Sleeping in, Final Tour, and My Last Day in Dublin

I woke up fairly late on Sunday morning, just long enough to throw on decent enough clothes to go down stairs where the wifi was better and skype with Chris for a while, around 8:30.  I then rolled back up into bed, and slept until the noontime bells chimed at the Christchurch Cathedral.  It surprised me, because I have never heard them before, so I must have been busy at noon every other day the bells were ringing.  Or, maybe it was because it was Sunday.  Either way, the bells went on for at least 10 minutes, and they were beautiful.  It was very cool being so near to the church that I could actually hear the bells.

Once roused, and since only one other girl was in my room, I decided to take up much of the floor to open my suitcase and rearrange some things.  To save space, I have been sleeping with my backpack and purse at the foot of my bed (also, as a vague guard against thievery, although I must admit that the risk seemed very low at this place.  Nearly every person here has been leaving their stuff out, or very visible in their rolling cages under the bunks.).  I decided that it seemed safer to keep my mug for Liz, and my welcome sign in my backpack than in my suitcase, where I have some semblance of control whether things get broken.  That meant that I saved some vertical space in one corner of my suitcase, which I decided to fill with some of the seven mostly unnecessary books that I brought with me.  Thinking back on it, I should have planned to find a book store and left room to bring books home, rather than bringing my own.  This is especially true, because I found a place near Trinity College called Books Upstairs.  Forcing myself not to go inside was torturous, because I knew that if I went in, I would not leave without a book.  Such is the plight of a complete book addict.  Rick Steves and Lonely Planet were fairly useful, and I have read not quite half of an embarrassingly thin copy of Joyce.  The other four books are disturbingly unread...  And very bulky.

It seemed smart enough to take a shower at this point, so my towel would have time to dry before it needed to be packed as well.  Right about the moment that I was standing around in my underwear and a tee shirt gathering my things to go commandeer a shower for myself was when one of the hostel employees was doing his bed-check rounds.  Several knocks on the door is not a good enough indicator of who is about to come through a door.  I mean, every person who has come through that door so far has been female, and some have knocked and some have not.  But, I mean, a little "Hey, man coming through, put on trousers." might be a worthwhile thing to add to the pre-entry repertoire.  I don't really care, because I was actually well covered up, but, as the Brazilian girl in my room commented after my shower, sending a girl to inspect the girls' rooms doesn't seem that unreasonable a request.

I ended up having a fairly interesting conversation with this Brazilian woman when I returned from my shower, and while I got dressed.  She is from the very far south end of Brazil, where it is often cold, and that she is in Ireland on her way to her pilgrimage to Germany to see where her family is from.  She said that her family is actually German from an earlier migration -- earlier than the mid 40's mass exodus following world war two.  She was stopping in Dublin on her way to the rest of her travels, to get a well rounded trip out of her time off the continent.  We chatted a bit longer while I got dressed, something about Portuguese expansion versus English expansion into their colonies.  She seemed quite well educated about the various methods of colonization, but her conclusion was that the Portuguese were much kinder about it than the English, and I tried to be diplomatic about saying that the Portuguese were not saints in their colonization either.  Especially since she said just earlier in the conversation that there are reservations for the native population as well.  But, whatever.

After our chat, I took off to get some breakfast/lunch at SuperMac's.  I had been told that SuperMac's was like Irish fast food, and I had yet to go there.  It was a favorite of my compatriots after a long evening at the pubs.  There was a SuperMac's (and Papa John's pizza place, because Papa John's made it across the pond) in Temple Bar Square.  I knew that the Jeanie Johnston tours left every hour, and I expected that it would take me about 15 or 20 minutes to walk to the far end of town to where she was moored.  I had been having a hard time getting wifi at the hostel, and I needed both food and to write, so I was happy that eircom, Dublin's free city wifi, was working.  I walked into the SuperMac's/Papa John's, and waited for quite a few minutes before someone came to take my order.  If this is fast food, we are not starting off well.  Much to my chagrin for this entire trip, the expectation that all the minimum wage jobs are being taken by Poles was confirmed yet again, when a very pole-like Pole appeared from the back to finally take my order.  I got a bacon cheeseburger, which came with chips and a Coke.  It cost 7.50 euro, which comes out to just over 10 dollars American.  I would expect to pay 7.50 for one of those really giant burgers at Carl's Jr., but this seemed incredibly exorbitant.  I forget whether I have already remarked on my disappointment upon finding that, despite the euro being worth 135% of the dollar, Ireland is incredibly expensive to live in, and so I am actually experiencing extremely painful inflation.

Anyway, the other remarkable thing about Irish fast food was that their hamburger buns came with corn meal on the top, instead of sesame seeds, and red onions instead of white.  It was pretty good, I mean, it was basically just standard fast food.  I sat a bit too long eating, and left perhaps ten minutes before the next Jeanie Johnston tour was to begin.  I am a quick walker, and more so on the flat landscape of Dublin, but I wasn't going to make it by 2.  Heading out briskly anyway, I walked north toward the river, and turned right to head east.  I crossed the Haypenny Bridge, so named for the half penny toll for crossing back in the day, and was grateful that another tourist paused to take a photo, so that I could as well.

