"[Two] Short Days in the Emerald City"

ONE SHORT DAY
IN THE EMERALD CITY
ONE SHORT DAY
FULL OF SO MUCH TO DO
EV'RY WAY
THAT YOU LOOK IN THIS CITY
THERE'S SOMETHING EXQUISITE
YOU'LL WANT TO VISIT
BEFORE THE DAY'S THROUGH!

Oh wait - those are lyrics from a song in Wicked, the amazing musical Kim took Anna and me to!
Interestingly, they basically describe our experience in London. We didn't have enough time to see all that there is to see - I'm pretty sure people who have lived there their entire lives probably don't even manage that - but the time we did spend was...well...magical! I'm not exaggerating. It was so amazing to see Kim and Rich for a couple days, with the added bonus of their guidance in navigating the city and deciding what to see.

Day One: Anna and I were about to miss our bus to the airport in Cork, so we had to get a taxi - again. Same thing happened with our Italy trip. Apparently we haven't learned our lesson! The drive was nice, though. The driver was from Dublin and extremely friendly. He thought at first that we were Australian, but when we didn't respond how he expected to a joke about Australia, he asked us to confirm and we clarified. Then he talked about visiting east coast beaches in the United States and told Anna that she was going to be very happy living in North Carolina.

Our flight was quick, Ireland and England being neighboring islands after all, and Kim's instructions for getting on the Gatwick Express and pointed in the right direction at the train station were great. Instead of taking the tube, we decided to walk, since we were fairly close to Buckingham Palace and could use a route that would take us past Picadilly Circus, where Anna stayed earlier this year doing research for her thesis. Even though it was cold, the walk was nice - every block we walked was lovely. I had the definite sense in exploring London of the prosperity that has been there for centuries. In countries that have tightened their belts on and off over the years, there are ten homely buildings for every pretty one. In London you have to look pretty hard to find eyesore architecture. At least, in the areas I saw in my short days there.

Needless to say, because we walked we showed up later than we had told Kim we would be. I felt guilty about this as soon as it occurred to me, but unfortunately that wasn't until we were at her door. Hugs and kisses later we followed Kim up to the second floor flat where she and Rich are living. It was beautiful and Anna and I could tell just by looking that the guest room bed was the most comfortable we'd had at least since leaving the states, if not ever.

It was early evening, but a few hours went by fast. We ate cheese with wine and swapped stories about living abroad. We hadn't been talking long when Rich came home, carrying a tray of cherry tomatoes. The four of us alternated between general talk and focusing on what Anna and I should see over our weekend. We finally settled on a tentative plan and filed off to bed after midnight. My eyes weren't deceiving me about that bed. It was pretty hard to peel myself out of it in the morning.

Coffee and a chat and it was about ten in the morning. Anna and I disembarked to rendezvous with a tour bus service in Trafalgar square. We took our time in this search, as I especially was still marveling at what was around virtually every corner I turned. When we did get on the bus, we were surprised to find a live guide, something we'd not seen in our other tour bus experiences. The sky was clear over the part of the route we followed, then we got off to snap pictures of the tower of London and board the boat for the next portion of the tour. The boat was heated with big windows, so we took a break drinking coffee and shedding our coats. The boat took us under London Bridge and past other interesting establishments, modern and historical, along the shores of the Thames.

After we got off the boat, we walked over to Westminster Abbey and did an audio tour there. It took a couple hours and it was fascinating. There are people buried under every suqare inch of that soil, it seems, the markers in the floor so dense you can't help but walk on them. The architecture was stunning. It certainly joins the growing list of places I can't describe well so soon after seeing them. I'll get back to you when I've had more time to process. For now, know that I was awed by it, happy to have the guidance of Jeremy Irons on my headset, and found a placard for Lewis Carroll in the Poet's Corner with my favorite Alice quote: "Is all life then but a dream?"

Anna and I then completed the bus tour and returned to the flat, where we had about an hour to relax before leaving for.....Wicked! First we had dinner at an Italian restaurant, where I ordered the most enormous calzone I've ever seen, and ate the entire thing without feeling uncomfortably full in the least.

Wicked was decided by totally random selections from a bowl, with Kim exercising an executive veto that took the form of throwing the piece of paper marked "Wicked" at me when it wasn't the one I drew. Though I had said I didn't care which show we went to, and I'm sure I would have loved any of them, I now can't imagine having seen something else. I have always enjoyed live theater, but I've never seen a "big" musical. And I've never had a glass of wine in my hand at the beginning of each act. It was a very spiritual experience, and since coming back to Ireland I have downloaded the entire soundtrack and listened to it five times.

On the walk back from the show, we saw evidence of a phenomenon we thought was only a myth: the underground urinal that magically rises from a man-hole cover at night. Not only had it ascended by the time we came to it, but it had an occupant. Trying to be polite and dignified, it wasn't until that gentleman finished his business that I skipped over to pose beside the enormous silver thing for a picture. In so doing, I bumped into the person on the other side who was still engaging the urinal for its intended purpose. Anyway, we got our picture!

