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:
Showing posts with label cultural journal. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cultural journal. Show all posts
Friday, August 5, 2011
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.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
MCI Cultural Journal #8: From the Written Journal...
10:07 am July 2, 2011
So I've been pretty terrible about keeping a solid journal. I've written some tinges on Word on my laptop, but mostly it's been the video camera cataloging my journeys and the weird aspects of culture that fascinate me.
Anyway, I am on the train to Kilkenny right now, and I barely got my fat ass on it. This morning, I got on the bus and went to the wrong station. Seriously? I walked from the stop near the Liffey to what I thought was the end of O'Connell street, where that weird spilt is. I couldn't remember which way to go exactly, so I went to the right towards Trinity and Temple Bar, but soon realized I made a mistake. I asked for some directions (again, no distance, just left, straight, right) and eventually ended up at O'Connell Station. After hopping the escalator up to the info desk, my fears of being at the wrong station were confirmed and it was suggested I take the tram and I'd be there in 7 stops. Well I know that screwed the pooch, but what choice did I have? I was gonna miss the train. So I sat on the tram for a minute on the phone with Ambi and was like, "Fuck it," I'm hopping a cab. The tram has to stop 7 times, so I'd just be better off in the cab even if if the cab can't move. The driver had actually been to the States living in Rhode Island for a year, and his brother had lived there for 15 years. He thought he'd get me there in less than 10 minutes and he did! So I jump out, run over to print my ticket, and haul my chubby carcass to the No. 7 platform, hopping a gate and a fence in the process. I made it with just two minutes to spare. Whew! I found my seat, or what I think is my seat, and sat down for a ride south.
One funny thing so far, the conductor (?) comes down to check our tickets, I motion to the two ladies across from me that he's coming to get our tickets. But the younger lass was more concerned with the realization she was drinking chardonnay at just 10am in the morning. I joked that, "Well, since you've been drinking, you may not have noticed we need to have our tickets out." That got quite the chuckle.
Yesterday, we saw two films at the Institute, and both were rather decent. The commentary tackled the problems and perceptions with women in Ireland. It was filmed in 1987, and the presentation was quite poor. When Dan and Ashley about how bad it was, I reminded them it was made in 1987, to which they remarked, "That's no excuse!" It was on the level of a poorly made student doc, seriously, "The Man from Aran" was better, and that was pure hokum. In one scene the former fashion model on the cover of travel brochures was interviewed in a pub or restaurant of some sort, and the woman's kids are running around in the background playing and shouting. Just a few scenes later, she actually has a baby sitting with her, who of course begins to wail. What the hell?
The shots on some women are just way too tight, and anytime she used b-roll, it was so poorly edited, it looked like bad Power Point. This really distracted a lot of students from the quality or importance of the subject matter, which is truly a shame.
A few days before, Dr. Chown mentioned an author once wrote that Ireland was "the first first world country with a third world mentality." Certainly the discussion of Ireland as represented by Mother Ireland is problematic, and the film addresses this well, despite the lack of technical proficiency.
So I've been pretty terrible about keeping a solid journal. I've written some tinges on Word on my laptop, but mostly it's been the video camera cataloging my journeys and the weird aspects of culture that fascinate me.
Anyway, I am on the train to Kilkenny right now, and I barely got my fat ass on it. This morning, I got on the bus and went to the wrong station. Seriously? I walked from the stop near the Liffey to what I thought was the end of O'Connell street, where that weird spilt is. I couldn't remember which way to go exactly, so I went to the right towards Trinity and Temple Bar, but soon realized I made a mistake. I asked for some directions (again, no distance, just left, straight, right) and eventually ended up at O'Connell Station. After hopping the escalator up to the info desk, my fears of being at the wrong station were confirmed and it was suggested I take the tram and I'd be there in 7 stops. Well I know that screwed the pooch, but what choice did I have? I was gonna miss the train. So I sat on the tram for a minute on the phone with Ambi and was like, "Fuck it," I'm hopping a cab. The tram has to stop 7 times, so I'd just be better off in the cab even if if the cab can't move. The driver had actually been to the States living in Rhode Island for a year, and his brother had lived there for 15 years. He thought he'd get me there in less than 10 minutes and he did! So I jump out, run over to print my ticket, and haul my chubby carcass to the No. 7 platform, hopping a gate and a fence in the process. I made it with just two minutes to spare. Whew! I found my seat, or what I think is my seat, and sat down for a ride south.
