[	Tags	|	study abroad trip	]
[	mood	|	sleepy	]

       Well, one thing that hasn’t gone as planned this trip is that I haven’t had time to be introspective.  And it’s a cursed shame, because I’m ever so good at it.  I’d planned on pumping out lots of super-engaging posts, making some spine-tingling revelations, and writing exquisite and inspired fan fiction by now.  Guess how much of that has actually happened.  I have managed to unlock the secrets to happiness in life though, so I mean that’s something.  They are as follows:

1.)  Laugh at yourself and others.

2.)  Don’t be full of shit.

3.) Charge your iPod.

       As far as I can tell, if we do these we should be good.

       HP is going well.  The two other BFF interns (both from the same journalism classes at DCU) are gone, and they were replaced by- surprise! Two NEW BFF interns, of the same make.  And the worst part is, I haven’t even been elevated to the “senior” intern position because all these f-ing journalism majors learned how to use the computer programs no one’s willing to show me how to use.  So I’m inferior by default, and they hopped right in today doing things I have yet to [/will not] learn how to do.  The girl has really nice clothes and red hair, but she’s just BARELY less pretty than me, so.  Dodged the bullet on that one.   If a new older, Irish, experienced, better qualified, MORE ATTRACTIVE chick strutted in taking the assignments they think the stupid American English kid can’t do, I don’t know if I could handle it.

       Having said that, I’d bitch even more if I DID have their jobs.  Because while writing news stories and blogs and doing stuff for the web is more intellectually engaging than looking up art exhibitions and writing blurbs about them, the bottom line is that they’re doing internet stuff.  And online journalism is fleeting as hell.  My 75 print-issue words on page 248 about this obscure Polish photographer who no one cares about will last _forever._

       I may have mentioned this before, but there’s a barber on Fleet Street near where I work.  Hahaha.

       This weekend was good, but I wish it were one day longer so I could have had a day to regroup in the middle of it.  What happens is I get up at 8, go to work, get off 8 hours later, and get home around 7. Dinner some nights, class others.  Shower, chat with the suitemates if they’re around, fall into bed.  Repeat Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday.  Get up at 9 Friday for class, scurry off to do three days of weekend things, collapse into bed Sunday night.  Like I said, little [no] time for introspection or physical recovery from the past weeks.  I’m getting sick now, and it’s starting with my throat.  And it’ll probably only get worse, because there will be zero sleepage/resting until I get home.  Ohhh well.  Time must be used properly.  ‘S not like I’m coming back any time soon, and I can get healthy once I’m home.
       Anyway, I was telling you about my weekend.

       Friday we went to Kilmainham, and I was appalled at the behavior of some of my classmates there.  They were like… posing and beaming in front of prison cells where the 1916 leaders were held before they were executed.  I sort of wanted to shove them into the dirt and take a picture of THAT.  But in the end I just kind of looked away and tried to remember that to some non-Ireland enthusiasts (or non-nerds), this actually isn’t hallowed ground.  A brief example: We went to the exact spot where most of the leaders were shot.  At the far edge of the Stone-Breaker’s Yard, a cross marks where James Connolly was executed.  To quote the constantly-quoted story, Connolly was shot there, only he couldn’t stand because he’d been badly injured in the Rising and allegedly beaten after his arrest.  So they sat him in a chair.  Only he couldn’t sit upright, so they tied him to it and shot him then.  The argument can be made that this one particular shooting, along with several others after the Rising, literally changed Irish history forever because of the massive swing in the public reaction to the Rising.  Tie a man to a chair and shoot him, and suddenly he’s not a rabble-rouser, but a martyr.  

       So I’m tuning out the tour guide and staring at this set of stones on the ground, imagining what it must have been like for John MacBride, who refused to be blindfolded.  And what do a couple of the kids do, but kneel down at the cross-marker and SMILE for the camera?  Man, what the hell are you smiling at?  That area isn’t FOR you.  We just walked through the coldest, dankest building in Dublin and you find it appropriate to BEAM and photograph yourself upon reaching the point where these men’s residencies at the jail were so efficiently terminated?  Sick, man.  I wasn’t in the mood to take pictures at all, so my friend kindly e-mailed me three of hers, including where Eamon de Valera was held.  You wouldn’t think this would be a monumental image in the jail since he made it out alive, but I don’t often keep my biases quiet so she knew I’d want it.

       Also, I’ve been decided for a long time that if I have a son someday, his name is to be Cedric.  But man, I’m pretty sold on “Eamon” now.   Coolest name ever, AND I’ve latched on to Eamon de Valera as one of my new historical figures.  (This did NOT begin with seeing Alan Rickman in the Michael Collins movie, though I can’t imagine it hurt.)  I like him because he stood firm for what he believed in, and then backed down when it didn’t work, and wasn’t in politics for just his own personal promotion, but didn’t pretend not to want to promote himself at all.  And there’s nothing particularly romantic about him.  He wasn’t shot.  He wasn’t a fearless leader; according to some reports, he actually suffered a nervous breakdown during the Rising, WHICH he took part in.  It just seems that, I don’t know.  He was an icon and a guy, and not perfect at being either.  But through rivalries and declines in power and harsh criticism and other things for which he was partially to blame, it seems like he stayed prominent and had an immense impact on the entire country for years and years.  When other leaders accomplished things later, you can always point to x years earlier and say “yeah, Billy Bob O’Flannery did a good job with what he did, but it probably wouldn’t have happened if de Valera hadn’t been so stubborn about X, Y, or Z.”   He also spoke the Gaelic and played Rugby.

