealing thing I can think of. Free food. A better fragment sentence has never been spoken.
We dined first on garlic mushrooms on toast. I know I’ve raved a lot about deep fried goats cheese—and there is a special place in heaven reserved for that—but there is something special about garlic mushrooms on toast. I’ve never had better mushrooms in my life; and I’m on SUCH a mushroom kick this summer. The mushrooms were…garlicky, and the toast was toasted to perfection. I would have gladly forgone dinner and just had this appetizer part two.
For our main course, we had a sort of chicken cordon bleu. It was a thick chicken breast stuffed with different cheeses, topped with a mustard sauce, and accompanied with green beans and potatoes fried in duck fat. The last part sounds gross, but promise me, if you eat meat, this is as excellente as excellente goes.
Because it was one of our last nights in Dublinland, we went to one of our favourite bars, Messers Maguire. I didn’t order anything because I’m poor and I realize, three months after my adventure starts, that squandering my money on alcohol isn’t the wisest choice. It was a hard lesson, and one that I’m not likely to keep up with (lets be honest), but a lesson I conquered my last few days in Dublinland. I went to Messers more for the atmosphere and to hang out with these people, my second family, for one of the last times.
And then it was towards home on the last bus—because there’s no way I’m paying extra for a cab. :)
up next: the one about my last day in dublin
(want to join me from the beginning?)
I’m tired, everybody. I’ve been here for three months. I have three days left.
And I’m tired.
The past three months have been a whirlwind, whipping me around one way and then the other, taking me on the biggest adventure of my life. I’ve blinked, and suddenly I’m on the opposite end of it thinking, my head spinning from how fast this has all gone.
My room is mostly packed away. (By that, of course, I mean that I’ve pulled my suitcase out from under my bed and I have put one pair of shoes away. It’s progress, people.) My flight is booked for 12:30p on Friday (Aug 12). By 11pm Michigan time (4am Dublinia time), I’ll be in the airport with my family. My family. I’ve missed them, and I get to see them soon. Yay!
But for now, I’m still 3500 miles away, having just returned home from a tame evening out with Beth and Chelsea. Today, I went to work—felt better, actually accomplished something as opposed to yesterday—and then met up with Chelsea to do a bit of shopping. I bought the last of my gifts for la familia (and my roomies) while we waited for Beth to come.
(On the subject of gifts, here’s the breakdown:
Once Beth arrived, we went out to eat at Lemon on Dawson St (by Grafton). Lemon is a pancake/crepe place we’ve been meaning to eat at forever now, and we’ve only just gotten around to it. I got a vegetarian cheese omelete that had several types of cheeses, tomato, and mushrooms all in a crepe, with some tomato relish on the side. It was really yummy! After, they wanted to go out for drinks and/or dessert, but I was more inclined to go home and pack.
I did, and thank goodness I did. Packing is a pain. I kept unpacking and readjusting things to make sure it all fit—and under the 50lb limit!!
My last week in Dublin is turning out to be far more tame than I had anticipated it to be. I had expected to be running around constantly, making sure I did everything I wanted to do. But I did everything I wanted to do. I have lived, breathed, and explored Ireland and Dublin as much as I wanted to, and as much as I could. And now that it’s over, I’m content. I did it all, and I regret nothing.
up next: the one with the going away party
(want to join me from the beginning?)
My creativity about the titles has been zapped. Not that I am that creative to begin with about these titles. But, as it is, it’ll probably be “The One About the Last Tuesday” tomorrow, etc. I’m sorry. Sue me. I’m tired.
I’m probably tired because my body decided that my last week in Dublinia should be marked by being sick. I never get sick in my real life back in Amurrica. On occasion I will get a sore throat, or a headache or something manageable. But twice during this trip I’ve been consumed with feeling like my world is ending because I am positive I’m dying.
Phase two of being
deathly ill was Monday. I had gone to bed the night before feeling a bit out of sorts—I had a headache and my throat was feeling a little funny, but I also figured it was because I was really tired and needed some rest.
I didn’t sleep at all.
I had a terrifically fitful night of “sleep,” during which I tossed and turned and didn’t get any sleep at all. I bounced back and forth from shivering because I was so cold—so I turned on my heater, put on my fuzzy socks and sweatshirt—to dripping in sweat—so I reversed the process by peeling off my layers, opening the window, and turning off the heater. And then I would go through it all over again.
When I “woke up” on Monday for work, I shuffled into the kitchen. Beth asked if I wanted to go out for dinner. I responded by looking at her—my face pale with dark circles under my eyes, my hair not brushed though I was ready for work, and my head feeling like it had expanded by seven times its original size.