One funny thing so far, the conductor (?) comes down to check our tickets, I motion to the two ladies across from me that he's coming to get our tickets. But the younger lass was more concerned with the realization she was drinking chardonnay at just 10am in the morning. I joked that, "Well, since you've been drinking, you may not have noticed we need to have our tickets out." That got quite the chuckle.
Yesterday, we saw two films at the Institute, and both were rather decent. The commentary tackled the problems and perceptions with women in Ireland. It was filmed in 1987, and the presentation was quite poor. When Dan and Ashley about how bad it was, I reminded them it was made in 1987, to which they remarked, "That's no excuse!" It was on the level of a poorly made student doc, seriously, "The Man from Aran" was better, and that was pure hokum. In one scene the former fashion model on the cover of travel brochures was interviewed in a pub or restaurant of some sort, and the woman's kids are running around in the background playing and shouting. Just a few scenes later, she actually has a baby sitting with her, who of course begins to wail. What the hell?
The shots on some women are just way too tight, and anytime she used b-roll, it was so poorly edited, it looked like bad Power Point. This really distracted a lot of students from the quality or importance of the subject matter, which is truly a shame.
A few days before, Dr. Chown mentioned an author once wrote that Ireland was "the first first world country with a third world mentality." Certainly the discussion of Ireland as represented by Mother Ireland is problematic, and the film addresses this well, despite the lack of technical proficiency.
MCI Cultural Journal #7: From the Written Journal...
3:21 June 21, 2011
So we're back at the house, and Connor has decided to knock off of the afternoon, and I want to agree with him. I had chatted with Brid downstairs about our class discussion and how we talked about the potato famine and the history of Ireland. I mentioned my family had immigrated to the United States years before, in the earlier part of the 1800s, before the mass exodus in 1847.
I haven't yet been confronted with a question of my ethnicity. I'm sure I'm known as a foreigner, but I have not yet been marked openly as a Yankee. I will closely watch this during my time here.
3:50pm June 24, 2011
So we're still on the road to Belfast, and since the laptop battery has sort of conked out, I decided to get at least some writing in. I've been quite neglectful of writing, something I'm normally good at on these sort of travels. I've just been so busy with ids and the blogs, that the only other time would be to skip the pubs at night. That might have to happen soon as I have just been burning through money. I'm actually a little scared I'll run out of money!
We had a dickens of a time finding the Irish Film Institute this morning. We (Connor, Dan, me) wandered the backstreets of Temple Bar trying to find that damn place for near 20-30 minutes!! The same thing happened to us the night before at the Abbey Theatre.
But here's the purpose for mentioning the misdirection and misfortune; the Irish are inept at giving directions. Ok, ok, I know that's a bit of hyperbole, but there is a distinct difference in the giving of directions between the States and the Emerald Isle. Only once during our travails did the local give us a distance in measurements; only once was it in terms of a measurable quantity. "Go left for 200 meters." "Take the next road down about half a mile." Things like that.
Instead, the Irish denote all distance by the time it takes to travel that particular distance. Maybe it's that they've always measured distance by the time it takes to walk somewhere. Hell, in the "Quiet Man," they walk 5 miles to town as if it's nothing. Surely, you'd just say it's a 2 hour walk or whatever. why would you frame it in distance when it's just a walk that everyone does. It's these little things I notice, and drive me mad!
So we're back at the house, and Connor has decided to knock off of the afternoon, and I want to agree with him. I had chatted with Brid downstairs about our class discussion and how we talked about the potato famine and the history of Ireland. I mentioned my family had immigrated to the United States years before, in the earlier part of the 1800s, before the mass exodus in 1847.