I continued on eastward along the north side of the Liffey, which allowed me to pass by the famine statues.  They are a rather bleak collection of metal sculptures of several men, women, children, and a mangy dog, making their way in destitution toward the ships that would carry them away to the rest of the world.  It was an appropriate stop, given my destination.  I pressed on, and arrived at the Jeanie Johnston about a quarter after 2.  The girl inside was quite happy to sell me the single, last ticket for the tour at 3.  She asked what I knew about the ship, and I said that it was a famine ship that carried loads of Irish to North America, and that they had a doctor on board and no one died on any of their trips, and that I thought the boat had had a female captain.  She said that that was remarkably more knowledge than most people have upon arriving for a tour.

An English man and a few others came in just after me, and unfortunately she was sold out for both of the remaining tours that day.  He asked what the ship was really about, and she said that it was a famine ship.  He asked if this was the original, and she said no, it was just a replica.  He seemed slightly confused, but in a moment of clarity, he said, "Oh, so it didn't used to travel with all that stuff on it."  Now her turn to be confused, she said, no, it carried starving Irish to the New World to escape the famine.  He seemed rather put off at the prospect, and asked if there was an informational pamphlet that he could take to read about it, and that was when I took my leave and stepped out of the little office to take pictures of the boat.

Once those clever fellows had cleared out, however, I returned, and asked my new friend if she thought, as I had, that the man had assumed that it was the boat that had once been famished, and not the passengers.  She replied, rather conspiratorially, that she certainly hoped not, but that she wouldn't be surprised, as the man was English.  We talked a while longer, and while I have forgotten her name, I recall that she is from Donegal.  We talked a bit about boys -- the unfortunate condition of Irishmen that makes them a bit less to look at, but they make up for it greatly in charm.  All Irishmen sing, and many dance, and nearly all of them recite poetry.  As she remarked, it takes a six up to an eight most of the time.  I asked her what she thought about the impending Scottish vote for independence, and what she thought that would mean for Northern Ireland.  Her thoughts were that it would be best to leave things alone in Northern Ireland, and she was somewhat dubious about whether Scotland should separate either.  She said that the differences between Northern Ireland and the Republic were primarily boiling down to social welfare issues these days, not religion: who had better schools, health care, higher education, infrastructure, etc.  And for those who wish to be British, they can be, and for her, she is quite happy in Dublin.

I had missed my coffee that morning, and was regretting it.  My friend pointed me further west as my best bet for some coffee.  The place she suggested, the Twisted Pepper, which is a tattoo parlor or a night club when it is not a coffee place, was a bit too far afield for me to reach on foot, and be back in time for my tour.  Since it was Sunday, most everything had buttoned up tight and were closed.  Even things that had Sunday hours posted, ones I might mention I was living through presently, were not actually open.  It must have been a holiday, and no one had told me.  I wandered at length, moving further north of the river, and eventually, passed bus depot and through commuter train interchange, found a small pub that had a cappuccino machine.  I bought a take away cup, and retraced my steps.

I arrived again at the Jeanie just before 3, and many more children and mothers had arrived in my absence.  I was impressed with how many fathers were attending as well, and especially impressed by how many Irish families were visiting.  There were several pairs of adults, who had shed their children for the day or through the years, who seemed equally surprised by the appearance of so many children.  I chatted with my friend a bit longer, and we talked about Ireland a while longer.  Then it was tour time,

Our tour guide was a charming young girl, and she talked us through the highlights of the ship.  This Jeanie Johnston is a replica of the original, based on the paper specifications from when it was built in the early 1800s.  Her original purpose was as a trade ship, and she carried primarily lumber.  Through a series of changes of hands, she was bought as converted for use as a famine ship, to carry literal boat loads of people to the New World.  It is true, that not one passenger died while on the ship, nor any crew, but it is not true that she had a woman at the helm.  That was still considered mostly bad luck.  Famine ships at the time were often called coffin ships, for more often than not, upon arriving at their destination, the passengers unloaded were already dead.

It was quite common practice to quarantine the passengers who stepped of these boats, for those who survived the journey were likely to be full of head and body lice or disease especially cholera, typhoid and dysentery.  The Jeanie Johnston brought 15 boatloads of about 120 people to Canada, and one trip to Boston.  Among the things that make the Johnston remarkable, a system of requiring passengers to spend time above deck, separating the ill from those who were not yet ill, preventing the sick or infested from gaining entry to the ship before departure, requiring that passengers wash their hands regularly and their bodies often, and providing adequate food and bedding, were revolutionary ideas at the time, but did incredible amounts to keep all the passengers alive.  A doctor on board who actually tended to the passengers as well as the crew saved hundreds of lives by his work.