Anna and I stayed up pretty late again; I felt bad for keeping our hosts awake, but since we only had a few days I wanted to spend as much time catching up as possible. Rich can perform quite the spectrum of British impersonations. Finding the differences and similarities between the experiences of one group of Americans in Europe versus another has been pretty fascinating.

Day two began approximately as did day one: coffee with Kim, and then dispersal. This was Anna's day to work on her thesis research at the national archives, so we went our separate ways. I felt little stress, surprisingly, at being by myself on the tube with my map. I probably couldn't have said the same thing in other places where I've used the underground, but in London the public transportation seems clean and secure. I'm also in love with London and knew it would do nothing to harm me.

I stopped at Tower Hill for the Tower of London, a place Anna and my cousins had both assured me I could spend hours. As soon as I followed the Yeoman Warder from the entrance to the chapel for my guided tour, I understood why. From the outside looking in it's hard to see that the Tower is in fact a series of towers, a fortress that has been built onto and redesigned in sections over the course of dozens of Kings and Queens' rule. I took my time and tried to see the highlights.

One of my favorite areas was the lawn where the ravens are kept. The story goes, roughly, that ravens were considered pests in the tower and the ruler of the moment made plans to have them disposed of. This was interrupted when a mystic prophecied that should the ravens go from the Tower of London, the White Tower would fall. Since then, ravens have been kept in the tower - there is even a Ravenmaster appointed to attend to them - and their clipped wings make certain they aren't going anywhere. Close to, ravens are beautiful, heavy birds that seem very powerful for their size. I watched one cleaning the moisture from his feathers with his beak (London was drizzling that day, which I understand is characteristic), and his deftness impressed me. He could curve his wing at the perfect angle to barely need to bend his head, and then tilt it just slightly to reach the next feather, working very quickly. He seemed to be more bothered by the precipitation than the other birds, who very possibly have realized that, be their feathers wet or dry, they aren't going to be flying anywhere. The oldest raven at the tower is Gwylum, who is a 20 year old male.

I checked my phone after about two hours and found a message from Anna. She hadn't been allowed into the archives without a driver's license, so she was headed early to our rendezvous point at the British Museum. She asked me not to hurry, and I didn't, but I was almost through every point I wanted to hit at the Tower, anyway. I got only moderately lost on the way to the museum. This time the tube stop wasn't a block away and I had to use my map, which wasn't so detailed that it identified the smaller side streets. Regardless, an hour later Anna and I were visiting the mummies in residence, the Rosetta Stone, and the Greek Parthenon. The British Museum is beautiful, enormous, and could absorb the historically-inclined for hundreds of hours. We spent about two there, and then we made our way out. I got a call from Kim and we planned to meet up in order to grocery shop for our belated Thanksgiving dinner. At Tesco, my friend from Ireland, we got all the supplies we could find and substitutions for the ingredients we couldn't. I also bought two giant tins of cookies that those gathering in Chanute Kansas for Christmas should begin to eagerly anticipate.

Cooking was fun, if not without mishaps. We had mashed potatoes, salad, bread, chicken kievs, and apple pie. Three of the five contained garlic, and all were delicious. Over the course of the weekend we drank quite a bit of red wine, but my favorite was from Friday night. I need to remember to ask Kim what it was.

To bed around 2 a.m., and I overslept the next morning. Apparently no one was offended, another hour of sleep was welcome. We had breakfast and Anna and I watched a movie on Kim and Rich's magnificent television, and then we set off for what was to become an interesting morning/early afternoon. First on the agenda: visit platform 9 3/4, because who isn't a Harry Potter fan? After the photo shoot there, we began looking for train tickets, but the machines weren't registering anyone's credit card, so we decided to try to buy them in person at the station. There were lines and confusion, though, and by the time we managed to buy the ticket, say farewell and bolt for the train, we missed it by about 33 seconds. Kim left Rich and her purse with the security people and they allowed her to come down to see if we'd made the train. We hadn't.

The next train would make us late to check in for our flight (Ryanair requires you check in 40 minutes before departure), so we decided to try to take the direct train after all. We got in a taxi, but with Saturday traffic, it took awhile for the driver to get us to the station. He dropped us off strategically and we ran again, this time making the train! Kim and Rich decided to come with us, just so they would know for sure if we made it or not. Some mental calculating informed us that we were going to be about five minutes late to check in even if the train was on time.

Apparently, Ryanair is VERY strict. We were there ten minutes late and they told us we could not check in. Rich generously offered to pay for our flight change, and we were already drafting plans for another night of fun - Thai food! - when we saw that the flight we were meant to take was delayed by over an hour! Kim thought that under these circumstances they might let us board late, so we went back to the check-in desk just to be sure. At first they said no, but then the nice clerk made a call, and they decided to let us on. I was relieved to find out later that Rich was able to get a refund on the flight-change fee, and the train tickets we didn't use!

Even though Anna and I were both a little relieved - Sunday was essential for both of us to rest up and start work on our respective school work - we were also disappointed not to have the additional day in the city with my wonderful cousins. The flight was short, we caught the city link bus back to Cork, and we were home.