I haven't yet been confronted with a question of my ethnicity. I'm sure I'm known as a foreigner, but I have not yet been marked openly as a Yankee. I will closely watch this during my time here.
3:50pm June 24, 2011
So we're still on the road to Belfast, and since the laptop battery has sort of conked out, I decided to get at least some writing in. I've been quite neglectful of writing, something I'm normally good at on these sort of travels. I've just been so busy with ids and the blogs, that the only other time would be to skip the pubs at night. That might have to happen soon as I have just been burning through money. I'm actually a little scared I'll run out of money!
We had a dickens of a time finding the Irish Film Institute this morning. We (Connor, Dan, me) wandered the backstreets of Temple Bar trying to find that damn place for near 20-30 minutes!! The same thing happened to us the night before at the Abbey Theatre.
But here's the purpose for mentioning the misdirection and misfortune; the Irish are inept at giving directions. Ok, ok, I know that's a bit of hyperbole, but there is a distinct difference in the giving of directions between the States and the Emerald Isle. Only once during our travails did the local give us a distance in measurements; only once was it in terms of a measurable quantity. "Go left for 200 meters." "Take the next road down about half a mile." Things like that.
Instead, the Irish denote all distance by the time it takes to travel that particular distance. Maybe it's that they've always measured distance by the time it takes to walk somewhere. Hell, in the "Quiet Man," they walk 5 miles to town as if it's nothing. Surely, you'd just say it's a 2 hour walk or whatever. why would you frame it in distance when it's just a walk that everyone does. It's these little things I notice, and drive me mad!
Sunday, July 24, 2011
MCI Cultural Journal #6: Galway's My Kind of Town
Mostly though, it gave us a chance experience the country beyond what we simply saw in Dublin. Ireland, by no means diverse as larger countries such as the US or Japan, as a greater degree of variances in culture and tradition than one might expect. The West of Ireland has a distinct flair to it, and Galway, as a town, was quite enjoyable. It was really quite different from Dublin, which at times feels cosmopolitan and generic.
Locals were quick to remind visitors that Galway's a city, not a town. And while 72,000 residents makes it larger than your typical American college town, it feels very similar in nature. Galway as State College or Chapel Hill makes a lot of sense, and not just because the renowned National University of Ireland is located there. Galway just feels like a cool college town. There's a university village home to a number of cool bars, filled with the hipster elite and drunken flirty coeds; a series of ethnic restaurants to please the palate; and while the music scene doesn't feature indie acts like The Frames, there are plenty of places to listen to live music, essential in becoming a future elitist music snob.
Another interesting note about Galway is the slight difference in accents between it and Dublin. While I am no expert on dialects of Ireland, my linguistic background helped make these differences in tongues discernible. The clearest difference in the homogenized accented world, where British and American media rein supreme (no doubt these two forces have dulled the distinctions in the brogues) Galwegians have a tendency to great me with "Hiya," aside from momentarily transporting me to a Scandanavian land, the "hiya" was immediately recognizable in its familiarity. While much of the media we have studied has declared the west of Ireland to be uncivilized "bogmen," I found this general congeniality not to be lacking in class or couth, but to be honestly be far more welcoming than the aloofness I found at times in Dublin. Although they may chafe at this (on both sides) Galwegians filled me with a sense of southern hospitality. They're like Texans and their "howdy," minus the grating gusto and saunter.
Finally, as we often do, when confronted with a new place or new experience, we try to associate the new with the old, previous experience, or with something more familiar. And generally, Ireland's weather has been quite good in our travels here, but our time in Galway was a bit more depressed due to gray skies and intermittent showers. On Sunday, I had saved time for me to do some sightseeing in the city, but the rain hampered this, siphoning my will and doing a walk about searching for nooks and crannies filled with new experiences and resultant journal entries.The rest of the group had had enough, and whilst I tried to make do in finding something else to do on my last day in Galway, my compatriots packed their belongings and hit the bus hours before I rode back with Dr. Chown and Dr. Rank. I'm not saying they missed anything, but it did seem odd that they were in a rush to leave only to arrive a mere 30 minutes before we did in Dublin. The issue of burnout and the impetus of culture shock will be saved for a journal in the near future.