The reason we have a replica, and not the original ship, is because it was actually lost at sea.  Long after the famine years ended, the ship was returned to its original purpose as a lumber hauler.  It was on a return trip from New England, and had been caught up in a storm that lasted much longer than expected.  She had been weighed down too heavily with the lumber in the hull, and the excessive weight allowed too much water into the bilge, only serving to waterlog the wood and make it heavier.  Despite throwing much overboard, it was obvious that Jeanie Johnston was to sink into the ocean slowly, carrying all of her crew with her.  Most remarkably, another ship happened to be heading in the other direction, and saw, at a distance, the very tops of the masts of a ship, all of her crew bound by ropes to the top most parts of the sails.  The savior ship arrived just in time to cut free all of the crew and captain and haul them on board, before the Jeanie Johnston sunk completely.  So, truly, no one on the Jeanie ever died.

I learned far more than just this, and was told many stories about specific people's journeys to make it to the New World.  What I liked about our tour guide was that she really had become invested in these stories: she had personally looked up the Canadian birth record of the little boy who was born while in passage on the Jeanie Johnston.  His record said he was born on the Atlantic, and he had 28 first names, one for each of the crew of the boat, the captain, the doctor, the boat herself, and the boy's father.  Our guide said that the descendant of that boy once came to visit the boat, and she said it was very moving indeed.

After a long march up the river back to my hostel, it was around 5 o'clock that I finally set down to some evening things.  I scheduled my airport shuttle ride with the hostel, for a mere 7 euro.  Initially, I went to sit at one of the bar stools near the kitchen.  It was interesting to watch everyone preparing their food, and I reflected on the fact that, at fancy hotels, there are tons of services provided, but all cost money.  It costs money even to look at the mini bar to see if you want to buy something.  But at a hostel, it cost nearly nothing to stay, and you have a fully furnished kitchen in which to cook, and even store your food in one of the massive bins they keep for such things.  And people are very polite, doing their dishes, cleaning up after themselves, and being fairly courteous, even when they don't all speak the same language.

I ended up in a very interesting conversation with a black man from western Africa, who had started several very profitable businesses in Africa, and who had then moved to Columbus, Ohio to work for a car manufacturer, among other things.  He has settled here in Dublin, and developed a very convincing and slightly uncanny accent, and likes the more relaxed working life in Ireland.  He works for the equivalent of the State Department, I think, and is going to school at Trinity College for a social work degree.  We started talking because he asked me to watch his jacket, and to please not steal any of the diamonds or gold ingots he was carrying.  I was a little disarmed, and didn't know what to say back, without implying something about blood diamonds, but luckily he returned and did plenty of talking for both of us.  He offered to share his supper with me, but I said no, because I don't usually eat other people's food.  He was not offended at all, and said it was probably for the best best, for both my health and my taste buds.  Apparently he is an atrocious cook.  I know it wasn't his fault, but at one point, something exploded off the side of someone's pot, and made a very startling noise as it banged around the kitchen.  It seemed rather appropriate timing, given his comment, though.

After turning down dinner, I instead bought a coke and a Mars bar from the vending machine, and sat down near an outlet to blog.  I think I completed at least one full day that day, but I don't remember now.  I also struggled for a long time over the condition of my fall class schedule -- I have been lamenting to anyone who would listen about my troubles: the entrepreneurial marketing class is one I desperately want, but is in the middle of the day on Thursday, which limits my flexibility for work schedules while I am balancing both Classic Helicopter and Westward Fishing Company.  And since business economics and international business, my only remaining core classes other than the management series, are both only offered Monday and Wednesday, it is impossible to get onto an all T/TH nor an all M/W schedule, and I am very vexed.

The Australians near me were playing a very peculiar drinking game in which they shook a handful of coins like dice, and depending on which side was facing up, they had to drink.  I quickly learned, that whether there were doubles, or heads, or tails, or a preponderance of heads, or a preponderance of tails, the rule was that you always had to drink.  At one point, they asked me if I was doing homework or something for university, and I said no, just blogging home to my family.  They didn't seem interested in adding someone with a mild cold to their crowd, so I was left fairly alone.

Around nine or so, I went upstairs to lay out my clothes for traveling, pack everything as densely as humanly possible, and attempt to sleep in my state of anxious anticipation.  I dragged my feet, but got everything fairly well put away, and left my backpack and my purse at the ready at the foot of my bed.  My shuttle was coming at 7:30 the next morning, so I set my alarm for 7.  No one was going to shut off the light til 11, so after completing my evening ablutions, I read Joyce for a while longer.  I am developing an incredible fondness for Joyce.  Eventually the light went out, but no one had shut the curtain on our view of the massive and well-lit, domed building across the river, and by then I was far too comfortable and tired to get up to close it.  Someone during the night closed it, though, and I slept rather fitfully, between coughing and anxiety.  Despite my feeling rather abandoned in Dublin on Saturday, by now I was feeling quite fondly toward it, and was already sad to be leaving.

Arrival Dinner

So, my adventure with the bus from Dublin airport was not as fool-proof as I had hoped.  The Dublin bus system is horrendous.  This is their big tourist transit bus, and no stops were called out, the screen in the front of the bus said nothing informative, and it was good luck that I got a bus that actually listed the most common points of interest near each stop. 

What I mean to say is that I missed my stop. 