Now, I face not a leisurely farewell week in Ireland but a hectic balancing act between class, writing my FIVE final papers, and visits to Spain and Scotland! If I had to pick something to be stressed out about, though, I guess this would be it.

Here are some photo highlights:
We took a bus tour, which was fun - there was a live guide who was pretty entertaining, and we were able to take in more over a shorter period of time. Plus, I like riding on the top of the double-decker buses!

The Tower of London - this picture is from the boat portion of our bus tour, but I went back the next day while Anna was at the National archives to walk through.
This is the Tower Bridge, which we were told tourists usually confuse with London Bridge. London Bridge is much less attractive, but it is the next one over.
Trafalgar Square was just a few minutes' walk from Kim and Rich's flat!

Obligatory Irish Pub Post

There has been no post in ten days!

Early in my blogging career, five days without a post was unheard of. Apparently I'm no longer held to that standard, or at least my small but beloved audience has given up mentioning period of blog neglect. As I've said before, there isn't that much that seems worthy of note these days - at least, these days when I'm in Cork. All of the day-to-day here is old hat to me now. I go to class, I grocery shop, I go out with my friends - but then I remembered that when these now mundane things were new, I thought they were good topics for blog posts. Now that I have been living here a few months, I take for granted

Unforgivably, I have not talked about Irish pubs on the blog, aside from what I'm sure are the occasional passing mentions.

Coming to Ireland didn't transform me into a brave and enthusiastic party girl, but just like always, I enjoy a night out now and again with people I like. Since I have no less than twelve fairly close girlfriends here, there is always someone with whom to "hit the pubs." The ambiance varies from one place to the next. Recently Anna, Hailey and I discovered Monday night table quiz at the Bierhaus, a place with a variety of German and other import beers. Table quiz is literally team responses to questions and the winner gets a prize - at Bierhaus, the winning team gets a sample tray of beers that looks like this:

You can see how excited Anna and I were by our victory. This win did not come without earlier defeat. We got one out of ten correct in the previous week's "Name The Monster" picture portion of the game. Nearly all of these so-called infamous monsters were in pixelated black and white, clearly hailing from the pre-Technicolor era. Trying to contribute to a more satisfying experience for everyone in the future, I left a note to the establishment, which I found the following week displayed on the wall near the table at which we sat.

Places like the Bierhaus close early and have regulars all afternoon, without a late rush. There's nowhere to dance and people go there as much to hang out with existing friends as to prey upon new ones. After stimulating the intellect with a round of quiz, it's time to find a "late bar," a place that stays open as long as legally possible. In Killarney, that was the Killarney Grand, where there was live music in the front room and dance music and a club atmosphere in the back.
If you're like me, dancing and loud music aren't that much of a "crack" (Irish slang for good time) and a more mellow atmosphere is appealing. At places like An Bodhran, we can sit and hear regular traditional music sessions or independent musicians in a lower key setting.
You can see me getting more tan as we go through these pictures...interestingly, they are in a reverse chronology!

Italy

Rome, Florence, and Venice, in that order

our first stop after getting off the plane: the coliseum!

museum portion of the coliseum's interior

camera trouble made this picture subpar, but still - you can see where the surface was - there's a reconstruction at the far end - as well as what's left of the chambers and hallways beneath it.

portion of the ceiling in the Vatican

one of the many hallways leading to the Sistine chapel

countryside beyond Florence, visible from the top of the Duomo
view from Ponte Vecchio
"view from the top" of the Duomo
Rachel, Anna and Hailey at the top!
view from the train station in Venice
the three of us after our Gondola ride!
view from the Gondolaone of the canals at night

We - myself, Anna, and Hailey - arrive in Rome at about 7:30 pm, Roman time. Our flight was long, and though Aer Lingus seems to be a much more legitimate airline than Ryanair, we are nonetheless testy and dehydrated because drinks cost a few euros per can. We take a train into the actual city, because no airport actually deposits its clientele in the city limits.

On the train we worry that we will not recognize our stop, but in our car there is a man who speaks very good English and is happy to reassure us. He then asks about our trip - how much time we have in Rome, etc. He makes travel and sight seeing suggestions, tssking that we expect to see any significant percentage of what Rome has to offer in only one day. I ask him if he's from Rome, and he tells me that he is not - he is recently moved there from Spain. His wife is Spanish. They have two daughters who speak Spanish better than he does, he admits, even though he has obviously been talking to his wife longer than they have. When he speaks Spanish to them, he says, they behave as though his butchering of the accent pains them; his eldest will wince, gesturing him to silence, and say, "Shut up, papa!"

He says it is better to start young, and that he puts movies on for them in English, just to begin accustoming them to it. I confirm that this means he and his wife speak in their respective languages; in his case, he responds to her Spanish with Italian, and vice versa. I am envious of this headstart at bilinguality his children are lucky enough to have. When we reach our stop he wishes us luck, and we have a pleasant first impression of Italian hospitality.

From the main train and bus station, we follow our simple directions to the hostel, where we check in and find our 8 person dorm room has no other occupants for the evening. We enjoy its spacious privacy for a while then ask for dinner recommendations at reception. The receptionist suggests we go just down the street, so we do, seat ourselves on the street, and before long a waiter in a tuxedo with a loosened tie appears.