I liked Galway; I really did, and when I return to Ireland, it will definitely be on the list.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
MCI Cultural Journal #5: Shamrock Cinerati
An academic and professional exercise I discussed in my first blog post about the Galway Film Fleadh was the vast array of friendships I made during the four days we spent in Galway.
The Irish hospitality was expressed in full force as I met kind soul after kind soul, engaging me in conversation about film and even their own works, some of which were on display. Having never attended a film festival before, much less one in a foreign land, the openness and friendliness of everyone was a real joy to experience. Sure there was an element of glad-handing and some sycophants roamed the crowds, but generally, people were there because they loved film, and they loved the culture surrounding showing these films to a rapacious public.
A central place for meeting folks was The Rowing Club, a bar with a picturesque view of Galway Bay which shines with the light of the city. After the evenings films were over, everyone would walk just a few shorts blocks behind the Town Hall Theatre to waterfront. On Friday night, I met Rory and Bruschi there, two film recent film school graduates who premiered the short film Punchline to an appreciative crowd. We exchanged views on cinema and the filmmaking process, and talked about everything from Irish customs, to hobbies, to hurling and gaelic football. The next day we three of us and Dan saw the Samuel L. Jackson narrated African Cats in the Omniplex down the road. There we were, four complete strangers with nothing but film in common, hanging out and enjoying movies together.
I also met the director of Gnarr and former Quarashi bassist Gaukur Úlfarsson on the street while everyone but me wolfed down fish and chips during the program dinner McDonaghs. We talked about Gnarr, his current projects, and what he thought of Ireland and his time at festivals like this one. We also talked about Screaming Masterpiece, a film I was set to see the following day, which Gaukur was actually in scene from Tokyo as a member of Quarashi. We saw each other again on Saturday night after the Cillian Murphy performance in Misterman. I'm no sycophant or hanger on, nor am I foolish enough to think I "made a new friend," but in a way, I did. Where else would that interaction be possible?
Finally, I went and saw Jack Taylor: The Pikemen on Sunday. Not only was the director at the showing, but I ran into both Killian Scott and Nick Lee who star in the film. I didn't drool at the prospect of meeting a "big star," which arguably, neither is, but it was cool to just chat with two lads who were in a movie I just saw. Killian told me about a film he has coming out next year, and Nick and I discussed his stagework and how incredible Misterman was. Sure I could have gotten autographs or pictures with each fellow, but this wasn't the time or place for that. Plus, I didn't want to lose my coolness by acting like just another teenager with Bieber Fever.
I guess the point of all this name dropping is to explain how much I really got into the "festival culture" and enjoyed the experience to the fullest; going to films, meeting people, and taking in the sights and sounds surrounding the Fleadh. I wish everyone else had immersed themselves in the environment as I did, but they're not film nerds like me. It's just a placement of value, some would rather visit the Aran Islands, (which is a fine choice, nothing against that), or go see Cillian Murphy in a play. I can always come back to Ireland and go visit the Aran Isle, in fact, I'm sure I will. But the chance to see an actor's actor like Murphy in a show from esteemed Irish playwright Enda Walsh?
That's a once in a lifetime opportunity, just like the Galway Film Fleadh.
The Irish hospitality was expressed in full force as I met kind soul after kind soul, engaging me in conversation about film and even their own works, some of which were on display. Having never attended a film festival before, much less one in a foreign land, the openness and friendliness of everyone was a real joy to experience. Sure there was an element of glad-handing and some sycophants roamed the crowds, but generally, people were there because they loved film, and they loved the culture surrounding showing these films to a rapacious public.
A central place for meeting folks was The Rowing Club, a bar with a picturesque view of Galway Bay which shines with the light of the city. After the evenings films were over, everyone would walk just a few shorts blocks behind the Town Hall Theatre to waterfront. On Friday night, I met Rory and Bruschi there, two film recent film school graduates who premiered the short film Punchline to an appreciative crowd. We exchanged views on cinema and the filmmaking process, and talked about everything from Irish customs, to hobbies, to hurling and gaelic football. The next day we three of us and Dan saw the Samuel L. Jackson narrated African Cats in the Omniplex down the road. There we were, four complete strangers with nothing but film in common, hanging out and enjoying movies together.
