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.
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.