He is very cute, I decide, in the classic Italian sense. He asks for my order first, and I say, "I would like the fettuccine zucchini."

Apparently this method of ordering amuses him. He laughs and tells me he likes the fettuccine also. "What do you like?" he asks Anna, still smiling, and she tells him. He agrees with her decision too, and before he can ask Hailey the same question, she says, "I like ravioli." We feel we have already made two Italian friends.

A British couple overhear our American English from the next table and we get to know them. The man has suggestions for cool places to hear bands, in Cork, and also in London. He and his wife have been in Rome several days and are frustrated by how much there is left to see. They also tell us that the food at this restaurant is the best they've had. We briefly talk politics and economics, topics I'm only newly familiar with, newfound knowledge I enjoy exercising. Then the food comes. Oh, the food. Oh, the wine - two euros for a glass! I am no food critic, but the sauce was heavenly, the zucchini perfectly tender...it is the best thing I have ever eaten, and my friends seem to feel similarly about their dishes.

The woman at the neighboring table mentions that Gabriel, the waiter, is easy on the eyes. We agree. We are speaking English but we have forgotten that Gabriel is drinking espresso from a tiny glass mug and smoking a cigarette nearby. When we pay the bill, he lingers at our table, grinning. "You like Gabriel?" he asks, reviving our private joke. We say that we do. He laughs and points at himself with his thumbs. "I am Gabriel!"

We tip him generously and head off - one of our goals before going to sleep is to see the coliseum at night, and we're told it's not a long walk. The sky is clear and it is warmer than it was in Ireland. We stop for gelati, which is a kind of concentrated and absurdly creamy ice cream, and marvel at the character of the city. It reminds me a little of Brussels, with the square style of the buildings, but the streets are wider, and if you look hard enough you can see evidence of its ancient origins: a crumbling wall here, the broken silhouette of a ruin on the horizon.

At night the coliseum is illuminated, easy to see from any distance, and as we approach it down the broad walled street I feel the ghosts of the Roman empire all around me. I know I am projecting, but I can feel the spectrum of emotion that this city witnessed: the brutality of the goings-on in the coliseum that fills an onlooker's vision, and the power and creativity of the society that designed such a magnificent structure, their attention to longevity. I am deeply impressed in a way I haven't been by other places, on a deep level conscious of the ancience of my species.

We get close enough to study the moon beside the columns, touch the pillars, stare between the bars into the dark recesses of the interior. Couples that look too fashionable to be just visiting are scattered about, kissing, talking, holding hands.

We walk back, get some much needed rest, and wake ourselves early to make the most of our partial day in Rome. We get a hop-on hop-off bus like we did in Brussels, and it takes us first to the Basilica. It is still sunny when we walk around the famous fountain and snap pictures of the largest church in the world, but a long line has already formed and we forego the walk-through, opting instead to make our way toward the Vatican and see the Sistine Chapel. The wait isn't long, and there's a student price for our tickets. We have been fooled before, though; often the student price applies only to young people of the European Union, so I ask what kind of identification is required to get the discount. I tell the ticket taker I am not from the EU, and he looks at me carefully and asks how old I am. I tell him I am twenty; sometimes I forget I am twenty-one. He says, "You are eighteen," and gives me a huge wink. I stutter, nod, and take my ticket. Anna follows suit. As she pays he points at me again. "How old are you?" "Eighteen!" I exclaim. He points at Anna. "Her too, eighteen!" He nods, seeming satisfied, and we have saved three euros each.

The Vatican is amazing. To study it all would involve days; I read the panels beside the images that really capture my eye and feel I'm shortchanging myself. The fruits of artists' labor coat every wall, every square inch of every beautifully vaulted ceiling, all washed in soft light by strategically concealed bulbs, illuminating the gold paint that recurs on every surface. In the series of hallways leading to the Sistine Chapel, I see intricate, detailed maps of European countries and provinces, biblical scenes, representations of famous clergy, and stunning tapestries.

In the Chapel itself, no photography is allowed and silence is encouraged. Security stationed about scolds the inevitable violators of the former rule, but for the most part people restrain themselves to a murmur if they speak at all. The crowds are huge, but I am mesmerized by Michelangelo's famous work above the altar, the scale, the way beauty and serenity of one figure transitions to horror and grotesque in the next. In fact, I can imagine the atmosphere as easily terrifying as soothing, which I suppose is kind of the point.

I hang out with the Catholic pigeons browsing for edible content on the steps at the exit for a while until Hailey and Anna join me, and we head back to our bus stop. It is raining now, and we are accosted by salesman who were earlier pushing tripods, souvenirs and post cards now brandishing plastic rain parkas and umbrellas. They are especially difficult to discourage in our case, probably because we are three of very few non-umbrella carriers.