The next stop was the end of the line, and I was able to leap off the bus and grab the returning one, and convince the driver to let me go one stop back.  But nothing is ever easy in life, and I am trying not to start out my experience in Europe as an Asshole American.  He lets me know that this is my stop, so I get up and gather my things, while he lets people on the bus.  He talks at some length to two Spanish women about getting to and from the airport, and then he pulls away.

I'M STILL ON THE BUS.  I ask him to stop, and he says, "I let seven people on this bus and you didn't get off?"  And all I could say was sorry, I was waiting for people to stop coming on, but what I was thinking was that in America, you let the people departing the bus off before you let more people on the bus.  And/or you look to see if anyone (with a giant backpack, and purse and a massive suitcase) got off, and/or you make sure the one person who definitely needed to get off at this stop, gets off at this stop.

I guess all bus drivers are cut from the same cloth.  We have these unsympathetic jackasses in Seattle too.

Anyway, I ran into some helpful Philadelphian-turned-Dubliners, who pointed me over the bridge to my hostel, where I checked in entirely without incident.  There are 8 girls in my room (one has a late flight in), and it was fairly packed with lady body parts and accoutrements.  There are four bunk beds, and I'm on a top bunk by the door.  I have claimed every hook behind the door as mine.  It's a hostel, so it's not magic or anything, but the rooms are clean and big, with high ceilings, tall windows and wood floors.  I have yet to see anyone over the age of 25, but they might be holed up in one of the private rooms.

Initially when I was asked if I wanted to go drink before the welcome dinner, I said no.  But I thought that seemed a bit boring of me, so I went, and the 6 girls in our room ended up finding several more girls and three boys, so the now 11 of us took to the narrow sidewalks of Dublin in search of somewhere to get a Guinness.

Which was of course, perfectly easy.  We found one, and Will (the sheep guy) said he got a weird vibe, so we followed Tanner through this Polish street fair and into a satisfactory pub called Badbob's.  It was also filled with Poles who were singing really cool harmony songs and clapping.  There is a large Polish population because of the Celtic Tiger, dot com thing, and Poles came to replace young Dubliners in the low wage jobs.  So now they have street festivals.

I had a half pint of Guinness with black currant (as instructed), and luckily Guinness is a filling not a spilling kind of drink, because I hadn't really eaten anything since that ham and cheese croissant at 10:30.  I was a little warm headed, but ok as we headed off to get another Gunness at that pub that we had initially rejected.

In the rejected and unrejected pub, we found a three man stag party in progress, in which the lucky stag was made to wear a leprechaun costume.  He was an extremely drunk leprechaun, and when he and his friend wanted to have a drinking contest with Will and Alex, the barkeep cut him off.

Meanwhile, Lauren (my new buddy, who is also a teetotaler and a non-Greek) and I were cornered by the third wheel, an Englishman they found in the extras for Monty Python.  Everything about him was wonderfully English -- sweater, skinny jeans, Matt Smith hair style -- and he said he loved Americans for their personalities and their good teeth, and that he had all his out a few years ago.  Also, he hates Canadians, apparently.  He said he had had 12 pints of Guinness today, and shouldn't be standing up.

About this time, the stag was being cut off by the barkeep, so he was collecting his friends to leave.  He said hello to Lauren and I, hugged and kissed us, and left.  That's how a leprechaun makes an exit.

We all reassembled at the hostel, and found Leta for our meeting before dinner.  Leanna had to quit the trip because she broke her foot the week before, and Toto and Zoe and Emmaline and Marnie (the student advisor) would be arriving over the evening and next day.  We were given our 50 euro allowance for the beginning of the trip, with no promise for when we will be paid again (so be frugal!), and took of for The Brazen Head.

The Brazen Head is the oldest pub in Ireland, founded in 1180.  It is very quaint, and it looks like they variously attempted to wall in greater and greater sections of the street corner on which it was constructed.  There are several interior walls that appear to have once served as exterior.  I have pictures, which will make it even cuter.

At dinner, we took up two large tables, and reintroduced ourselves.  We had a two course supper of tomato and basil soup (or a Greek salad), and one of four quintessential entrees: beef stew, fish and chips, chicken breast wrapped in bacon, or bangers and mash.  I started with the stew, which was thick, tomato-ey and delicious.  I also had a piece of chocolate fudge cake, which was good because it was a dry crumbly cake with frosting that wasn't too sweet.  Unlike the moist, sugary cakes in America, it was actually a really pleasant finish to dinner.  Could have used some milk though.

Everyone else was gearing up to go party, and I didn't want to, so when we got back to the hostel, I came and took a shower, and wrote home to my family.  I am completely alone in this hostel room, but it is very comfortable and I don't mind being alone for a while after all the people and tight spaces I've been in recently.

I would like to think that it would be fun drinking with the rest of the group, but alcohol is expensive (in general, in Europe, and particularly in Temple Bar, where they ply the artsy, college student type for every cent they have).  And Lauren and I have decided to be non drinkers together, and it is always easier not to drink when someone else is doing it with you.  A half pint sets me back about 3 euros 50, which is much better than the 5 euros 20 that everyone else is paying.  The other nice thing is that when we go to dinner with Leta, she pays for everything but our drinks.  So I had a piece of cake instead of more alcohol, and I still came out on top.  I'm making myself keep track of how much I"m spending so that I can go to college this fall.