I also met the director of Gnarr and former Quarashi bassist Gaukur Úlfarsson on the street while everyone but me wolfed down fish and chips during the program dinner McDonaghs. We talked about Gnarr, his current projects, and what he thought of Ireland and his time at festivals like this one. We also talked about Screaming Masterpiece, a film I was set to see the following day, which Gaukur was actually in scene from Tokyo as a member of Quarashi. We saw each other again on Saturday night after the Cillian Murphy performance in Misterman. I'm no sycophant or hanger on, nor am I foolish enough to think I "made a new friend," but in a way, I did. Where else would that interaction be possible?
Finally, I went and saw Jack Taylor: The Pikemen on Sunday. Not only was the director at the showing, but I ran into both Killian Scott and Nick Lee who star in the film. I didn't drool at the prospect of meeting a "big star," which arguably, neither is, but it was cool to just chat with two lads who were in a movie I just saw. Killian told me about a film he has coming out next year, and Nick and I discussed his stagework and how incredible Misterman was. Sure I could have gotten autographs or pictures with each fellow, but this wasn't the time or place for that. Plus, I didn't want to lose my coolness by acting like just another teenager with Bieber Fever.
I guess the point of all this name dropping is to explain how much I really got into the "festival culture" and enjoyed the experience to the fullest; going to films, meeting people, and taking in the sights and sounds surrounding the Fleadh. I wish everyone else had immersed themselves in the environment as I did, but they're not film nerds like me. It's just a placement of value, some would rather visit the Aran Islands, (which is a fine choice, nothing against that), or go see Cillian Murphy in a play. I can always come back to Ireland and go visit the Aran Isle, in fact, I'm sure I will. But the chance to see an actor's actor like Murphy in a show from esteemed Irish playwright Enda Walsh?
That's a once in a lifetime opportunity, just like the Galway Film Fleadh.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
MCI Cultural Journal #4: Grattan Bridge
Dublin, on the surface, appears to be the same as any other major cosmopolitan city of relative size and scope. Most major cities are essentially the same to a degree, Toronto, New York, London, Madrid, I could go on and on. At certain point, they sort of lose that local identity, becoming part of a greater transpolitan landscape. And while I generally subscribe Dublin to this international group of homogenized cities, I made this video to reflect some of the local flair of the city centre that doesn't quite subscribe to the modern day megalopolis.
Grattan Bridge (Droichead Grattan in Irish, thanks Wikipedia!) lies just off the O'Connell Bridge near the heart of the city. Overlooking the River Liffy, the Grattan is one of a number of bridges for pedestrian and commuter alike. In the video, you'll notice a number of things that I find interesting and relevant to this conversation.
The walled nature of the banks with stoic brick buildings belies the warm and friendly nature of the city. Numerous shops and restaurants crowd the river, enticing consumers to spend a few minutes in their establishments and purvey the city and the bustling streets full of tourists and native Dubliners alike. But at the same time, the closely grouped buildings of imposing stone and mortar give one a strong sense of isolation, closed to outsiders and absent the very warmth its citizens provide.
The buildings also lack the bright colors and vivid spots of allure one might find in other European cities like Venice, Copenhagen, or even Graz, Austria. There are some parts of Dublin that may fit this bill, but even then it's quite muted in comparison. Maybe it's the weather, the disposition, or even the materials to work with, but the reserved nature of Dublin reigns supreme.
That by no means lessen its beauty. Dublin is a gorgeous city, medieval in nature and forged from grey stone and crimson brick, a creamy limestone or marble will appear now and then, but the city is dominated by these materials. Trees line nearly every street, supporting the notion of Ireland's emerald reputation. Dublin is just a great city for the pedestrian, and as you can see from the film, traffic is present, but rarely does it reach the congested levels of Chicago or Nagoya. Dublin doesn't choke its inhabitants or its visitors, and for that, I will sorely miss it in just a few days.