I went to work and effectively felt like I was going to die. I thought I saw a light at the end of the tunnel and that it was calling my name. “Lauuuureeeeennnn, come heeeerrrreeeee.” And I was like, “That sort of sounds like a good idea” because at the moment I was bending over the space heater at work, my head spinning with each movement, my throat was swollen and sore, my stomach was being turned inside out (or it at least felt like it), my head was pounding, and there was that light at the end of the tunnel. “Lauuureeeeennnnn…!”
Hark! Are those the angels calling me?
I spent my day at work typing slowly and doing nothing of merit because I couldn’t wrap my head around the function of a keyboard. I was shaking I was so cold. I had wrapped myself in a scarf—which proved to be just about useless—and alternatively bent over the space heater. “I’m dying,” was what I expressed to my coworkers. After looking at me, they agreed. They expressed their condolences at my imminent and untimely demise, and wished me luck in the proposed afterlife.
In reality, I stayed at work until half four like usual, came home, curled up in bed and slept for several hours, waking up only to get some food, and then crawl back into bed.
I didn’t go into the light. I thought giving up that easily was a bit weak. I’m a Spartan. We don’t give up because it’s hard.
up next: the one about the last tuesday (<— seriously lacking in title ideas)
(want to join me from the beginning?)
If it was your last day in Dublin without having to go to work, what would you do?
If you’re me, you’d go to jail.
Gaelic is confusing.
Kilmainham Gaol is a touristy hot-spot in Dublin, I think because people are attracted to sob stories, and stories that almost seem larger than life. The further away it is from your life, the more people seem to be attracted to it. Being a political prisoner in Dublin is something that is kind of far away from a lot of people’s lives.
Kilmainham Gaol was open until 1924, and then was abandoned for some years before a group of volunteers renovated the entire thing. Even still, the building is in mildly deteriorating shape, but the tour covers quite a bit of ground of the actual building.
(For adults, it is a 5E ticket. For a family with children, it is 14E. For a student—2E!! What a good deal!)
One thing I really liked about the gaol, better than the one we visited in Cork, was that once you paid your admission, you were given a half hour to tour the museum before you went on the actual tour. We read a lot about the prisons history and about the actual prisoners.
(Ledger of prisoners from the 1800s).
The tour was guided by an actual guide (the one in Cork was also a guided tour—but we were guided by recordings on cassettes. Yeah…cassettes. Very 1993 of you, Cork), which was nice because it was a more personal interaction. I’m wildly impressed by the amount of things they had to memorize for the tour!! Wow.
The guide, Siobhan (sha-vaughn), told us stories about the prisoners that stayed there, particularly the political leaders in the Easter Uprising of 1916. All of the leaders who were brought to the prison were effectively on Death Row—sentenced to die by hanging. One of the leaders was Joseph Plunkett who, a few days before his execution, married his sweetheart Grace Gifford. The only time the couple were allowed to speak to each other on their wedding day was when they said their vows. On the day that Plunkett was to be executed, Grace and Plunkett were allowed 10 minutes together with armed guards around them counting down the exact moments. When precisely 10 minutes had passed, Grace was taken away, and some minutes later Plunkett was executed. How sad is that???
Learning about the political prisoners was really sad. Not only did we see where they stayed:
(The names of the prisoners who stayed in the respective cells were written above the door).
(The inside of one of the cells in Kilmainham East Wing)
(The inside of Grace Gifford’s cell. In her life, she was a cartoonist and artist, so she painted a Virgin Mary and Child in her cell).
After touring the inside of the prison, we were given a tour of the outside, including the exercise yards and a location where several people attempted (and a few succeeded) in escape from Kilmainham.
We were then taken to a seemingly inconspicuous part of the yards, which quickly turned ominous. At either end of this other yard, separated by a surprisingly thick stone wall and set apart from the rest of the prison entirely, were two black crosses:
Now, the whole prison had had this creepy vibe. It was odd because while we were walking around all these places and hearing these stories, there was this odd part of you that gave you this sinking feeling: these stories weren’t just stories, they were people that had lived. They were real people. People stayed in that cell. People walked down these halls. It was so strange. I’m walking around and touring, thinking to myself that I’m hungry and I want dinner soon, when only 80 years or so ago someone sat inside the cell next to me, waiting to be executed for his crimes. It was a…strange sensation. I can’t quite describe it. It was the sort of feeling you get when you’re walking in a graveyard or in a mausoleum. It’s just…strange.