It's Go-Time, People!

Hopefully everyone got my e-mail last night, approximately 11 pm because I'm crazy, and the rest of you have heard via Facebook.  I'll briefly update before we board for Ireland (ERMAGHERD.), and see you on the other side -- of the world.

I got to SEATAC without incident, in the chariot of my wonderful boyfriend Chris who took a whole day off of work to take me to the airport.  Mom and Dad and Copper stood on the porch to watch me go, and even Aspen stumbled downstairs to mumble a good bye.

I made it through check in, TSA, and Starbucks surprisingly quickly, and immediately began a conversation with the curly girl across the aisle at the terminal.  Her name is Daisy Jane Darling -- holy crap, best name ever! -- and she had the fabulous curls of my dreams, like mom's tight corkscrews, but very very long.  We immediately hit it off, and talked about curls and many other things.  She's sixteen, so obviously much braver than I am, and she goes to high school in Tacoma.

There was no one else in my row, an exit row, so she sat beside me.  I took a Virgin America flight, and it was a fantastic flight.  Every seat has a tv and remote control with a credit card swiper, and the safety speech is a music video with people like Phillip Cheeb and Cyrus Spencer (if you watch So You Think You Can Dance, you'll know).  There were games to play, and music to listen to, and you can order food right from your seat, and even send food or drinks to other passengers.  If Daisy Jane hadn't been able to move near me, I was going to send her a coke.

We talked and had a great time the whole flight, which was about an hour and 45 minutes.  I had a checked bag, but she didn't, so we said a very warm good bye for new instant friends, and went our separate ways.  I found my luggage, rearranged some books etc, and headed off to find Aer Lingus.

This involved three escalators and an airtrack train, and some pacing, and almost going through security without a boarding pass, before I found out that Aer Lingus doesn't open their desk for check ins until 2.  So I grabbed a burger, read, texted my family, and waited around.

I had nightmares all last night that they were not going to let me on the plane, and waiting in anticipation did NOT help this situation.  Supportive texts from mom/boyfriend kept me from losing it.  I eventually made it into a line of mostly non-Irish European foreigners, and stood for a very long time.

I discovered that, whatever classlessness Europeans assume of Americans must only apply to the adults.  I have never seen such uncivil children.  Among the most serious offenses, 1) Euro-Justin Beiber (a criminal offense in every country), 2) a rather loud boy who would not stop hanging off of his father, and trying to kiss him, 3) loud phone calls in non-English languages and slow texting that held up the line, 4) pushing into an existing line, 5) a German or Dutch boy picked his nose AND ATE IT, PEOPLE.

Anyway, after those idiots at the airline let me through, and no one at TSA sent me home with a stern word, I wandered, dazed, into my terminal.  I found a stand and bought a giant water bottle, some Gardetto's, and some SweetTarts.  I am now waiting patiently for them to let me on the plane.

Then the real adventure will begin!

Extraneous Details for Your Perusal

I realized that there are several little tidbits of information that are just interesting to know, and that might be helpful in understanding what's happening.  I'll try to go in roughly chronological order.

I initially heard about the study abroad opportunities while sitting in the advising office waiting for my appointment to add marketing as my second major.  At the time, I was an accounting major who was falling haplessly in love with my marketing class, which was the subject that had initially turned me toward business in the first place.  How I decided to go with accounting instead, I genuinely can't remember.  I believe it had something to do with wanting to prove that I'm a big smarty pants, and to do something hard just because I wanted to win at doing hard things.  This is rarely a good reason to do things.

An informational meeting was coming up soon, and I decided to go.  The meeting was very interesting -- other trips were mentioned, one to England and one to India.  England was a close second for me, but I was told that Leta likes to take people who are desperate to take only her trip.  If I really want it, it should be the only trip for which I apply.  I walked away from that meeting feeling incredibly confident that I would be accepted.  It was an inexplicable feeling that I was definitely destined to go on this trip.

In my preparations for the application, I happened to mention it to my friend from accounting.  Now, she's got what I would call, really good luck.  She is currently on a scholarship with the AICPA, which is an academic accounting fraternity of some sort, and she got this really cool internship with the King County Courthouse as a forensic accountant (I had no idea that was even a thing).  She's got some added demographic benefits, such as being Latina, and being a non-traditional returning student, etc.  Anyway, when she found out that I was applying, she decided to apply as well.  The goal was to take the trip together.

My confidence immediately dropped.  On one hand, it would be incredible to have an existing friend for the trip.  Ireland wouldn't be ready for the two of us.  But, on the other hand, I was very seriously concerned that rather than take us as a boxed set, Leta would pick my friend over me.  I delayed very seriously in finishing my application, and finally completed it a week or so before the deadline.  I wrote my personal statement honestly, naturally, and from the heart, and decided to let it play out as it would.