Grattan Bridge (Droichead Grattan in Irish, thanks Wikipedia!) lies just off the O'Connell Bridge near the heart of the city. Overlooking the River Liffy, the Grattan is one of a number of bridges for pedestrian and commuter alike. In the video, you'll notice a number of things that I find interesting and relevant to this conversation.
The walled nature of the banks with stoic brick buildings belies the warm and friendly nature of the city. Numerous shops and restaurants crowd the river, enticing consumers to spend a few minutes in their establishments and purvey the city and the bustling streets full of tourists and native Dubliners alike. But at the same time, the closely grouped buildings of imposing stone and mortar give one a strong sense of isolation, closed to outsiders and absent the very warmth its citizens provide.
The buildings also lack the bright colors and vivid spots of allure one might find in other European cities like Venice, Copenhagen, or even Graz, Austria. There are some parts of Dublin that may fit this bill, but even then it's quite muted in comparison. Maybe it's the weather, the disposition, or even the materials to work with, but the reserved nature of Dublin reigns supreme.
That by no means lessen its beauty. Dublin is a gorgeous city, medieval in nature and forged from grey stone and crimson brick, a creamy limestone or marble will appear now and then, but the city is dominated by these materials. Trees line nearly every street, supporting the notion of Ireland's emerald reputation. Dublin is just a great city for the pedestrian, and as you can see from the film, traffic is present, but rarely does it reach the congested levels of Chicago or Nagoya. Dublin doesn't choke its inhabitants or its visitors, and for that, I will sorely miss it in just a few days.
Monday, July 11, 2011
MCI Cultural Journal #3: Home Cookin'
For a country that so identifies with the motherland (Mother Ireland, Cathleen Ní Houlihan, Erin), today's Ireland is still very much favors the male gender. Maybe it harkens back to the days of the agrarian past where large numbers of the male stock were preferred to tend the livestock and till the fields, but it is still quite clear that boys are still the favored gender.
Dr. Chown has mentioned on numerous occasions that boys in the Media and Culture in Ireland program are often well treated as compared to the girls in the program at the same time. The girls often face harsher curfews and other restrictions that just aren't placed upon the boys. To wit, I present the above video as evidence.
Not only are the carnivores getting this divine dinner treatment, but our host mum Mrs. Martin also bought a vegan cookbook so she could specially prepare me meals as well. In another post, I will talk about the food specifically, and my struggles as a vegan, but for now, I just wanted to highlight how good we had it with Mrs. Martin.
Not only do we get great food for dinner every night, but she packs us lunch on the days we're taking day trips, AND does our laundry whenever we need some done. All we do is place it in the hamper, and boom, it's back in a nice sorted pile ready for us to wear or put away. We get to watch TV with her, and she'll even let us work the remote control if we like. We have it good.
The girls on the other hand aren't quite so fortunate. In fact, two of the girls had to share a bed for almost a week. The host father asked Meghan when she showed up whether she knew any of the girls on the trip. When Meghan answered no, he joked, "Well, you'll be quite close after this." Cue vision of just two beds for three girls, (but not in the sick perverted way I was thinking). They've been asked at times what they'd like to eat only to be served the opposite at dinner. Put it this way, I'm glad I'm a man.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
MCI Cultural Journal #2: Irish Drag(on)
Last Thursday after taking in a performance of Molly Sweeney, I hooked up with some kids from UC-Berkley. They saw Molly as a part of their semester abroad studying theater and arts. I chatted with them about their interpretations of the show, a continuation Dan and I were having about the doctor and husband as colonizers of Molly/Ireland (more on that in a separate entry.) So Dan and I followed them to a gay bar, where the doorman immediately marked us both as heteros slumming with the queens.
With raised eyebrow and a bawdy Irish brogue, “You know there’s a performance here tonight, right, lads?” I answered in the affirmative suspecting we were about to see a burlesque show, (even saying “Yeah, it’s a burlesque show”), but truly unsure of the bar’s clientele or sexual preference. In fact, when I heard the kids talking about a Panti, I just assumed I was in for some Moulin rouge hi-jinks and maybe a few corsets and garter belts. Who knew Panti was the main star attraction in a drag show, and someone the Cal kids studied with during their trip?
