"My Goodness! My Guinness!"

Guinness is sweeter here, still dark but much more smooth. I have to choke it down at bars in the U.S.--actually, I just refuse to drink it altogether. But it's gorgeous here, more like a meal that you sit down to and enjoy for for hours, often only having one extra helping or so. Clarenbridge Oyster Festival is an annual tradition in Ireland. One will pay an entrance fee of around 100 euro and can spend the entire day eating as much seafood and consuming as much Guinness as he can handle. Typically the temptation is to drink pint after pint so as to get his money's worth, but apparently this isn't the way to go about it. Eammon, my tour guide, says that one should sip the first pint, making it last up to an hour, and allow the drink to line the inside of your stomach. "After that, you're grand." He claims that a single person can consume 35-40 pints of Guinness if he commits to this strategy. The entire bus of tourists gasped in amazement. I'm pretty sure Eammon knows this from experience...

It's no secret that the Irish take their drink seriously. When it comes to coffee, they dump vast amounts of milk and sugar and couldn't care less about the quality. In general, the Irish care more about quantity than quality, and they've inherited some of the American sizes (still waiting on "Big Gulps," though "Supersize" and "Triple Angus" have made their way here). But when it comes to the spirits, they demand both quantity and quality, beer and whiskey being their areas of expertise.

The pub scene is classic here, and in smaller towns, offers a sense of nostalgia. An Irish lad I know (Dave) claims the only thing good about the cold Irish weather, is that it beckons the community into the pups. Here, they escape the wind and the rain, and allow drink and fellowship to warm their chilled bodies. "Oh! That's the best-like. It's so cozy-like. Ya know?"

I respect the traditional pup, the kind I sat in all evening during a short stay in Dingle. Irish folk music floating around a casual crowd, a friendly bartender who pours a good pint and keeps the conversation going...

Unfortunately, I am studying in Cork, a larger college town in Ireland that has lost much of it's traditional beauty. Instead, they've been taken over by American businesses and loads of exchange students; the clubs have taken over. Inside these, one can't tell whether he is in Ireland or America. To Irish students this is a good thing (as they seem to express a huge desire to go to the States), but to someone attempting to experience a different culture from her own, it was a bit disappointing. There are still some pretty old fashioned places scattered about Cork, but by the time I found them, I had given up on drinking.

Currently, I am about to hit the 3-month mark, meaning I only indulged for about 1 month before needing to stop. I didn't feel safe or under control. I was spending too many euros and leaving the bars unsatisfied. As I prepare to go home, I know many will expect crazy stories from the Irish pub scene (I feel that many people have built up this vision of the typical Irish drinker, and they're probably pretty accurate), but I won't have many to tell. In one sense, I look back and feel as though I missed out on some opportunities to engage with the culture, but thats not what this trip of mine was entirely about. I sacrificed some good fun (slightly ridiculous and risky at times) so that I could test my character and respect myself more. To a certain extent, this trip has showed me that I am capable of growing up, committing myself to resistance and feeling good about my achievement. Maybe 3 months isn't that impressive, but it's my personal accomplishment, and I don't regret any of the "missing out" that may have happened. I still speak fondly of the traditional Irish pup, and I'll never be satisfied with a Guinness in the States because I know now that it doesn't travel well and that it tastes so much better in its home country.

P.S. My last night in Ireland officially makes it 3 months of "going without." I might have a pint to celebrate, but haven't decided if that's just too much of a contradiction...

Ready or Not, Here I Come...

Haven’t written in awhile—haven’t been inspired to. I need to write about Barcelona and London, but don’t feel up to the task quite yet. Eventually, though.

My countdown widget says that I have exactly 11 days, 17 hours, 8 minutes, and 8 seconds as I begin writing this. It’s hard to believe that my time here is almost finished. The first night I spent in Ireland was intimidating, to say the least. I looked at the twin bed in my new flat and started crying. How could this be home? Back then, four months seemed like a lifetime, and I wasn’t quite sure what I had gotten myself into. But here I am, reclining in a bed that has taken my shape and realizing that I have truly come to love this place. I suppose the beginning stages of reflection are just starting to settle in.

I don’t know if I can honestly articulate why I decided to leave the States and study in Ireland. Part of me believes I signed up for it “just because” and went along with the plan until, before I knew it, I had packed a giant suitcase and boarded the plane. Now that the experience is almost over, I recognize just how much this somewhat “four-month-long holiday” meant to me. It has been a break from routine, a place for discovery, and a time for growing up. I can’t tell you how I’ve changed exactly, but I imagine the ways in which this experience has influenced me will continue to reveal themselves even long after I have returned, probably during moments when I least expect them to.

I’m going to start packing next week. I’ll turn in final papers and take pictures of everything in Cork that I know I’ll want to remember. Most of those will be things that I pass on a daily basis—things I hardly even notice anymore. The three skylights placed throughout the apartment, the two orange couches in our living room; unofficially, one is hers and one is mine. I pass a dark stairwell and a purple doorway on my walk to church every Sunday. I might miss the little black and white dog that hangs around Gratton Street, and the cute elderly man who walks his dog everyday across campus. The English Market and Café Depeche. If I have not already written about them, I hope to “photo document” these things and revisit their affect at a later date.

Home brings seemingly less opportunities for foreign travel as I will find myself tied down to a job and school. I’m scared to go back mostly because I am scared of not moving. If anything, I hope to remember how a lifestyle of freedom tasted and try my hardest to weave it into the realistic life that is waiting for me. Find that balance of American efficiency and Irish patience, and find ways to truly enjoy living no matter where I am. Although I am returning to obligations and a tight schedule, I am most importantly returning to the people who give my life meaning. Engaging in those relationships once again is what kept me from extending my time here an extra semester. I love them even more now that I know what it is like to be far away from them. The disconnection between us, that is due to the Atlantic Ocean and the six-hour time difference, will be over soon enough—over in 11 days, 16 hours, 9 minutes, and 35 seconds. I think I am ready.