Our next stop is the coliseum again; this time we pay to go in, and I'm glad we do. Even though the rain drives us under the eaves instead of permitting peaceful reflection of the might and age of the structure, we have fun using the flash to investigate the unlighted staircases that are still unrestored and therefore blocked off, wondering if some of them lead to the underbelly of the coliseum where doomed people and animals were stored before they faced doom before the crowds. Whatever original surface there once was in the center of the coliseum is gone, exposing the network of chambers and tunnels underneath. Anna mentions they used to fill the coliseum with water and stage naval battles inside it. Looking at its sheer mass, it isn't difficult to imagine.

In the museum portion, they have portions of the old marble colums and statues, the remaining few of the originally numerous. The coliseum, after all, was harvested for building materials by those who ruled Rome after its fall. We see "before" and "after" images of what records and accounts suggest the coliseum once looked like and how it is now. The grandeur, if they're accurate, was once palacial. I'm not sure whether I should be sad that it now wears this ugly, naked face. I think it is a more honest symbol of its former self in these battered clothes, considering the slaughter it saw.

It is time to go back to the hostel so we can catch our train to Florence. We don't board early enough to sit together on the crowded train until after a few stops. The view out the windows is dazzling, wet with rain, hills and vineyards increasingly numerous as we near Florence. At the next station, we are studying our directions to the hostel, printed off from an email that was written in broken English by the hostel staff, when another person wearing a backpack introduces himself. His name is Steve, he has an accent that could be British or could be Australian, I always struggle telling the difference, and actually he is wearing two back packs. One big backpacker's backpack over his shoulders, the kind that is roughly the size of the wearer, and a second, smaller one over his front. This means he is a Real Backpacker, and he is behaving like one, too: eager to talk, introduces himself right off. Real Backpackers have gotten over shyness countries ago and are making their way across the continent(s) in part to accumulate lists of interesting acquaintances made along the way.

Steve is staying at our hostel, so we put our heads together to figure out the directions. I forgot I have a map from our friends who stayed in the same hostel a few weeks before, the group who recommended it to us. I make small talk with Steve: where he's from (Australia, by the way) and where we're from (Kansas, Delaware, Missouri, by way of Ireland) and we arrive shortly at the hostel, which looks a lot like a hotel, complete with automatic doors. There's no line to check in, and before we know it we are upstairs in a less than private dorm this time. Anna and I identify "man shoes" next to the bed next to mine, and we are disappointed. We try to be open minded, but coed living situations are inherently awkward. I point out that the luggage by these bunk beds seems shared and some things draped on the upper bunk are definitely the possessions of a female. Maybe they are a couple. I'm not sure why that is supposed to make me feel better - do I assume all lone men are going to prey on sleeping roommates? I'm sure this assumption would offend Steve.

Anna and I change into a skirt and a dress, respectively - we have decided that for at least one night, we will not look like bums in a famous European city. We decide to familiarize ourselves with the streets just around the hostel and look for dinner. It is late, but we are happy to find a charming place that is still seating people at 9:30. We order two pizzas and a bottle of Chianti, since Chianti is like twelve miles from the table where we sit. The wine is fantastic and so is the pizza. We take our time, not feeling rushed since two more groups have come in after us and seem very local. They converse loudly with one another and the staff in Italian. Two small children roam the dining room unrestrained, occasionally returning to their chairs to pick at their food. A dog naps under its owner's table. We finish with tiramisu, tip well, and walk up to the river to see it in the moonlight before heading back to the hostel.

The next morning we drink coffee with biscotti in a little coffee bar cafe place. People file in and out, often standing at the bar to drink their coffee instead of sitting down. They take espresso like shots.

First order of business today is seeing the David at the Academic, hopefully to avoid the long lines projected by our travel guides. We are lucky; we are some of the first to enter the museum. We marvel at the David in the near-silence of the empty room. It is one of the more beautiful things I will probably see in my life, but I had especially anticipated seeing Michelangelo's "Prisoners," the incomplete statues found in his workshop, a series commissioned for a project in which they were meant to represent, ironically, how the soul is captured in the body. I had heard accounts of their power, that they seem to be struggling to free themselves from the rock, and represent well Michelangelo's famous philosophy about sculpture, that he was freeing the image from the marble, not creating but revealing.

By the time we have walked through the rest of the museum, it is choked with people and their heat and noise. We are glad we were able to experience the David in the relative solitude we had, and get back out on the street. We spend the rest of the morning doing a little shopping, walking through the very cool indoor market - like our English Market in Cork, but a little bit more amazing, I have to admit - and then make a pit stop at the hostel for a recharge and to check email to see what restaurant mom and Duane recommended from their stay.

Our next destination is the Duomo, and again we somehow miss the line. Maybe that has something to do with the almost 500 narrow stairs one must tackle in order to visit the top! We're talking original, sometimes spiral, sometimes ridiculously steep, medieval stone stairs that rarely provided a hand rail. We linger on the landings to catch our breath, laughing about the entrance fee being worth it for the workout. At one of these built-in resting places, there is a display of some of the original tools used to create the cathedral, which is crafted largely of marble and is beautiful and enormous. The cache of tools all seem too small to build a log cabin, let alone a towering stone work of art, and too flimsy to lift even one of the blocks of stone that make up most of the structure. What determined humans can accomplish with limited resources will never cease to amaze me.