That said, Dan ducked out early noting, “Yeah, this isn’t really my scene.” (There went my cab fare split). I wasn’t uncomfortable in the least, and I figured out rather quickly this was a gay bar, and the queens were in high demand. I joined some of the UCB students and got some great video of these dames performing, and it was a riot. They put on one helluva a show, and it was a fascinating cultural experience. I’ll write more on this in another entry.
But what was just as interesting, was the journey home and the conversation with Alix, our French roommate. I caught her as she arrived home after meeting up with Dan and Connor for drinks at another pub. When I relayed that we had gone to a gay bar, she had reacted with such disdain and disgust that I was truly taken aback. Really? Really, Alix, really? You’re French! Your monarchy practically invented cross-dressing! Holding back the urge to chastise her for her dark ages view of sexuality, I suggested I wanted to apologize to Dan if he were uncomfortable, whereupon Alix stated sternly “Maybe he should be” with a very cross expression. Wanting to make sure I caught her neo-conservative bent correctly, I asked her to repeat herself under the guise of not hearing her fully. When she stated it the second time, I simply responded with “Huh, why?” Was I pressing her? Yes. Was I seeking a verbal confrontation? Probably. Did I want to expose her archaic views and produce consternation? Absolutely.
It’s an interesting paradox I’ve encountered so far. Alix as a French woman, and many Irish I meet here, carry strong opinions but a very non-confrontational stance. It’s like snipers, drawing a bead on an intended target in which to stoke a difference in opinions, but shirk the responsibility or negativity despite being clearly marked as both. It’s like criticizing someone through someone else to shield oneself from the ensuing ill tidings or conversation.
It’s one thing to avoid conflict and confrontation; it’s another to be too cowardly to stand behind your words no matter how controversial they may appear to be.
With raised eyebrow and a bawdy Irish brogue, “You know there’s a performance here tonight, right, lads?” I answered in the affirmative suspecting we were about to see a burlesque show, (even saying “Yeah, it’s a burlesque show”), but truly unsure of the bar’s clientele or sexual preference. In fact, when I heard the kids talking about a Panti, I just assumed I was in for some Moulin rouge hi-jinks and maybe a few corsets and garter belts. Who knew Panti was the main star attraction in a drag show, and someone the Cal kids studied with during their trip? That said, Dan ducked out early noting, “Yeah, this isn’t really my scene.” (There went my cab fare split). I wasn’t uncomfortable in the least, and I figured out rather quickly this was a gay bar, and the queens were in high demand. I joined some of the UCB students and got some great video of these dames performing, and it was a riot. They put on one helluva a show, and it was a fascinating cultural experience. I’ll write more on this in another entry.
But what was just as interesting, was the journey home and the conversation with Alix, our French roommate. I caught her as she arrived home after meeting up with Dan and Connor for drinks at another pub. When I relayed that we had gone to a gay bar, she had reacted with such disdain and disgust that I was truly taken aback. Really? Really, Alix, really? You’re French! Your monarchy practically invented cross-dressing! Holding back the urge to chastise her for her dark ages view of sexuality, I suggested I wanted to apologize to Dan if he were uncomfortable, whereupon Alix stated sternly “Maybe he should be” with a very cross expression. Wanting to make sure I caught her neo-conservative bent correctly, I asked her to repeat herself under the guise of not hearing her fully. When she stated it the second time, I simply responded with “Huh, why?” Was I pressing her? Yes. Was I seeking a verbal confrontation? Probably. Did I want to expose her archaic views and produce consternation? Absolutely.
It’s an interesting paradox I’ve encountered so far. Alix as a French woman, and many Irish I meet here, carry strong opinions but a very non-confrontational stance. It’s like snipers, drawing a bead on an intended target in which to stoke a difference in opinions, but shirk the responsibility or negativity despite being clearly marked as both. It’s like criticizing someone through someone else to shield oneself from the ensuing ill tidings or conversation.