Well, the spoiler is that obviously I was accepted.  Unfortunately, my friend was not.  Now that I know the other members of the group, I really wish she was coming, so that I would have a decent friend with a viperish sense of humor to tour Ireland with me.  But it is probably best for my personal growth that I make this trip alone.  But I will sorely miss her.

*   *   *

I found out I was accepted to the trip via phone call.  Now, what is funny is that my phone is forever attached to the side of my face.  The fact that Leta was able to call three separate times when I did not have my phone on my person is remarkable.  I didn't recognize the number, and she didn't leave a message, so I had no idea who this person was who kept calling me at 9:30 at night.  I wasn't going to call them back and interrogate them -- "Hello, why do you keep calling me, I think you have the wrong number, who are you so I can tell you that you have the wrong number?  You didn't leave a message so I don't know who you are, or who you were trying to reach, but I'm pretty sure you have the wrong number, so I'm calling you back to follow up, and make sure you get a hold of whoever you're supposed to be calling, because it's definitely not me, because I think you have the wrong number."

Finally, I was on the phone with Chris when the number started to call me.  I was, by now, quite perplexed about this very insistent person who never left a message.  I hung up with Chris to take the call, and it was Leta.  She said hello, and asked for me, and then she spent a little time admonishing me for not answering my phone.  Then she said that I'm on the team, and I swear to God, I said "what team?"  And she said "The trip to Ireland!  You're going to Ireland."  And then I screamed at her.

Once I was done screaming, I thanked her profusely, and apologized profusely, and thanked her again.  I ran downstairs to tell my parents, and then I cried for a little while because I was so damn excited.  I called Chris back, and he was also excited, and at this point I had stopped crying, so I tried to act nonchalant.

*   *   *

Flash forward to our first meeting of the group, in mid-April.  We did some typical ice-breaker activities, and did mini-interviews with each other to introduce our partner to the rest of the group.  Leta loves what she called "juicy details," so I mentioned to my partner, Toto (Cambodian) that I used to speed-read for debate, and could talk at about 400 words per minute.  When this was announced to the group, I was required to perform this skill.  I did ok, for someone who was severely out of practice, but I got hung up on the word "economics" and stuttered until I got going again, which is always embarrassing.  I was also the only person to be required to perform for my juicy detail.

A few people were not in attendance for work or class, and one of those people was Will.  Leta said that Will was coming late, and alluded to something about him and sheep.  When he arrived, after my stuttering display, she turned to welcome him and said "It's Will!  The sheep guy!"  We all looked between Leta and Will, and he started to explain, but Leta waved him off and said "it's a story."  As he sat down, he assured those of us nearest to him that it was NOT a story.

We talked about the trip, and the companies we would visit.  I asked about the sheep farm, because on the trip brochure it mentioned a sheep farm.  She asked if I had raised sheep, but I said that my mom and I both knit.  Apparently that was more than enough interest for her, and she declared that my company profile should be on the sheep farm.  In a stunning moment of revelation, she realized that Will could be my partner, because he was the sheep guy, so we'll be partners, and we'll be the sheep people.

Oh God, trip hasn't even started yet, and already branded as a Sheep Person.

I met with Will when the group broke up a little later, and asked him about "the story" related to the sheep.  He said that he was raised on a farm in Eastern Washington, and that, among other animals, sheep were on the farm.  That's all.

Still, we are branded for life as The Sheep People.

*   *   *

On an insufferably hot day, our group met to learn about the history of Ireland from Leta's husband, Mark.  He has a PhD (?) in history, and despite the education, he spent a decent portion of time trying to operate YouTube to show us a video about the IRA.  One should never laugh at a person for struggling with things, but he was being exceptionally comical about it.  I am going to believe that he was doing a caricature of a person who can't find the mouse on the screen.

He was, however, a fantastic story-teller, who gave a brief history of Ireland in about 45 minutes.  He will be meeting up with our group for a week in Ireland, for his and Leta's wedding anniversary.

During this same meeting, we all put our names on little tickets, to be drawn from a hat later.  I always feel some dread associated with being up to "win" anything, because 75% of the time, the "award" is a task (in my experience).  Just as she was about to draw, she informed us that she had 5 Rick Steve's Ireland travel books that she was giving away.  I very nearly declared that she could take my name out of the running, because I had already bought the Lonely Planet Ireland book.  But before I could speak, my name was the first one to come out of the hat, and I suddenly decided that I desperately wanted it, so I kept my mouth shut, and graciously took my award.  Best drawing ever!

Coping

When I got accepted for this trip to Ireland, I think I felt my blood pressure palpably rise.  It's very exciting, but I immediately turned my brain over to high-speed insanity whenever the trip or any related issues were mentioned.  (I can further support this with the fact that I was up until 1 am working on the presentation I gave with a partner about the Irish sheep farm on the Ring of Kerry, when most other people didn't seem bothered to do a decent job at all for their topics.  One girl spent her entire speech about Jameson whiskey talking about a spring break trip to Boston that she took, and related her tour of a beer manufacturer to the (vastly different) distillation of Irish whiskey.  Excuse me, but please stop bragging about your vacations, and just talk about the topic to which you were assigned.)

