In Ireland, you must "mind" everything. Mind your step, mind the gap, mind your sense of direction to avoid getting hit by a car driving down the wrong side of the road, and, most importantly, mind the Irish. This was one of the first pieces of advice given to Abby and I by a local Irishman over a pint of Guinness. We've yet to determine what exactly this means, but I suppose I have nine months to figure it out.
On Monday morning at half past six (the Irish appear confused when you said things like "six thirty a.m.), Abby and I landed in Dublin after seven hours in our "economy comfort" Delta seats (i.e. four more inches of legroom, 30 percent more recline, and zero percent more sleep). In our zombie-like state, we stumbled up to the Immigration line, where I then met the scariest man I've ever encountered. I don't know his name, and he didn't care to share it with me, but I think his night job may be interrogating suspects for MI-5. He did not believe that I am gainfully employed in Ireland nor did he believe my work permit is on the cusp of going through. He had never heard of Barretstown, nor did he care, and he had never heard of the town where I will be living and likely believes I made it up. Right before he locked me up in Irish purgatory, I said a very direct, strong prayer to the Good Lord, something along the lines of "Dear God I will not make it in Irish jail." Immigration Man stamped my passport, giving me two weeks as a visitor to show a permit before I get kicked out of Ireland forever. One hurdle down.
After struggling through baggage claim, a long lift in a taxi, and checking into our hotel, we slept it off until after lunch, and then rallied with the best of 'em to make it out and about for the day. Dublin is a a busy place, but the city center is compact and it's easy to walk everywhere. The sun made an appearance that afternoon (the only day this week that happened), which eased our transition. We strolled down Grafton Street, a pedestrian only area with shopping and dining, and found lattes and food on the balcony of Bewley's, a landmark in Dublin apparently.
I think I could write a whole blog on food experiences in Ireland, but we've yet to be disappointed. Meals are relatively inexpensive for the quality (especially compared to other European countries I've been to), and portions are hearty and filling. Irish food is not for the faint of heart -- beef, lamb, fish, potatoes, and stout -- when you live in a country where it is always cold and raining -- always -- you have to eat to make yourself warm and happy. Not a bad game plan. While there is an Irish pub on every corner offering traditional favorites (loving the fish and chips), I was shocked by the number of international options. Chinese, Thai, Italian, Vietnamese, Cuban, Greek, Spanish, American, Mexican (YES!), sushi, seafood .... places I didn't know were real places have made their mark on the Irish food scene. Aside from those, there are an overwhelming number of quaint, girlie, lovely cafes that call your name when you walk by -- please, Abby and Christina, come inside and have a scone or a tart and a pot of tea! So, we did. Our favorites were the Rhubarb Cafe and Queen of Tarts -- I plan to go back as often as possible.
We did our due diligence as tourists in the city. As we both pulled our Rick Steve's and Frommer's Ireland books out of our purses, we discovered that we both came from families where our moms read to us from travel books on every trip, which is very embarrassing as a middle-schooler. However, at that moment we decided to own the fact that we were tourists and learned a great deal about the city in two days (Thank you, Rick, and mom). We saw Dublin Castle, which was the center of British rule in Ireland in the 1800s (or at least at some point), and The Guinness Storehouse. We also saw several parks and squares, where Irish school children were walking two-by-two. Very "Madeline" esque. We walked along the river, and ate a meal in the famous "Temple Bar" area. We strayed away from there at night, since our cab driver told us the only people who go to Temple Bar are "tourists and Irish looking to pick up tourists."
We met a lot of locals along the way, and discovered that we also both came from families where our moms would talk to anyone and everyone they met on trips. Again, embarrassing as a middle-schooler, but it's hard to overcome your genes. We stuck up conversations whenever possible, and learned many things -- most importantly, girls should not drink Guinness, and "Slancha" is the Irish word for cheers. Go figure.
Mid-week we made it to Galway, which is now one of my favorite European cities. It's large enough to be vibrant, but small enough to have character. It's on the water, and in one of the most beautiful counties in Ireland. From Galway, you can get to the famous Cliffs of Moher, the Burren national park, and the Connemara area. As we sat at a pub over a pint, we were debating whether to try our hand at renting a car and driving on the wrong side of the road to these places, or getting on a (possibly lame and slow) bus tour. An old Irishman overheard us, looked concerned, and told us to "get on the f***ing bus." Point taken, sir. So, on the bus we went. Desmond was our driver, he was about 80 years old, and has been taking tourists to the Burren and Cliffs of Moher six days a week for the last 18 years. He is full of Irish knowledge and says everything twice. We got on and off the bus for about nine hours and felt like we had seen all of Ireland. The Burren is one of the most unique landscapes I have ever seen, filled with strange rocks with slits in them. And the Cliffs of Moher are breathtaking. You see them in pictures, but the pictures can't convey how absolutely colossal they are. It is one of the windiest, coldest, wettest places I have ever been, but you almost don't notice because you're dumbfounded by what you're seeing. I was slightly terrified to learn that 14 people lost their lives at the Cliffs last year (wandered off the edge, I suppose!), so I minded the gap very carefully on this excursion. Abby did not, and wandered right past the "Danger! Don't go any further!" sign. She made it, but it was a close one.
I spent the rest of my time preparing for "real" life in Ireland. Bought a hair dryer and straightener (at T.K. Maxx... just like T.J. Maxx!), got an Irish cell phone for local matters, picked up a few groceries at Tesco, and bought a few more warm clothing items -- hat, gloves, socks, rainboots. They weren't kidding about the weather here.
I was really encouraged by speaking with a few people who got excited when I told them I would be working at Barretstown, and said it's a "well known" charity in Ireland. The first few people I spoke with just looked confused when I explained it, so I was getting a little worried. Apparently I just hadn't found the right people yet. :)
A few other observations:
-People smoke here, but not as much as in other countries. Smoking was banned in pubs and restaurants, so it's very nice.
-Gaelic is the craziest language I've ever seen. I've yet to make any sense of it.
-The Irish have much nicer words for everything than we do in America. A porta potty? No. An Extra loo! They don't have "trash," they have "litter." They don't have "bachelor and bachelorette parties," they have "hen and stag" parties.
That's all for now -- headed to Barretstown tomorrow!
CG
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