We're starting the countdown to the big day, and we're excited for you to join us for the big event in Fort Wayne. We hope this multi-purpose blog will give you all the information you need before the wedding. (Check the links over to the right too.)
First the important details: the ceremony will be at held at the First Presbyterian Church at 4:30pm. The reception will be held at the Freemason's Hall, starting at 5:30 with a cocktail hour, followed by dinner, music and dancing, featuring the band Years. The two locations are pretty close together, but here's a map.
We have rooms reserved at the Courtyard by Marriott and the Hilton Grand Wayne. (Be sure to book by Aug. 24). You can find the hotel info here. If you're planning to fly to the wedding, we also put together some airport advice. If you're spending the weekend with us in Fort Wayne, we've also included some information on area attractions. We're also registered at Traveler's Joy and Bed Bath and Beyond. You can find our registry information here.
If you haven't visited our blog before, you can find recaps of our travel adventures here, links to our India pictures, and video of Theo's proposal at the Taj Mahal. You can also check out our EPIC Save the Date Trailer.
We can't wait to see you in Fort Wayne!
Monday, August 8, 2011
Wedding Gift Registry
We're hoping you've caught on to the wedding theme by now. As international travelers, we've made this interest a large part of our big day. For our wedding, then, instead of asking for a lot of stuff, we're instead asking for a great experience and some wonderful memories on our honeymoon to New Zealand. You can find our honeymoon registry here: http://www.travelersjoy.com/tnagoglobal
If you'd like to help us cook some great international food in our kitchen, we're also registered at Bed Bath and Beyond. You can find the registry here.
If you'd like to help us cook some great international food in our kitchen, we're also registered at Bed Bath and Beyond. You can find the registry here.
Friday, August 5, 2011
MCI Cultural Journal #15: A Hairy Situation
I wrote earlier about my ambiguous ethnicity here in Ireland. Never am I picked as an Irishman, and rarely as an American. No one has even really identified me as a Midwesterner. As for anything beyond that, no. But the hair, the hair's the monkey wrench. It's not as if I haven't seen lads and lasses with dreadlocked tresses in Dublin, but it is an uncommon sight. And surprisingly to me, rarely has there been leers or sneers thrown my way by observers as I walk the streets. The only real moment of visual derision that I saw was from the landing crew at the airport. It was as much befuddlement as disdain. Ashley and I hatched a plan to cut my hair either shortly before Galway, or when we got back. It's a decision that I had been considering for a number of weeks, and not one I took lightly. But I had decided that I was going to cut my dreadlocks off after 7 years of sporting them. Not only was it for cosmetic reasons (the weight of the dreadlocks was starting to make me preternaturally bald, a prospect that makes me shudder), but the shits and giggles that would follow seeing my fiancé not recognize me at the airport, and the astonishment upon her mother's face just one week after was incentive enough to make the change. I'd also decided to change the color. Because if you're going to cut off 7 pounds of hair (yes, you read that right, seven pounds), you might as well go full-tilt boogie and change the hue as well.
I've never dyed my hair black before. I've had it dark on occasion, a terrible dark maroon job from junior year in college comes to mind, but I thought dying it black would be the most sufficient distinction I could make from the "old Theo." Remarkably, after getting it done, a number of people questioned, "did you dye it?," as if they weren't sure if my hair without dreadlocks was naturally this dark.
So, like any good academian, I did research as to where I could best acquire my follicular makeover. After seeing the prices at a salon close to my house off Griffith Ave., at €20 for the cut and €75 for the color, I just knew there had to be someplace cheaper. I mean, come on, I'm not a woman going to Paul Mitchell's. I took an afternoon down in the city centre to poke around and find a more affordable option, only to be disappointed by nothing quoted as under €100. They were all excellent salons, filled with lovely ladies and effeminate lads with cutting shears and garden weasels at hand to cut the "mess" upon my head.
After consulting with Brid, my host mum, she said I could find a much more agreeable price if I looked at the Polish salons. During the influx of Polish labor during the Celtic tiger, one of the professions that burgeoned with foreign labor from from Eastern Europe was hair salons. Willing to perform a dry cut for €5 put them on par with any Borics or supersalon found in middle America. One of the native Irish salons told me I'd have to do a skin test to make sure the hair dye wouldn't cause an allergic reaction. No such need at the lower tier salons. Hives? Rashes? No problem, as long as we give you the color you want. I eventually found my way to a small salon run by a Chinese immigrant who had been in Ireland for over 7 years. Interestingly, his shop lie in what appeared to be "foreigner hair salon row." I could have had my locks redone from the Cameroonians around the corner, shaved by the Russian girls with the €5 euro and barber pole motif. But I decided I should trust my hair to Shun, with his Vietnamese nail technician partner (yeah, apparently that's a global stereotype).
The only problem I had was when I originally told Shun I wanted to cut my hair off, he assumed he would be shaving my head. A slight negotiation in price resolved how much hair I would be allowed to keep. As he snipped off the first lock, I did panic a little. My heart sank as half a decade disappeared from my head. The cutting process took about 30 minutes, after which I astutely bagged up my hair (that's like 3 iguana pillows worth of hair -- long story, ask me later). Overall, the process was pretty painless. I did get a few head rushes when I stood up, but losing 7 pounds from your noggin will do that. After we were finished dying the hair Cool Black, (it's blue, like Dick Grayson! Nerd points if you get that.) My coif was styled into a righteous faux hawk.