The journey is worth it: the view from the top is stunning, and the sun has reappeared for the occasion. We take pictures, enjoy the cool wind, and enjoy the trip back down quite a bit more, snapping shots of one another and looking out the windows at the changing angle of the city below.

A few streets over, we eat at Za Za's, the restaurant my mother and stepfather frequented not too many years ago. The world is, ultimately, quite small. We are served the house wine in a decanter, as though it is available on tap, and it is the most wonderful tasting liquid I have ever had. We are given baskets of bread and a plate for oil and balsamic vinegar, so that we barely have appetites when our beautiful food arrives.

After dinner, we walk across the Ponte Vecchio, Florence's oldest bridge, clotted entirely with jewelry stores, and eat gelati at the gelaterria recommended by a friend of a friend who studied in Florence. We get the kind she recommended - cookies - and we are so blown away we go back in for second helpings. Then back to the hostel to rest up for another early morning and afternoon departure for Venice.

A night and another beautiful train ride later, we are unloaded facing the Grand Canal, and the third consecutive absurdly impressive place I've seen. We walk, gawk, getting a feel for the price of gondola rides and taking thousands of pictures of ourselves on and beneath bridges, by wide and narrow canals. We eat gelati again, then find our gondola. Nicolas is our gondaleer, and he has several silver eyebrow rings, but he is courteous and shares city history and geography with us at intervals, mostly leaving us to enjoy the peace and silence of the water. Even in a city bustling with tourists, there is a sleepy, contented age to the spaces just a street over from the main tourist draws. It is the nearest I will come to time travel, I imagine, to hear the row in the water, watch the ripples bounce off stone black with age and exposure, stare up at shuttered windows that decorate thousand-year-old living quarters, their shabby sturdiness a stark contrast to the intermittent gleaming stone and marble churches.

Enormous slices of pizza and a last moonlight stroll through the maze of streets nearest the station, and we board our bus to our hotel. Yes, a hotel! It is inexpensive probably because of how far it is from the actual city, but Italian public transportation makes it accessible for us. We take hot showers in our private bathroom and watch Walker, Texas Ranger with Italian voiceovers on our private television before drifting off.

Then: twelve hour journey back to Cork, most of that spent on the bus from Dublin to our fair city, and were welcomed back to Ireland on our walk from the bus station. While we were gone, the city put up the Christmas decorations. Through propped-open pub doors we can hear the distinct singing and strumming of traditional music. A car honks its horn enthusiastically and waves a Cork green and gold jersey out the window; apparently there has been some recent success in one of the many sports active at the moment. I marvel that all this distinct Irishness - even the beginning of a cold drizzle - alert the homecoming receptors in my mind, flooding me with contentment. While I wasn't paying attention, it seems, Cork has become my home away from home.

One week ago, back in America...

Thoughts on the Irish fascination with American politics, and the art of the law school applicant's personal statement

Hmm, who did Rachel vote for?!

Ever since arriving here in August, one of the first questions I'm asked by Irish people I meet is, "Who are you voting for?" My American friends and I have compared notes, and we concur that this is a loaded question. If you don't answer it correctly, you are immediately - and harshly! - judged. The nuances of American politics are common knowledge to many Irish persons my age, and while they're better informed than most college students I know from home, their bias is clear, too. In Europe, everyone is an Obama supporter, and has been since they first heard of him, which for many was some time ago.

The last couple of weeks have been exciting ones for me, though not without their tense moments. Since first writing furious notes in lieu of a journal entry in the evenings at the hostels in Belgium, the need to get my personal statement for my law school application has been looming. I wanted to express some "big ideas" without making some silly, pretentious declaration about intending to change the world. But the more I thought about my ambitions for myself, the more I realized that I do hope to change the world - at least in some small way. I think this is a common hope for people my age, and an important one.

Besides the preoccupation of the personal statement and the effort to absorb all I can from every minute of my time here, news of the campaign and the economy also vied for my attention. I was trying to read top New York Times stories every day from the web site, in addition to downloading the New Yorker's "Campaign Trail" podcast, NPR's "weekend wrapup" of US politics, and the daily "Planet Money" podcast with updates about the economy and background information on the collapse. In order to understand the dynamics of the election, I have had to do some legwork, too. How does Obama compare to Jimmy Carter? What are the patterns in McCain's voting history? What crazy accusation has one camp made against the other that I would like to check out before deciding to dismiss or believe it?

As it turned out, just trying to follow election coverage and actually know what was going on meant I had to do some research on the history of my country and the way its government functions. This in combination with the debriefing on American economics I was getting from the Planet Money podcast - hedge funds, the paper money market, naked short selling - and I felt like I was being introduced to the structure of my entire society for the first time. These aren't lessons I haven't sat through before, but in high school government and economics classes, I wasn't engaged in the material.

While I kept trying to shut off my curiosity about the goings-on at home so I could work on a two page summary of my positive personality traits, achievements, and aptitude for law school, I suddenly realized that my revolutions of thought and understanding were fuel for a good personal statement. I'm more confident than ever about applying to law school, and that has so much to do with my most recent experiences. Being away has been difficult in many ways, but probably none so much as forcing me to reexamine myself and my ideas about my part of the world.