His cell.

       ANYWAY.  After Kilmainham, my friends and I kind of split up for the weekend.  I went to the Museuem of History and Decorative Arts. I skipped the Decorative Arts part.  The History displays were amazing.  Original medals and shoes and IRA masks and you name it.  One cool thing was, they had a fairly life-like mannequin in front of a wall, with his head dipped low and his hand slipping into his jacket.  And on the wall it says something to the effect of “Who is this man?  A young academic reaching for his wallet or an IRA extremist preparing to shoot the next citizen he sees walk out the bank?”  And you look at the mannequin and shiver a bit because he’s pretty realistic, and realize that this is an excellent display in depicting not only the violence of the period, but the sheer paranoia that entire cities must have felt for a long, long time.  And then you side-step to the right and crane your neck to see what it is he’s reaching for.

       The best part of the whole museum was the original Irish Republic flag that was flown above the GPO during the Rising.  It was ripped at the edges and a chunk was missing, and the words were painted on.  After the British folk stamped the Rising flat, they took the flag and had their picture taken with it, and the museum got their hands on the actual photograph.  I think it was in ’66 that the British government gave the flag back to Ireland.  I stared at it for a long time.  I’m still perplexed by the two attitudes of the Rising.   After it ended, and the rebels lost dreadfully, Irish citizens spat and cursed and hurled things at them.  And man, you can understand why.  A zillion citizens had been killed, and that part of Dublin was pretty much in ruins.   Lots of people and money gone. But then you think about which side the heavy artillery actually came from, and I keep thinking back to that Michael Collins quote from the movie:  “I hate them for making hate necessary.”  From what I’ve been able to absorb from very few Irish History classes, that seems like a suitable line.  Ireland’s past was pretty tortured.

       SO.  After the flag, I saw one of the original copies of the Proclamations that were read from the steps of the GPO in the early hours of the Rising (met with a response of shrugs and dull stares at the time.)  Then I went to Arbour Hill, the cemetery where the executed leaders are buried.  Now, Kilmainham is a tourist attraction, a museum now.  The Garden of Remembrance is supposedly for everyone who lost their lives in the years during which parts of Ireland sought independence, but from what I understand pretty much everyone thinks of it as The Garden of Remembrance of the 1916 leaders.  So you’d THINK the gravesites of these people would be a big deal, too.  But after Britain had them killed, they specifically didn’t want martyrs to be made of them.  (Too late- the Connolly story was in the papers.)  Like, they didn’t want the gravesites to be turned into anti-British shrines.  So they buried them a bit out of the way, fairly secluded as far as graves for history-changing rebels go.  And you can still see the effectiveness of this move today.  Lots of people don’t even know what Arbour Hill is, much less where.  It’s actually very near the museum and jail, but I had to look it up and ask for directions. It’s between a church and a large stone wall.  I had the place to myself for half an hour (yes, I cried) before anyone else showed up. And it’s simple.  Planted flowers nearby, one large plot holding them all, a cross, a flag, and the Proclamation written on the wall behind them. 

       So Friday was a full day.  But not over yet- then I caught a train to Killarney.  Dear God.  Three hours, and a hostel near the train station for the night. Saturday I went horseback riding for the second time ever, and the first time in about twelve years. Please believe, our lady had us trotting.  It was cool when my horse (Harry) went quickly through a puddle or I had to duck to miss a branch just like in the movies, but it was also painful.  My crotch has never hurt so much, not that it’s a frequent issue.  And of course I got the one horse who hated to be behind any of the other ones, and would ride their asses or straight up make a bolt for it until he was at least second in line.  Then I walked about ten thousand miles by the Lakes of Killarney (part of the Ring of Kerry), went to the Torc Waterfall, and finally paid 10 euro to go out on a boat.  I was the only one there at the boat rides place at the time and I had to catch a train back, so the guy was super nice and took me out by myself instead of waiting like I think he was probably supposed to do.  Then I got a taxi to the station and went home.  Saturday: easily one of my favorite days so far.
 

    
Killarney
       Sunday was Oxegen, one of two major music festivals in Ireland.  HP took a bus down to Co. Kildare for it, although most of them had gone for the past two days, too.  We wasted an hour of our lives for a while, and finally I asked if I could go watch The Subways.   Permission granted, and I was glad I asked because once I came back I had to pass out flyers for about my entire life.  Passing out flyers to people who didn’t care about my flyers any more than I cared about whether or not they actually came to HP’s signing tent.  (I did score some autographs, but not by anyone vital.)  So, seven miserable hours later the tent FINALLY closed and I could go out and about.  Crammed in a bunch of music.  Tom Baxter, just to kill time.  Then Flogging Molly and Glen/Marketa (the people from “Once”), the latter of which only started twenty minutes before my bus left.  I ended up staying at their performance until 11:13, and then RUNNING back across this giant field to the tent.  My poor, poor legs.  Abused all weekend long, really. 

      
And there it is.  Later days ~