Oddly, despite the compliments and the number of people in the shop who suggested the new look was quite "grand," I felt quite self-conscious about the massive change. It actually might take months to truly get used to the change. I did notice I received more smiles from the Irish female populace, and I by no means claim to be handsome. But even a bulldog looks cute with a bow.
As for the shock and awe upon those who didn't recognize me, check out the video below:
I've never dyed my hair black before. I've had it dark on occasion, a terrible dark maroon job from junior year in college comes to mind, but I thought dying it black would be the most sufficient distinction I could make from the "old Theo." Remarkably, after getting it done, a number of people questioned, "did you dye it?," as if they weren't sure if my hair without dreadlocks was naturally this dark.
So, like any good academian, I did research as to where I could best acquire my follicular makeover. After seeing the prices at a salon close to my house off Griffith Ave., at €20 for the cut and €75 for the color, I just knew there had to be someplace cheaper. I mean, come on, I'm not a woman going to Paul Mitchell's. I took an afternoon down in the city centre to poke around and find a more affordable option, only to be disappointed by nothing quoted as under €100. They were all excellent salons, filled with lovely ladies and effeminate lads with cutting shears and garden weasels at hand to cut the "mess" upon my head.
After consulting with Brid, my host mum, she said I could find a much more agreeable price if I looked at the Polish salons. During the influx of Polish labor during the Celtic tiger, one of the professions that burgeoned with foreign labor from from Eastern Europe was hair salons. Willing to perform a dry cut for €5 put them on par with any Borics or supersalon found in middle America. One of the native Irish salons told me I'd have to do a skin test to make sure the hair dye wouldn't cause an allergic reaction. No such need at the lower tier salons. Hives? Rashes? No problem, as long as we give you the color you want. I eventually found my way to a small salon run by a Chinese immigrant who had been in Ireland for over 7 years. Interestingly, his shop lie in what appeared to be "foreigner hair salon row." I could have had my locks redone from the Cameroonians around the corner, shaved by the Russian girls with the €5 euro and barber pole motif. But I decided I should trust my hair to Shun, with his Vietnamese nail technician partner (yeah, apparently that's a global stereotype).
The only problem I had was when I originally told Shun I wanted to cut my hair off, he assumed he would be shaving my head. A slight negotiation in price resolved how much hair I would be allowed to keep. As he snipped off the first lock, I did panic a little. My heart sank as half a decade disappeared from my head. The cutting process took about 30 minutes, after which I astutely bagged up my hair (that's like 3 iguana pillows worth of hair -- long story, ask me later). Overall, the process was pretty painless. I did get a few head rushes when I stood up, but losing 7 pounds from your noggin will do that. After we were finished dying the hair Cool Black, (it's blue, like Dick Grayson! Nerd points if you get that.) My coif was styled into a righteous faux hawk.
Oddly, despite the compliments and the number of people in the shop who suggested the new look was quite "grand," I felt quite self-conscious about the massive change. It actually might take months to truly get used to the change. I did notice I received more smiles from the Irish female populace, and I by no means claim to be handsome. But even a bulldog looks cute with a bow.
As for the shock and awe upon those who didn't recognize me, check out the video below:
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
MCI Cultural Journal #14: I Think I Want to Hurl
It's remarkable, really; these are major league sports, filling stadiums with over 30,000 people, securing large television contracts and endorsement and sponsorship monies, and yet the guys who put in the most work, the athletes who grind out games, who punish their bodies, get paid nothing? At least American college players get an education out of their indentured relationship, and some harbor aspirations to turn pro after their 4 year limit of servitude is up. But these guys, they get nothing, save the occasional personal endorsement deal and random hurling groupie. Judging by the talent on hand at the stadium, it probably isn't all that much.
Along with this notion of amateurism is the weird relationship sponsors have with teams, and it's something I never liked about European sport. In trying to find a jersey for Sunday's game, I perused a number of shops and sporting goods stores, trying to find a Dublin hurling t-shirt. But finding any logo apparel beyond a jersey was neigh impossible. In fact, walking into the stores was like walking into an advertising booth at a commercial fair. Every team jersey available, no matter the sport, was only emblazoned with the team sponsor so that the end result is that you because less a fan of a particular squad, but more of a walking billboard for Vodafone or Air Emirates, or whatever the sponsor of choice may be. All I wanted was a simple jersey to identify myself as a fan of my chosen team. But being unable to find a Dublin t-shirt and unwilling to pay 50-65 for the privilege of advertising Vodafone's mobile service, I left without buying a product.
The other thing that struck me in the store was the lack of identification of any of the local teams. Hurling may be the national sport of Ireland, yet in Dublin seeing a jersey worn in public beyond game day was highly unlikely. Inside the store, the racks of merchandise were more likely to be filled with products from the large and most popular European soccer teams. It was vexing and ultimately annoying. I mentioned to several clerks that if this were a shop in the States, every rack would be filled to the brim with various gear from the local sports teams, professional, college, or otherwise. None of the girls I asked had a satisfactory answer. To add to the frustration, nearly every store had three American baseball teams' t-shirts and hats; the Yankees, White Sox, and Dodgers were in every store. I don't know if it's the its the predominance of tourists from those three cities, the fact that they're the three largest markets in the United States, or whether a long history of Irish emigrating to each place (heck, the owner of the Dodgers was the O'Malley family for a number of decades. Even the current owner, Frank McCourt, has strong Irish roots).