One week ago, I stayed up until the early hours watching election coverage. I went to bed with Obama in an early lead, and woke up to a friend who crashed on the couch squealing from the living room. A moment later she leapt into bed with me. "He won! He won!" We hugged, and I started squealing too. There might have been some tears. On the Irish morning news, they rushed through the weather and essentials to spend the rest of the hour covering the election and its aftermath.

I know not everyone is happy with the election's outcome, including some of the people I most dearly love. But I'm unwilling to let my own excitement be dampened. I believe in my ability to weigh information against my own principles and cast a vote for myself, and I understand that this process is different for every individual and not everyone reaches the same conclusion. Such are democracies. I may be disappointed - my expectations of my president elect are quite high - and I may be an idealist whose perspective will change over time. All I know for certain is who I am today, and the effort I put in to making the most educated choice possible.

By the way - I think I know for certain who I am today! Did you catch that? I almost didn't. And then I realized that part of my joy over Obama's election was my confidence in voting for him, a decision linked to my recent effort to better understand the United States of America. So I sat down, and I wrote a draft of my personal statement. It wasn't easy, and it wasn't pretty, but a few days later I sent a draft to my mother and with her and Duane's help, it has become a piece of writing I'm proud to send to admissions committees.

I would like to publicly thank beloved Mimi, Popi and Aunt Patty for my most recent pieces of mail, including a festive Halloween card and perfectly appropriate bookmark (it instructs me to "Read in the Wildest Places!", which I have tried to do). Tomorrow I leave for Italy, and I will have highlights and photos to post when I get back early next week.

Germany

HALLOWEEN! (my haunted Chai Latte)

I see family! And continue to accumulate traveling experience

The German adventure began last Tuesday the 28th of October, when Megan and I took a bus to Killarney. Our flight from Kerry airport was so early that we couldn't get a bus there that morning, so after another evening in Neptune's Hostel, we took a taxi the additional twenty minutes to the airport. Kerry airport is tiny; it has two terminals and, as far as I know, services only Ryanair. I have a love/hate relationship with Ryanair; see Figure 1, below.

We arrived in Frankfurt the next morning and easily found our hostel, located just outside the bus/train station. Frankfurt is definitely a big city; one of the world's largest and busiest from what I understand. It was raining during both of our days there, and Germany in October/November, we also learned, is pretty cold! Megan and I spent Wednesday and Thursday seeing the city and having dinner at a couple of the many affordable restaurants. Wednesday night we ate at an Italian/Indian Specialty Restaurant. Confused and fascinated, we went in half expecting a new hybrid culinary form, but actually there was just a menu with an Indian and Italian half. We got by without any German fairly easily in Frankfurt. Most people spoke English, and many were no more German than Megan and I; at least in the area where we were, Frankfurt seemed very "international."

the main square in Frankfurt's "old city"

We also went to the Natural History museum, which was beautiful, and included replicas of several fossilized ocean creatures, the originals of which are on display in the Sternberg in Hays, Kansas! Here is one of my fellow Kansans in Germany:

Anna joined us Thursday night and we showed her the old City Center and had coffee before turning in early at the hostel (a coming post about hostel experiences will have more detail, but for a preview, see Figure 2 below).

First thing Friday morning, we went to the station to see about train schedules. Train tickets wound up being more expensive and time consuming than expected to buy, but it was a very pleasant approximately three hour ride, with a scenic detour along the Rein. This area is so beautiful, and with the dense deciduous forests that veil most of Germany in fall leaf, it was especially striking. Little towns crowded around beautiful cathedrals dotted the far riverbank, almost always with a restored or ruined castle overlooking them from the more defensible position of a peak overhead. For a stretch, it seemed like there was a castle every mile. On the intervening slopes were the yellow vines of out-of-season vineyards, sometimes on surfaces that were practically vertical they were so steep.

When we reached Bonn, our destination, we found a very different reception than in Frankfurt. Off the tourist path, Bonn's residents had less patience for our lack of German, and didn't take pains to ensure we actually understood their English instructions. I'm convinced most of them spoke more English than they wanted us to know! What we sorted out after resorting at last to asking taxi drivers to take us to our hotel address and being repeatedly refused, was that the hotel was not in Bonn at all. Though it listed Bonn as its address, it was actually in a neighboring town called Bad-Godesburg.

We eventually ascertained a route to Bad-Godesburg by public transportation; one train, one bus, and a brisk walk later, we found ourselves at the Hotel Ambassador Bonn, which aside from not being in Bonn at all, was a pleasant place to stay. Totally worn out by this point even though it was only late afternoon, we set our stuff down in the hotel and walked Bad-Godesburg, eventually just getting bread, cheese, wine and beer at the Aldi next door to our hotel and hosting our own carpet picnic in the room. I made a stop at an internet cafe to see what the plan was for meeting up with Kim and Rich...my cell phone was out of service, to my frustration, and I couldn't call them. We made tentative arrangements to meet the next day in Bonn, so Anna, Megan and I got to sleep early and woke up the next morning in time for a nice complimentary breakfast at the hotel.