It’s one thing to avoid conflict and confrontation; it’s another to be too cowardly to stand behind your words no matter how controversial they may appear to be.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
MCI Cultural Journal #1: Love at First Pint
It's kind of hard to travel to Ireland and not enjoy a pint, it really is. Ireland is as synonymous with alcohol as China is with tea. You can be a teetotaler as a visitor, but that tactic doesn't always sit well with the locals. I'm actually not much of a drinker, there's a Goose Island that's been in my fridge for almost two full years, and I rarely drink to excess. I'll probably drink more on this trip in a month than I will the rest of the year, wedding and other celebrations included. Maybe it's because I didn't drink until I was of legal age, or just that I'm a persnickety beer snob, but I don't drink just to get smashed, never have, never will.
Ireland is famous for its beer, none so more than Guinness, which will get its own cultural/academic journal at a later time, and is perfect for beer snobs like me. My favorite Irish beer has always always been Kilkenny, the creamier and muter version of Smithwick's. I knew my first beer in Ireland would have to be one of the two, there's plenty of time for Guinness later.
So after arriving and meeting up with Dan at our host mother Mrs. Martin's house, we met up with Meghan and Ashley and headed down to O'Connell street, the main commercial and cultural thoroughfare near the city centre. We tucked ourselves into our first pub and all sat down to have our first pint (of many) together.
There's nothing quite like that first experience of something in a new land, whether it's something mundane like going to the post office or eating at a noodlebar, to the completely cultural unique like staying in a capsule motel or attending a bullfight. I'd place having a beer in the mundane category, certainly not on the level of the sublime, except beer is so integral to understanding and enjoying Irish culture. Forgive the phrase, but Irish culture is soaked in beer.
I was profoundly disappointed that my first pint was in the Miller Genuine Draft glass though. Every time I think I'm out of America, they just pull me back in. Look, I understand that American culture has inundated the world, there's a damn Mickey D's and Starbucks everywhere, but do you have to ruin my beer too? Can't I have at least one good thing in life to enjoy free from American imperialism?
The beer was fantastic and the environment even more so. We were among regular folks with soccer on the TV, (Yes, they call it soccer here!), enjoying our pints. There was a familiarity and warmth within the environment even though we'd been there just hours. No "you boys ain't from around here" or uncomfrotable stares telling us to leave their little corner of the world, just "hey, you like good beer, you're welcome here." My kind of country.
Ireland is famous for its beer, none so more than Guinness, which will get its own cultural/academic journal at a later time, and is perfect for beer snobs like me. My favorite Irish beer has always always been Kilkenny, the creamier and muter version of Smithwick's. I knew my first beer in Ireland would have to be one of the two, there's plenty of time for Guinness later.
So after arriving and meeting up with Dan at our host mother Mrs. Martin's house, we met up with Meghan and Ashley and headed down to O'Connell street, the main commercial and cultural thoroughfare near the city centre. We tucked ourselves into our first pub and all sat down to have our first pint (of many) together.
There's nothing quite like that first experience of something in a new land, whether it's something mundane like going to the post office or eating at a noodlebar, to the completely cultural unique like staying in a capsule motel or attending a bullfight. I'd place having a beer in the mundane category, certainly not on the level of the sublime, except beer is so integral to understanding and enjoying Irish culture. Forgive the phrase, but Irish culture is soaked in beer.
I was profoundly disappointed that my first pint was in the Miller Genuine Draft glass though. Every time I think I'm out of America, they just pull me back in. Look, I understand that American culture has inundated the world, there's a damn Mickey D's and Starbucks everywhere, but do you have to ruin my beer too? Can't I have at least one good thing in life to enjoy free from American imperialism?
The beer was fantastic and the environment even more so. We were among regular folks with soccer on the TV, (Yes, they call it soccer here!), enjoying our pints. There was a familiarity and warmth within the environment even though we'd been there just hours. No "you boys ain't from around here" or uncomfrotable stares telling us to leave their little corner of the world, just "hey, you like good beer, you're welcome here." My kind of country.
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