The other interesting piece about the jerseys is that befitting their amateur status, none of the jerseys had a player's family name on them. None of the jerseys worn in game did either. As a result, I wondered how fans identified with these players. Nearly every other commercial sport has a players name on the back of the jersey. How else to create brand identification and fan loyalty but to have them wear the same Manning #18 that their hero wears every Sunday. I would chuck this nuance up to the players' amateur status, but during the course of the game, fans exhorted specific players by name, "Come on, McKinney!"
In regards to the game itself, hurling is simply fantastic. Even with the dog of the game that we saw, Kilkenny dominated throughout, winning the game, SCORE. There is something to be said for the speed of the game. It's not quite as fast as hockey (ice hockey to the Irish), but it's loads faster than soccer or American football. Beyond the speed of the game, I noticed two things during the course of action on the pitch.
Though somewhat physical in nature, hurling is not a violent game, despite being played with rather large sticks known as hurls. When collisions did occur, they were most often shoulder to shoulder, and no one ever really laid anyone out. [link to Darrell Reid hit] Most of the players are roughly the size of a soccer midfielder. They're small, incredibly quick, with lithe frames. Hitting is somewhat discouraged, with red and yellow cards as used in soccer. The hurlers are tremendous athletes, as they must have a remarkable field of vision and immense recover speed, especially when a punch and run offense is employed.
The second thing I noticed about the game itself was the lack of an offside rule. Nearly every other sport of this nature employs an offside rule, designed to prevent teams from cherry picking on offense. But as one kind father at the game with his kids explained to me, there's too many players on the field, and the game just moves too fast. If an offside rule was employed, the game would crawl to a standstill.
As I mentioned, the crowd would often yell a player's name in exaltation to attempt a goal or play a better defense, but that combined with the phrases, "up the Cats" or "up the Dubs," dominated those cheers. In comparison to the songs sung at soccer games, or the myriad of cheers screamed at an American football game, especially collegiately. Hurling seemed a bit tame in comparison. Sure, fans were exuberant and boisterous and maybe it was just the overall politeness the Irish show, but the crowd was largely absent of vicious, blood thirsty wails urging the team to victory. There were no personalized jerseys or signs or any differences in costume, i.e. a fan dressed in cat regalia to root for Kilkenny. The whole affair was really rather civil (if it seems I may be disappointed by the lack of fan-on-fan violence and raucous taunting, you're probably right.) Which is odd, considering the game's name.
MCI Cultural Journal #13: Vegangelicals and Fish-free Fridays
One of the cultural artifacts I've noticed here in Ireland is the innate desire for Irish to not be a bother to others. Certain requests aren't made simply because it will cause too much consternation for their fellow Irishmen. And while, the response may be "oh, 'tis no trouble at all." The truth is that it is very much so. It's just that the Irish are way too nice to tell you what a bothersome wart you're being. Which brings me to my least favorite thing about Ireland. I can't eat here.
That's not entirely true. It's just more "difficult" for me. I knew that finding vegan fare would be somewhat arduous, just not quite as frustrating as it ended up being. I've actually eaten a potato wedge sandwich here. I had no idea such a carb monstrosity existed outside of the weird delusions of Colonel Sanders. The sandwich was exactly that: potato wedges, ketchup, and red onion thrown on top to really make the sandwich. It was delicious, but I felt sort of dirty eating it, like some fatty on The Biggest Loser caught hording a stash of Little Debbie snack cakes. Better yet, like Private Pyle and his single jelly donut. On a number of occasions, my host mom Brid would verbally poke me with a stick, questioning not only my veganism as a belief system, not questioning the audacity with which I live my life. Audacity may be too strong a word, but the intent was clear. How dare I walk through this world expecting it to adapt to my dietary restrictions. Anytime I noted the difficulty in finding vegan cuisine, Brid would question me indignantly, "Well, what did you expect?" It was as if her icy queries were meant to protect the national trust, a not so subtle reminder that I was the foreigner, and a pigheaded one at that. Sometimes, the barb struck a little close as I knew I wasn't involved in a dialogue. The questions were meant to put me on the defensive. It was her way of needling me, but the manner of which left me oft questioning the "good-natured" aspect of her line of interrogation.
That said, I was able to find food out and about in Ireland. It came at a premium, as the Indian and Thai restaurants I frequented were a step up in price as compared to the Supermacs and the Eddie Rockets. I did find three establishments in Dublin that advertised vegan/vegetarian fare. And I did find vegan food on the road in Kilkenny at a nice Indian restaurant. The most difficult times were in Galway and Belfast, both points at which my finances were stretched to the maximum. The bus trip to the Giants Causeway was fruitless because tourist stops just don't cater to vegans.