Anyway, several pre-departure sessions were scheduled during the school year.  After each of these meetings I was simultaneously invigorated and terrified.  I became increasingly sure that I would love Ireland and the people and the climate and the environment.

I also became increasingly confident that I would not fit in with my fellow groupmates.  I think I've started to single out a few people with whom I can have a decent time, but the vast majority of our group is Greek, and if they are not actually living together in a fraternity right now, most of them are at least friends, or well-acquainted.  It's concerning to me that I will have no one to talk to, and the mandate that we must always travel in pairs may result in my spending a lot of time in the hostel.  To all of you who know me well, you'll know how shocking it is for me to have difficulty finding someone with whom to converse.  I was built to talk to adults or children, but people my own age are mystifying.  There are moments when I speak words out loud, and no one hears me.  My sense of humor (which I acknowledge is rather sharp sometimes) falls on completely deaf ears.  I've never experienced anything like it.  I was spared the heartbreak of high school ostracization while I was in high school, but it's all catching up with me for this brief trip to Ireland.

(Interestingly, at a completely unrelated family barbecue on Saturday, I was introduced by my host to a very nice Irish couple, and spent much of the evening talking to the wife, Siobhan.  All of my expectations about the friendliness and kindness of the Irish was completely confirmed, and she assured me that I would find more people like her upon my arrival.  We talked about Penny's -- a fabulously cheap department store, -- about putting a little black currant juice in my Guinness to cut the bitterness, about taking the hokey bus tour of Dublin because it really is pretty interesting, and about how Ireland has had a very hot summer so the weather will probably still be warm and comfortable when I'm traveling.  She completely set my mind at ease that my trip will be fantastic.)

The last official meeting of the crew was a barbecue at Leta's (director's) house in Edmonds.  So on Sunday I trooped dutifully out into the admittedly gorgeous, if very distant, hinterlands north of Seattle but south of Bellingham.  Approximately half of our group was in attendance, 11 of 26, and we discussed the final schedule, packing lists, credit unions, and other sundry topics.  From the mood of my peers, my anxiety is completely and wildly abnormal.  Most of them confessed to not having thought about packing yet at all, and several had yet to call their banks, or had confirmed with the State Department and the Embassy.  I left the barbecue feeling as though all the anxiety that I had let out the night before had all rolled itself right back up inside me.  I called home to let my parents know that I was headed back, and dad gave me a bit of an extra dig (he is somehow surprised and offended that I am so anxious.  It's as though he forgot the nightmare that was me before leaving for Alaska last year.).

Thank God for my mother, who is just as anxious as I am, and who is also not coping well.  She's opted for serious and complete denial.  The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, as it were.

Ramblings of a Manic Insomniac DIYer/Impending-Travel Denier

For many people, I might even say most people, the prospect of traveling abroad is exciting and fun, and not in the least bit full of terrifying anxiety.  Well, that's great and all, but for a select few of us, thinking about hopping on that plane and going to a far off land where they speak a language that is allegedly the same one that I speak but is obviously not the same, it's the most scary thing ever.

And what does one do, when one is trying NOT to act like they are completely anxious?

They become a manic insomniac who can't stop cleaning things and never sleeps and wants simultaneously to kill everyone and to be cuddled.  Enter the daunting and unending project of trying to repaint my childhood bedroom (bear in mind, that this is the worst idea ever, because now, upon my return from The Dreaded Trip, I'll be sleeping in an equally foreign new bedroom).  Gone will be the days of the hot pink bedroom!  Say hello to the new days of a cream and teal bedroom!  *Sophistication!*  *Adulthood!*  *Increased Resale Value!*

Ok, that's great, but mostly, it's been a never ending project that began by me unloading at least a thousand dollars worth of stuff out of my room.  Clothes and shoes mostly, but also jewelry, trinkets, and mementos from life that were put into tubs for long term storage.  Oh God, I think some books actually LEFT my private library to go to charity.  Additionally, horrifically, I was convinced into moving my two cherished bookcases out of my room and into -- communal living spaces.  They cringe at the suggestion.

That was all day Saturday.  Sunday I began coming down with a cold that was only exacerbated by the level of dust in my room, but I soldiered on, bought paint and found materials, and moved everything out of my room except the bed frame (spoiler alert, that will be a terrible idea), and the giant shelving unit that holds all my folded clothes.  I would live to regret leaving both of those objects in my room, because if they were too big a pain to move before painting began, I don't know what made me believe that they wouldn't be even more annoying once the painting started.

Monday, however, I was supposed to go to work, but the cold I was brewing caught up with me, and the day was mostly wasted napping and sniffing instead.  My boyfriend, Chris, came over to help, and I started to feel better by the end of the day, and began the task of caulking the trim that had never been finished in my rush to move into my room the first time.  The BF is a finish carpenter's apprentice, and was supposed to help with the finishing that needed doing.  As a finish carpenter, however, he usually leaves caulking of trim etc to the painters.  So his help was somewhat less than helpful, and was in fact very messy, and eventually we had caulk everywhere. To smooth the edges of our hellacious caulking job, we wiped the trim down with wet clothes.  By the end of it, we had very dirty fingers and a bucket full of caulk water.  I'm not making this up.  Many jokes were made.