This separate yard with the crosses was a strange part of the prison, because not only was this another historic part, this was the execution yards where 14 men had lost their lives.
The 14 men were
and may they rest in peace. I don’t know a lot about politics. I don’t know a lot about Irish politics. I don’t know a lot about the Easter Uprising, or the people who were against it. But I do know that these were men who, whether or not they deserved to die, were shot by a firing squad and died. It’s sad. Death is sad.
After we toured the execution yards, the tour was over. Everyone was respectfully silent as we shuffled out of Kilmainham and down the street.
Not wanting to end on a completely depressing note, I want to show you the weather I’ve been experiencing all summer long:
Irish weather = rain. rain. rainnnnn.
up next: the one about the last monday
(want to join me from the beginning?)
My Saturday was supremely lazy. As in I didn’t roll out of bed until 1130 (rather impressive for going to bed at 5, I think!). As in the world didn’t exactly stop spinning until I managed to convince myself to eat breakfast (a rather hearty one at that: egg and cheese omelette, black and white pudding, and toast with marmalade on it. Yum!). As in it was raining and I was like, “Ugh. I’ve battled the rain my whole summer. Let’s just not.”
So we all stayed in and did our best to not do anything of interest until we decided to go out for the evening. Stop one was at Howl at the Moon (sort of by Merrion Square), a decadent four-story bar that had me thinking I had stepped into someones elaborately decorated house by accident. I enjoyed a particularly sweet Long Island Iced Tea. We then went to The Market Bar (by Georges St Arcade)…which turned out to be more of a restaurant then a bar. We tried, next, to go to Hogans (across the street), but you literally couldn’t move inside, so then we stopped, lastly, at Sinnott’s.
It was the last time we all ever went to Sinnotts, and as per usual, went out with a bang. We danced to Love Shack. Again. We drank. Again. And we danced the night away until they told us to go away at half 2, and we said goodnight for the last time. (but not before taking a pic with the entire bar and security crew ;)).
Kind of lame Saturday. So I’ll make up for it by showing you pretty pictures.
Chelsea, Me, and Kristine at Copperface Jack’s
Beth, Me, Chelsea at the Fine Gael parliment party at Dicey’s. Some of our friends work for Fine Gael, so we were allowed into the party, and later into the VIP lounge. We were obviously really excited about this.
Most of the ladies at my birthday party at the Morgan Bar. Everyone looks so fantastic in this picture, it’d be hard not to post it a thousand times.
Chels and I at Dicey’s at the Fine Gael party again. I love this picture and this girl for so many reasons.
A little blurry, but I still really like it. Strawberry cheesecake cocktails at the Grand Central.
On top of the mountain we hiked in Edinburgh. It’s not surprising that we look this good. We always look this good.
Except for, of course, when someone decides to go skidding on the sidewalk on her knees. Ahem ahem. Battle wounds. Love ‘em. Not to mention that this pic was taken about four days after the initial incident, so some of the redness had gone down. I am super impressed with my skidding on the sidewalk skillz.
An oldie, but a goodie. Bethany Jane and I at the Morgan Bar on my birthday.
And last, but not least, the three of us early on in the trip at the not-funny comedy club (that actually turned out to be a live music hour. Who knew?) <3 :)
up next: the one about kilmainham
(want to join me from the beginning?)
Oh. Hello last Friday in Dublin. You kinda snuck up on me there.
I’ll get to my pains about that later, but for now, I want to tell you about what I’m doing in the city of the Dubs while I’m still on this precious little island of mine. (Ha! By the way, a cab driver told me the other night that “you fly for four hours in America and you’re still in the same country. I walk for four minutes and I’m out of Ireland!” lolz).
Two things on my to do list today: see Oscar, and see Copperface Jack.
Oscar, as in Oscar Wilde. Copperface Jack as in…Copperface Jack. You’ll understand.
First, Oscar! Oscar is situated on a BAMF perch in Merrion Square nearby where the God of Words was born.
Look how preciously cocky he is. Its like he’s saying, “Yep. I know I’m awesome.” And you just fawn over him anyway. He’s the guy at school that you don’t want to like, but you like anyway because he’s perfect.
Just across the sidewalk from The Dude are monuments that have some of his best quotes etched into them:
The one above is my favourite. :)
After hanging out with Oscar for a while (+ taking awkward touristy photos with him), we decided to stroll around Merrion Sq for a while. For whatever reason, it reminded me of Peter Pan. I don’t know how, or why, but all I could think about was the Lost Boys when I was walking through Merrion Sq. Sometimes I don’t understand the things that go on in my head.