In Ireland's favor, I will say that most people knew what a vegan was. There weren't many, "huh?" or "I don't know what that is," remarks to be found. The only problem came when I was offered a vegetarian option, and I had to remind them that I was not vegetarian. So people do know what vegans are, they just don't give a flying rip about them them, or hey, Ireland has potatoes.... lots of potatoes.... My host mom was really quite accomodating despite her retiscence about cooking vegan fare. And sure, I ate "Balkan stew" at least three times, but she did try. Mrs. Martin bought a vegan cookbook and even bought me vegan mozzarella and soy milk, which she really didn't have to do. So beyond her questions and quibbles, I have no quarrel with how I ate at her house. But that is not to say I hated the lack of protein at the grocer and in restaurants. Tofu was a rare and foreign commodity and priced as such. Seitan, Veat or Boca was nowhere to be seen. I found lots of Quorn at my local Tesco, but Quorn is for vegetarians because I don't do eggs. Health food stores were not really health food stores. There was no vegan jerky or Gardein in sight. They might have a can of vegan cutlets, but that's it, highly processed, highly salted slabs of cured tofu. As a competitive power lifter here in the States, I'm used to getting at least 200 grams of protein a day, well over 100 of that in food alone. But in Ireland I was lucky to get 15 or 20 from some of the veggies and the Luna bars I would each each day.
I guess that's what made me feel most like a foreigner in Ireland. And that's the tricky thing for Americans visiting an English speaking foreign country, isn't it? The signs are all in English, the people greet you in English, but in the end, they're just as different as someone from a land with a foreign tongue. I've heard folks speak of being lulled into thinking that a far off land is just like "back home," only to realize later in a moment of culture shock that "gosh darn it, they don't do things like we do back home." While I realize this was really the extent culture shock and I are well-acquainted, had I known what I was going to encounter I would have packed a few more Luna bars.
That's not entirely true. It's just more "difficult" for me. I knew that finding vegan fare would be somewhat arduous, just not quite as frustrating as it ended up being. I've actually eaten a potato wedge sandwich here. I had no idea such a carb monstrosity existed outside of the weird delusions of Colonel Sanders. The sandwich was exactly that: potato wedges, ketchup, and red onion thrown on top to really make the sandwich. It was delicious, but I felt sort of dirty eating it, like some fatty on The Biggest Loser caught hording a stash of Little Debbie snack cakes. Better yet, like Private Pyle and his single jelly donut. On a number of occasions, my host mom Brid would verbally poke me with a stick, questioning not only my veganism as a belief system, not questioning the audacity with which I live my life. Audacity may be too strong a word, but the intent was clear. How dare I walk through this world expecting it to adapt to my dietary restrictions. Anytime I noted the difficulty in finding vegan cuisine, Brid would question me indignantly, "Well, what did you expect?" It was as if her icy queries were meant to protect the national trust, a not so subtle reminder that I was the foreigner, and a pigheaded one at that. Sometimes, the barb struck a little close as I knew I wasn't involved in a dialogue. The questions were meant to put me on the defensive. It was her way of needling me, but the manner of which left me oft questioning the "good-natured" aspect of her line of interrogation.
That said, I was able to find food out and about in Ireland. It came at a premium, as the Indian and Thai restaurants I frequented were a step up in price as compared to the Supermacs and the Eddie Rockets. I did find three establishments in Dublin that advertised vegan/vegetarian fare. And I did find vegan food on the road in Kilkenny at a nice Indian restaurant. The most difficult times were in Galway and Belfast, both points at which my finances were stretched to the maximum. The bus trip to the Giants Causeway was fruitless because tourist stops just don't cater to vegans.
In Ireland's favor, I will say that most people knew what a vegan was. There weren't many, "huh?" or "I don't know what that is," remarks to be found. The only problem came when I was offered a vegetarian option, and I had to remind them that I was not vegetarian. So people do know what vegans are, they just don't give a flying rip about them them, or hey, Ireland has potatoes.... lots of potatoes.... My host mom was really quite accomodating despite her retiscence about cooking vegan fare. And sure, I ate "Balkan stew" at least three times, but she did try. Mrs. Martin bought a vegan cookbook and even bought me vegan mozzarella and soy milk, which she really didn't have to do. So beyond her questions and quibbles, I have no quarrel with how I ate at her house. But that is not to say I hated the lack of protein at the grocer and in restaurants. Tofu was a rare and foreign commodity and priced as such. Seitan, Veat or Boca was nowhere to be seen. I found lots of Quorn at my local Tesco, but Quorn is for vegetarians because I don't do eggs. Health food stores were not really health food stores. There was no vegan jerky or Gardein in sight. They might have a can of vegan cutlets, but that's it, highly processed, highly salted slabs of cured tofu. As a competitive power lifter here in the States, I'm used to getting at least 200 grams of protein a day, well over 100 of that in food alone. But in Ireland I was lucky to get 15 or 20 from some of the veggies and the Luna bars I would each each day.
I guess that's what made me feel most like a foreigner in Ireland. And that's the tricky thing for Americans visiting an English speaking foreign country, isn't it? The signs are all in English, the people greet you in English, but in the end, they're just as different as someone from a land with a foreign tongue. I've heard folks speak of being lulled into thinking that a far off land is just like "back home," only to realize later in a moment of culture shock that "gosh darn it, they don't do things like we do back home." While I realize this was really the extent culture shock and I are well-acquainted, had I known what I was going to encounter I would have packed a few more Luna bars.