Side note, we have had some of the most incredibly hot weather this summer, and my small room is a veritable pressure cooker in the summer.  This is not the environment for emotionally supportive home improvement projects.  Things were said in that room that I cannot take back.  (Sorry Chris.)

I ended up doing all the caulking myself (so typical) until about midnight and then I fell into bed and thankfully was exhausted enough to sleep.

Tuesday I was healthy enough for work, so I did my actual job, and came home to do a coat of primer.  This primer was quite old, and had separated a little, so it did a rather poor job of covering the hot pink.  But it got done, and we moved the set of shelves out of my room to better paint the ceiling.  Now, I was attempting to enlist the help of two studly men for this task -- that is, my boyfriend and my brother.  In their infinite wisdom, they decided not to move the bedframe (which also needs to be sanded and painted), and instead, the brother left without moving anything.  Quite a bit later, I got fed up moving the shelves around, so Chris and I slid the whole thing out on its side to get it out of my room.  Presently, there's a massive cabinet of shelves obstructing the path to my room, and I can't get the bedframe out, so that's still unlikely to be sanded or painted in the near future.

Wednesday is when it gets really horrible.  I bought a teal color, Embellished Blue, for the west wall and the edge of the east wall that surrounds my built in closet.  I also bought a light cream color for the other walls and the ceiling, Angel Food.  One coat of Angel Food was going on really well, and Chris and I were doing a really good job, and everything was clean, and then tragically, Chris spilled a bunch of white paint on my brown carpet.

This is not an incredibly terrible tragedy, because the paint cleans up with soap and water, and honestly, the stain is gone, so it's not a big deal.  But it's a mood killer, and a roll-breaker, and a parade rainer.  And now I might have to murder Chris.  (Sorry Chris.)  Manic Insomniac Sierra can't deal with these types of setbacks.  The particularly maddening part is that he's not a very effective cleaner, and obviously has never spilled paint on the carpet before (I admit nothing).  Carpet needs to be blotted, not scrubbed.  That's all I'll say.

Anyway, the existence of a paint stain led to a massive argument, not related to the paint at all, and exclusively fueled by my hangover-cold, the heat, exhaustion from sleep deprivation, and absolute insane anxiety, and the fact that every single male to walk the face of the earth is just so damn annoying.  This argument actually happened much later over the phone, long after he had left, which provided me time to (very aggressively) paint a swatch of Embellished Blue next to the Angel Food while I gave unnecessary ultimatums and threatened to hang up and never talk to him again.  I do not deny how incredibly overly dramatic I am.

I realized that I hate both of these colors.

Angel Food is code for white.  Embellished Blue is code for just plain old standard baby blue.  And I hate both of them.  A white ceiling is ok, and fully permissible.  But there's a reason I had a hot pink bedroom to start off with.  I'm a bright color kind of girl.  And this white and baby blue crap is not going to fly.  So I'll be taking the Angel Food back and retinting to get it closer to something that contains pigment.  We'll see about the blue, with a decent color near it, it might not be so bad.  I'll reserve judgement, but I think it needs to go too.

Basically, this is the final piece of evidence that I hate everything, and nothing is going my way, and oh good Lord, I had to register with the State Department today, and I'm denying that a trip is impending.  I'm an Impending-Travel Denier -- like a holocaust denier, but, you know, on a much smaller scale, and in no way at all like a holocaust denier.

Pre-Departure Prepping

In my efforts to learn about Ireland before I leave, I've reached that point that I think many ambivalent travelers get to, where it's almost too scary to think about your trip, so you don't want to read anymore about it.  I'm just this side of all Ireland-ed up, and I have another 6 weeks before I leave.  I've been listening to books about Ireland history during my commute, and whenever I get the chance, I read Malachy McCort's History of Ireland.  The trouble is, I can't seem to find the time to read it, and when I'm driving, I spend more time appreciating the Julie Andrews quality of the reader's voice than listening to the trials and tribulations of Ireland's fight for freedom.

I'm trying to make plans for which restaurants and pubs to visit while I am in Dublin.  What I've heard is that if you go to the same bar twice you become a regular.  I want to pick a pub and become a regular, because, OH MY GOD, how cool is it to become a regular while you're abroad??  I had this idea to compare the pubs and restaurants in my Lonely Planet travel book to the ones in the Rick Steves travel book, and pick the ones that are most highly recommended by both books.  But I realized really quickly that that would be both crazy and ridiculous, as I'm cross-comparing sights and places, and making some kind of crazy itinerary?  That sounds slightly overkill.  Maybe it's a good idea?  We'll see.

I need to force myself to read more though, because I know I will get so much more out of the trip if I do.

In a related story, there's a really serious possibility that I lost the SD card from my trip to Alaska, so, yeah.  That's a massive bummer, until the day that I find it, when it will all be better.  But for now, I think I lost all my pics.  :(