After finishing browsing in the park, Beth, Chelsea and I went to get Chinese for dinner. I ordered satay chicken, which was pretty good, but I have yet to find a Chinese dish I’m in love with. You know how everyone has that one dish that they just get over and over again? I can’t find mine. Waaaah.
After dinner, we came home to prettify ourselves to go out for the night. On the agenda: meeting Mr. Copperface Jack.
Copperface Jack’s is a pretty well known establishment in Dublin for being the only club open past half two in the morning. Jack’s is open until about half three or four—making the night wilder, longer, and “more worth it.”
I, for one, had a blast. Chelsea and I pregamed a bit (Beth abandoned us to hang out with her work friends, psht), and then got together with the group at the club.
She is so pretty I can’t even handle it.
I didn’t get home until—eek—5am. Oh, bad life decisions. There are so many of you I can hardly keep up.
up next: the one with my favourite pics so far (part 3)
(want to join me from the beginning?)
For my second to last Thursday in Dublin, I did what I always do: work, then pubs. It’s a wonderful little routine I’ve settled into, feeling all grown up and riding the bus/LUAS every day to work, and then catching up with friends for a pint afterwards. Is this what it feels like to be an adult? To operate on a routine like this, to be happy with the places you’re in, the places you’re going, and the people you’re seeing it with? I’ve been saying all summer how grown up I feel getting ready for work every morning, strutting my stuff with others down Grafton St., and how interesting it is to go into pubs and be part of the esteemed Irish culture. As I’m sitting here and writing this, I’m also filling out a job application (cross your fingers for me), worrying about how I’m going to pay the bills this year, and waiting for my fingernail polish to dry so I can go out on the town with my friends (who have become my family) soon. I feel…like this is what life is going to be like when I’m 26ish. Semi-settled, ambitious, the world at my feet and the pitiful bank account to only make it a delightful challenge to get there.
Is that weird to say? Probably. But I get it. (Future Self Who Is Reading This: I hope you get it, too.)
So, while being my grown up self, I’m at work working on a reader’s report, again. It may sound like I’m putting everything on repeat this summer—I edit this, then read that, then make a press release and put it on repeat—but each new project I’m presented with is different, exciting, and worthwhile.
I finished the reader’s report halfway through the day, and then started working on my paper to get credit for this summer. I have to write an 18 page research paper on the company, write at least two reflexive journals a week (this blog doesn’t count), and keep files on everything I’ve worked on this summer. I guess they can’t just hand out college credits. (I’m getting a full 12 credits for being here this summer!) But still. I want to actually pretend like it is summer, thank you.
After work, it was off to dinner at the reputable Leo Burddocks. Apparently, if you’re going to get fish&chips in Dublin, LB’s is the place to do it. You buy your fish and chips and they give it all to you in a paper bag and send you on your merry way.
We chose to eat our fish and chips in a pretty courtyard next to Christ’s Church.
Like, seriously, Dublin? It’s not fair how attractive this city is.
So this was all cool, and we were happily swinging our legs on a courtyard bench when drip. Drip. Dripdripdripdrip. We frowned and looked up towards the eternally gray sky. Confound it—it was raining, again. Figuring that it was just a passing sprinkle like everything else, we continued to sit and eat our fish and chips.
But then it started to really rain, so we ducked into the church, sat on the floor just inside the main doors (not in the ACTUAL church), and started eating again, but were promptly shooed out when the church closed a moment later.
Plan B? Stare longingly into the Jury’s Inn lobby and wonder if we can get away with sneaking food in, pretending we’re guests in the hotel and eating in the lobby. Deciding this was a bad idea, we turned to the nearest pub and sat outside. (James Joyce famously said once it would be a good puzzle to try to find a way through Dublin without hitting a pub. But someone figured it out!)
It was like they were watching us! They swooped in like hawks and told us to go away because we couldn’t eat our food there. We protested and said we’d buy drinks, but nay. Denied, again. It was still raining pretty hard, so we ordered drinks and let our fish and chips get cold and mushy while we waited for the rain to pass, then we found a semi-dry ledge, sat down like professional homeless people and ate our fish and chips.
FINALLY. Though a bit cold and mushy at that point, I was starving and didn’t care.
Afterwards, we headed back down Dame St towards the Mercantile where we listened to a band play for a while, then we stopped at O’Donoghues (by Grafton St) before finally calling it a night and going home. Whew.
up next: The One About Oscar & Copperface Jack