MCI Cultural Journal #12: No Pants Nausea
Dublin has become quite the capital for the fashionistas, but for some reason, the "no pants" is king. What is the "no pants," you may ask? As Amber always says, it's the undergraduate uniform. On campuses like U of I and NIU, women of all size, shape and color have decided that stretch pants and tights are just as good as what most of us consider to be pants. When or how this trend started, I don't know. But it's in Ireland, and it's big time.
Frankly, as much as I like to see the curvaceous buttocks of a sprightly young lass, there is something insidious about this fashion trend. And not just because every woman thinks she can pull this outfit off, but that so many of them really don't care if they can. I am not the slimmest of fellows, knowing that, I really don't want to subject anyone else to perusing my porkiness as I'm out and about town. Sure, I might wear just an Under Armor undershirt after working out at the gym. But no one is going to see me in that beyond the poor unfortunate souls that work at the convenience store next to my gym. People don't have to see that, and as a rational human being I'm cognisant of that. Yet somehow, Ashlee, or in this case, Aisling, has determined in all the confidence youth and inexperience brings, that you really need to see her butt cheeks hermetically sealed in black stretch pants. But uniquely Irish is that the no pants were most often accompanying a skirt, or microshorts.
Now, before you think I'm some Tim Gunn wannabe, let me reiterate that. I'm about the least fashionable person I know. I mean, I do have friends who think a Hawaiian print shirt and khaki shorts are appropriate attire for a wedding rehearsal dinner, but I digress. The fashion choice was simply vexing and most dramatically not in a good way. These 20 year-old girls would be standing in the queue for the bus in 50 degree rain with Daisy Duke microshorts over the most snug black tights one could imagine. In my head, I'm screaming, "My God, woman, they make these things called jeans!" But one of the girls in the group, I don't remember who, suggested, "well, it's too cold to show off their legs, so this is the best they could come up with." "And they don't have to shave their legs, right?" I snarkily retorted. "Yeah, that too."
After a while, the outfits became something of a uniform. It was like Eastern Europeans and acid wash jeans back in the early 200os. Sadly, I don't know if this is a wholly Irish trend, or if it suggests a European influence. While the no pants are everywhere in the States, the non-tunic microshorts is a different twist that may eventually catch on. If the trend does spread to the malls of Hoboken and Helena, God help us.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
MCI Cultural Journal #11: The Belfastian Blues
As I mentioned before, I traveled to various locales in Ireland at every opportunity I could. Back when I backpacked through Europe all of those years ago, I went at a furious pace. Traveling by train I would hop an 8-hour train each night, which I would then use as my mobile hotel. I would arrive in a city such as Warsaw or Budapest at close to 6 in the morning, and I would spend the entire day touring the city. At 8pm that evening or so, I would hop back on the train and rinse and repeat. Granted I didn't see everything I wanted to see, but I saw enough to know when I came back in the future, I would know exactly the places I would want to spend a few days in. When you're young, dumb, and single, there's not really a better way to travel.
While my tour of Ireland was not at nearly the same frenetic pace, I did make sure that I tried to see as much as possible. The first weekend we had free, Dan and I were set on heading to Belfast. We talked to a few others in the group, and eventually we grabbed a bus Belfast-bound with a total of 9. Normally, I hate to travel in groups. Invariably, there is always one person that isn't quite as enthused with seeing all a particular locale has to offer. And not that I'm saying that's completely wrong, it's just that I don't travel that way. If I'm going to a museum, I want to see everything in the museum. Otherwise, why would I go? By the end of our weekend, everyone but me was sucking wind pretty bad. I don't know if it was Saturday night's libations or just the amount of walking we did, but by the time we took the hop-on, hop-off city bus tour, half of our nonete were more than ready to hit the road. I was able to convince a few to do a short walking tour of the city with me. That may have been my favorite part of the trip.
Ultimately, I walked away thinking that Northern Ireland was not really Ireland at all. Any geographer could tell you that, but from a pure cultural and dialectical viewpoint, I didn't once feel as if I were in the Emerald Isle at all. The houses looked British, the people sounded British, heck the people even looked British. It was like I were in Disneyland and was magically transported to Limeyland on one of the rides. And while I greatly enjoyed my short weekend in Belfast, I couldn't help but think that that feature, "the un-Irishness" of Belfast, was a real downer. If I wanted to hear a Limey lilt, I would have just spent a weekend in London or hopped a ferry over to Liverpool.
Another odd thing I noticed about Belfast was an increased sense of commercialism. It reminds me of the debate that was had during the Irish Civil War between the socialist republicans and the capitalist nationals. It is clear from the few days I spent in Belfast that this is one place the capitalists won. The bars were mostly dance clubs, the bustling malls were brimming with goods, and advertisements were crammed into any available signage. Even Dublin, in all its cosmopolitan nature, felt downright homey compared to Belfast at times.
Which is one more interesting paradox, because Belfastians proclaimed that Dublin was a far more expensive town. This came as a bit of a shock to me, as I noticed my bank account rapidly declining due to Belfast's use of the sterling. Whenever I told anyone I was studying in Dublin, they were quick to assert, "how can you afford to live there?" often with a derisive sneer, often to suggest Dublin was a city for rich tourist suckers. Perhaps it's just a big brother/little brother complex, but this seemed to be Belfastians' way of digging at Dubliners. There were no violent undertones in their derision, just a palatable snarkiness. But most interestingly, though I traveled to a number of other places in Ireland, only in Belfast did people remark about the economic status of Dublin.