Now comfortable with our route to and from Bonn, we were less stressed boarding the train and navigating the immediate surroundings of the main station in Bonn. I checked my email at another internet cafe, but eventually realized it might be better just to call Kim and Rich. We used a pay phone for this purpose, starting with one euro, and the call was successful. It was so great to hear Kim's voice! She told us that Lee left his "man bag" on the plane, which included his passport!, and that they were still at the airport waiting on a bus. I told her I knew how she felt, but then tried to rush to figure out what time we should meet them, since my friends were reaching past me to feed the phone change approximately every five seconds.

We camped out to wait and in another hour, Kim appeared on the main station's front steps. I waved; we hugged; I introduced her to my friends and we went back inside to find Rich. United not only in physical place but also in our German travel complications, Kim and Rich treated my friends and me to a great lunch. Rich has retained an impressive amount of German from high school classes and the wait staff at the restaurant seemed pleased by his effort to use their language. I was glad to see the softer side of some German citizens. Then we set ourselves to finding their hotel and then transportation to Aunt Terry and Lee's show.

At this point it's probably necessary to mention that Rich has some kind of handheld supercomputer with GPS capabilities, and that he admits to often being dependent upon its powers. Apparently Germany and its weather confused the GPS, and as a result we followed the computer down a four lane highway in the rain before resigning ourselves to its fallability and realizing Aunt Terry's show was supposed to begin in 20 minutes. Luckily, Rich was brave enough to cross the street at the sight of a large vehicle that seemed to be for hire, parked by the median of the closed-off lane. We watched Rich stand outside the driver's side window, wondering whether he was negotiating fare or asking directions, and then he gestured us over.

Apparently our van was some kind of restaurant shuttle, and the driver was between appointments. We piled into the ample seating - it had to have a 15 passenger capacity - and Rich rode shotgun, and after a few miles Anna turned to me and said, "Rachel, we're headed toward Bad-Godesburg!"

Not only were we headed toward Bad-Godesburg, we were headed to Bad-Godesburg! Not only were we headed to Bad-Godesburg, but we passed Hotel Ambassador Bonn (of Bad-Godesburg) en route, and as it turned out, the venue was only a few blocks from it.

Marveling at this coincidence, we piled out and thanked the driver repeatedly, hurrying to avoid tardiness, and Aunt Terry met us at the door.

The show was great; intimate audience size, great music, and even a Day of the Dead ceremonial demonstration by a Mexican dancer in full costume. Of course for me the highlight was the chance to see and talk with Aunt Terry and Lee, as well as see them in action. It was the first time I had heard Aunt Terry's flute in person, and it was truly beautiful, in my amateur listening opinion the perfect compliment to Chucki's singing and guitar. At one point I was somehow brought into the stage area to play a drum; luckily the little girls I stood up with were good at keeping rhythm and when I started to get off, they would each rattle their instruments louder to correct me.

lovely Chucki at the show; I tried to take pictures of Aunt Terry, but the guy in front of me had his head in the way. :(

the German-speaking Mexico City native in his ceremonial dress for Day of the Dead

Kim and Rich in their boundless generosity hung around Bad-Godesburg after the show to take my friends and me for a drink and tapas. We had two rounds and traded funny "Americans abroad" stories, then discussed visits to London. Megan and her dad are making one this weekend, and Anna and I were invited for Thanksgiving with Kim and Rich! (If you're reading this, Kim, I hope you were serious, since Anna and I booked our flight!)

We began to walk Kim and Rich to the train station, but they opted for a cab on the way. We said our farewells and headed back to the hotel, and it wasn't long before we were out cold.

We woke up at about 5:30 so that we could be at the train station on time, and thus began the return journey from Hades.

Honestly, the German part all went according to schedule: we took a train to Koeln, snapped some pictures by the cathedral, then waited for our bus shuttle. Took the two hour bus (actually lovely weather and lots of countryside - and some wind turbines! - made this ride pleasant) and got the airport an hour and forty-five minutes before our flight. Which was good, since after check-in we spent a long time in the security line as people who were about to miss their flight were pulled out of line behind us and put in line in front of us. Anyway, we boarded and flew back to Kerry airport without incident.

Tiny Kerry airport on a Sunday is a tricky place to leave in a hurry. We had to wait an hour for the shuttle to Killarney in order to meet up with the regular bus line of Ireland, and we pulled into Killarney's bus station just as our bus was pulling out. So, we had to wait another hour for the next bus to Cork. Exhausted, we lugged our back packs around the shopping center and ate ginger snaps. The bus, when it arrived, was almost full to capacity, which meant sitting by strangers and a lot of background noise. I had my iPod handy, but some of my traveling companions weren't so fortunate: Megan was sitting next to a guy who watched/listened to his cell phone the entire time with the sound on speaker.

A long hour and a half later, we were back in Cork. It was cold but clear, and we hoofed it at speed back to the Apartment building, said our good byes, and collapsed. It was almost exactly twelve hours after we had gotten on the train that morning in Bad-Godesburg. International travel still startles me: two countries, five cities, one day.