While my tour of Ireland was not at nearly the same frenetic pace, I did make sure that I tried to see as much as possible. The first weekend we had free, Dan and I were set on heading to Belfast. We talked to a few others in the group, and eventually we grabbed a bus Belfast-bound with a total of 9. Normally, I hate to travel in groups. Invariably, there is always one person that isn't quite as enthused with seeing all a particular locale has to offer. And not that I'm saying that's completely wrong, it's just that I don't travel that way. If I'm going to a museum, I want to see everything in the museum. Otherwise, why would I go? By the end of our weekend, everyone but me was sucking wind pretty bad. I don't know if it was Saturday night's libations or just the amount of walking we did, but by the time we took the hop-on, hop-off city bus tour, half of our nonete were more than ready to hit the road. I was able to convince a few to do a short walking tour of the city with me. That may have been my favorite part of the trip.
Ultimately, I walked away thinking that Northern Ireland was not really Ireland at all. Any geographer could tell you that, but from a pure cultural and dialectical viewpoint, I didn't once feel as if I were in the Emerald Isle at all. The houses looked British, the people sounded British, heck the people even looked British. It was like I were in Disneyland and was magically transported to Limeyland on one of the rides. And while I greatly enjoyed my short weekend in Belfast, I couldn't help but think that that feature, "the un-Irishness" of Belfast, was a real downer. If I wanted to hear a Limey lilt, I would have just spent a weekend in London or hopped a ferry over to Liverpool.
Another odd thing I noticed about Belfast was an increased sense of commercialism. It reminds me of the debate that was had during the Irish Civil War between the socialist republicans and the capitalist nationals. It is clear from the few days I spent in Belfast that this is one place the capitalists won. The bars were mostly dance clubs, the bustling malls were brimming with goods, and advertisements were crammed into any available signage. Even Dublin, in all its cosmopolitan nature, felt downright homey compared to Belfast at times.
Which is one more interesting paradox, because Belfastians proclaimed that Dublin was a far more expensive town. This came as a bit of a shock to me, as I noticed my bank account rapidly declining due to Belfast's use of the sterling. Whenever I told anyone I was studying in Dublin, they were quick to assert, "how can you afford to live there?" often with a derisive sneer, often to suggest Dublin was a city for rich tourist suckers. Perhaps it's just a big brother/little brother complex, but this seemed to be Belfastians' way of digging at Dubliners. There were no violent undertones in their derision, just a palatable snarkiness. But most interestingly, though I traveled to a number of other places in Ireland, only in Belfast did people remark about the economic status of Dublin.
MCI Cultural Journal #10: From the Written Journal...
9:58 am July 3, 2011
I’m headed back to Dublin from Kilkenny and one day was just not enough. It’s a tiny little burg, but there was loads I didn’t get to do. I didn’t get down to Kilkenny until after most things had been open a bit, but I had such little direction to start. Getting to the caves was the hardest part. I walked for over an hour until I caught a cab to the caves, and I was quite worried as the fare began to rise into the teens. In fact I spent way too much on that part of the journey. The caves were well worth the trip, but I’m a bit worried about the rest of the trip now. I’m pretty much limited to no more nights out. I could probably go out with everyone, but I can’t spend any money. I’ll be like Ashley.
Good thing is, not going out will save me time for work. I should be able to get tons of video and journaling done. I think, from here on out, I'm gonna try and write something ANYTHING down each day. Even if I never complete the entry, at least get something on paper. I've been hatching this plan to try and get Ambi to type the journal. I'll be busy with video and the resultant journals about the vids I post.
Weird side note. So the cat next to me is wearing his Kilkenny hurling jersey and reading the UK sports page. Why isn't there a huge Irish Sports page? The TV is all British and most of the print I see is from the UK. That said, what I find most interesting is the lack of actual content. Most stories have a dominant image, like a picture of Rory McElroy with some cheesy header like, "Rory Glory Hallelujah." Seriously? What fifth grader is on the editorial board? Then there's probably only 6-10 column inches of actual content. And the content that is there is just fluff. There's no analysis, no statistical reasoning for any opinions put forth at all. None. There are opinions, some very strong indeed, but much of the analysis is on gut feelings, not number crunching or true scientific evaluation of talent. It's an aspect of the culture I just don't get, and probably never will.
Second weird tangent, no one says, "bless you," when someone sneezes, not even the person who sneezed. It's a bit maddening really. The Irish are such a kind and welcoming people, it seems as a paradox. When I say, "bless you," I'm often greeted with the quizzical, never the agitated, just puzzled look of curiosity. It's not like they haven't heard it before right? So why the reaction? What's the frequency, Kenneth?
Truly, I know this is no big deal, nor will it stick n my culture shock craw, where upon it shall agitate and fester into a nasty boil ruining my perception of my time here. But it will be placed in the Annoying Anecdote pouch, where it will be whipped out accordingly, accompanied by the phrase, "You know, in Ireland they..." To which friends and associates will respond with über-surprise and the word "really?" Yeah, just like that.
2:45 pm July 18, 2011
So I'm on the plane back to the States, and I've neglected from writing my cultural or academic journals in a while. I always feel like I have to write a few confessional lines of neglect to justify the lack of writing. I don't know why I do it, because I don't have to, or really even to anyone but myself and my writing conscience. I've taken to writing my academic journals on the laptop, and with all the videos and pictures on the Mac, it's a chore to crack open the journal and put pen to paper. I don't really crack the journal for an academic journal. Without the ability to edit, it makes them too hard to write here. Dr. Chown joked that my videos and pictures are like taking notes. I view them more as separate pieces or addendum. Considering I only have a few more academic pieces to write, I'm way ahead of the game. A few of my friends in the program haven't done any. Granted, more have done almost all of them, and I'm pretty sure I'm the only one doing them online. We'll see how they look when I'm done.
I’m headed back to Dublin from Kilkenny and one day was just not enough. It’s a tiny little burg, but there was loads I didn’t get to do. I didn’t get down to Kilkenny until after most things had been open a bit, but I had such little direction to start. Getting to the caves was the hardest part. I walked for over an hour until I caught a cab to the caves, and I was quite worried as the fare began to rise into the teens. In fact I spent way too much on that part of the journey. The caves were well worth the trip, but I’m a bit worried about the rest of the trip now. I’m pretty much limited to no more nights out. I could probably go out with everyone, but I can’t spend any money. I’ll be like Ashley.
Good thing is, not going out will save me time for work. I should be able to get tons of video and journaling done. I think, from here on out, I'm gonna try and write something ANYTHING down each day. Even if I never complete the entry, at least get something on paper. I've been hatching this plan to try and get Ambi to type the journal. I'll be busy with video and the resultant journals about the vids I post.
Weird side note. So the cat next to me is wearing his Kilkenny hurling jersey and reading the UK sports page. Why isn't there a huge Irish Sports page? The TV is all British and most of the print I see is from the UK. That said, what I find most interesting is the lack of actual content. Most stories have a dominant image, like a picture of Rory McElroy with some cheesy header like, "Rory Glory Hallelujah." Seriously? What fifth grader is on the editorial board? Then there's probably only 6-10 column inches of actual content. And the content that is there is just fluff. There's no analysis, no statistical reasoning for any opinions put forth at all. None. There are opinions, some very strong indeed, but much of the analysis is on gut feelings, not number crunching or true scientific evaluation of talent. It's an aspect of the culture I just don't get, and probably never will.
Second weird tangent, no one says, "bless you," when someone sneezes, not even the person who sneezed. It's a bit maddening really. The Irish are such a kind and welcoming people, it seems as a paradox. When I say, "bless you," I'm often greeted with the quizzical, never the agitated, just puzzled look of curiosity. It's not like they haven't heard it before right? So why the reaction? What's the frequency, Kenneth?
Truly, I know this is no big deal, nor will it stick n my culture shock craw, where upon it shall agitate and fester into a nasty boil ruining my perception of my time here. But it will be placed in the Annoying Anecdote pouch, where it will be whipped out accordingly, accompanied by the phrase, "You know, in Ireland they..." To which friends and associates will respond with über-surprise and the word "really?" Yeah, just like that.
2:45 pm July 18, 2011
So I'm on the plane back to the States, and I've neglected from writing my cultural or academic journals in a while. I always feel like I have to write a few confessional lines of neglect to justify the lack of writing. I don't know why I do it, because I don't have to, or really even to anyone but myself and my writing conscience. I've taken to writing my academic journals on the laptop, and with all the videos and pictures on the Mac, it's a chore to crack open the journal and put pen to paper. I don't really crack the journal for an academic journal. Without the ability to edit, it makes them too hard to write here. Dr. Chown joked that my videos and pictures are like taking notes. I view them more as separate pieces or addendum. Considering I only have a few more academic pieces to write, I'm way ahead of the game. A few of my friends in the program haven't done any. Granted, more have done almost all of them, and I'm pretty sure I'm the only one doing them online. We'll see how they look when I'm done.
Monday, August 1, 2011
MCI Cultural Journal #9: All in a Name
I've been talking with a lovely lass on the bus to Galway named Marie. Marie and I were discussing something interesting about how the Irish don't say their names nor do they introduce themselves. It's as if the hospitality is kept at arm's length.
You can talk for hours to someone in the local pub without ever finding out their name. It's really rather intriguing. Everyone is so friendly here, yet the name, which Americans would consider as fundamental to one's identity, or definition of such, is never exchanged. Granted, Ireland is a much more homogenized country and culture than is the States. I always joke with my foreign friends that if you have fifteen minutes, any American can tell you his or her life story in such a brief amount of time after initial introductions. Not only do they share this information so quickly, but they do it in such an easy, breezy manner. Details the Irish might consider unmentionable, are commonplace for Americans to drop in conversation.
For example, an American might detail every illness or medical situation requiring hospitalization in the course of these conversations, sometimes to complete strangers. Doubt this? Try sitting next to a blue-haired old lady in an orthopedics office, and you'll see what I mean. This information is just too personal for an Irishman to tell anyone, much less a complete stranger. Perhaps it's a case of the Irish simply being a more private people, or of not wishing to burden anyone else with their troubles. And while telling someone your name is much less of a blip on the privacy warning screen, learning one's name does present a conundrum.
Once you know someone's name, you have a personal attachment to them. Their name alludes to a backstory, a history, an ethnicity, the very identity of that person. Knowing all of those things suddenly complicates an otherwise innocuous meeting. Not many would say that "Jessica," the girl you met at the hair salon waiting to get your color done is suddenly a friend. Chances are, you'll never see "Jessica" ever again. For the Irish, there is an innate familiarity with each other, because hey, we're all Irish. So in that sense, the name is unneeded. I don't think I'll every truly get an answer to the reason this phenomenon occurs, but it is interesting to ruminate upon.
You can talk for hours to someone in the local pub without ever finding out their name. It's really rather intriguing. Everyone is so friendly here, yet the name, which Americans would consider as fundamental to one's identity, or definition of such, is never exchanged. Granted, Ireland is a much more homogenized country and culture than is the States. I always joke with my foreign friends that if you have fifteen minutes, any American can tell you his or her life story in such a brief amount of time after initial introductions. Not only do they share this information so quickly, but they do it in such an easy, breezy manner. Details the Irish might consider unmentionable, are commonplace for Americans to drop in conversation.
For example, an American might detail every illness or medical situation requiring hospitalization in the course of these conversations, sometimes to complete strangers. Doubt this? Try sitting next to a blue-haired old lady in an orthopedics office, and you'll see what I mean. This information is just too personal for an Irishman to tell anyone, much less a complete stranger. Perhaps it's a case of the Irish simply being a more private people, or of not wishing to burden anyone else with their troubles. And while telling someone your name is much less of a blip on the privacy warning screen, learning one's name does present a conundrum.
Once you know someone's name, you have a personal attachment to them. Their name alludes to a backstory, a history, an ethnicity, the very identity of that person. Knowing all of those things suddenly complicates an otherwise innocuous meeting. Not many would say that "Jessica," the girl you met at the hair salon waiting to get your color done is suddenly a friend. Chances are, you'll never see "Jessica" ever again. For the Irish, there is an innate familiarity with each other, because hey, we're all Irish. So in that sense, the name is unneeded. I don't think I'll every truly get an answer to the reason this phenomenon occurs, but it is interesting to ruminate upon.
MCI Academic Journal #16: The Dead
On several occasions during the course, I professed my love for the writings of James Joyce. I've read Ulysses three times, heck, I even named my first bearded dragon Ulysses. Of course I'd read The Dead before the course, and it is perhaps my favorite short story by Joyce. Oddly, though, I'd never seen the John Houston film adaptation, and my expectations for the film were nearly as low as the Ryan Reynolds crapfest Green Lantern I watched mere days before my arrival in Ireland. In my eyes, that piece is simply unapproachable for cinema. It is slow, plodding, and just too complex to display on celluloid. Before watching the film in class, Dr. Chown presented an exercise where we were split into three groups. Dr. Chown and Dr. Rank acted as the studio, which would produce a version of the film, as described by the three groups. The first group's objective was to sell the story to the producers so that the film would be made, i.e. it's a great story, it's a great plot, it's romantic, blah, blah, blah. The second group determined what had to be in the movie for it to be true to Joyce's vision. The third group, which was Connor, Christina, and I, were left to say why the film would be a critical and commercial failure, but let's be honest, unless the studio's Miramax or Focus features, we're talking dollars and cents, not little golden statues. We were tasked to come up with five reasons for to justify why The Dead should not see the silver screen, and despite my love of the text, this assignment was remarkably easy.
Here are the five reasons our trio came up with:
- It's Irish. It's Gosford Park without a murder. Who wants to see a bunch whiny brogue-talking alcoholics in period dress.
- There's just not enough material for a feature length film. 40 odd pages and no explosions or dismemberments? No way.
- Period piece. Unless you have a fantastic love story, heroic icon, or swashbuckling battle scenes, period pieces just don't work. You make this movie, congrats, you've just remade The Color Purple without Oprah.
- Gabriel is a schmuck. The protagonist is weak, and has resolve and intestinal fortitude of a turnip. He's just an angst dude at a party, an emo rocker in period dress. Good luck on that getting the masses to flock to the theatre.
- The Joyce fanboys will cry murder. You can't make this and please your core audience. They'll be worse than the comic book nerds.
The portrayal of Miss Ivors was most troubling. The personification of the East/West paradigm should have been a key moment in the film yet Maria McDermottroe's portrayal of Miss Ivors was far too cavalier and too aggressive. In the text, Miss Ivors is snide and provocative. Less jokey but more pointed. Specifically the exposition of the term "West Briton" was annoying, this coming from my status as a Joycean fanboy. I know what a West Briton is. All of the characters know what a West Briton is, and especially Miss Ivors and Gabriel are familiar with it. But somehow, the film needs to explain this derisive barb thrown Gabriel's way. The otherwise pronounced attention to detail failed in this regard. This harkens back to the early part of this blog where my study group detailed why The Dead is such a difficult film to make. Combine the derision of the Joyce enthusiasts with the slowed pace; the film spends much of the dinner scene focused not on the context of Celtic hospitality or stratification of the Irish class system, but on the protocol of the dinner itself. The result is a very unenjoyable film.
Donal McCann's Gabriel is neither angsty nor lusty, as the script text requires. While McCann manages to scowl and harumph his way through the script, his performance lacks the nuance of trepidation and melancholy of Gabriel's station. Without an inner monologue or a clearly reflexive performance, this Gabriel is underwhelming to say the least.
This encapsulates my feelings about The Dead in a nutshell, well, an underwhelming nutshell that is.
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