Happy Anniversary!
Last time I wrote, it was raining. This time, well, it still rains occasionally.
But less and less every day. For the past two months, I've been exploring Ireland.
At times with a backpacker tour, and at times on my own. Who knew there was
so much to see in such a small country? Myths and Legends, Giants, Heros, Martyrs,
and of course, Leprochauns.
Giants are the reason for the Giant's Causeway in
Northern Ireland that stretches all the way to Scotland. There's no other explaination.
Who else would have -- or could have --made these rocks look like this, and
sit in this formation, and then do the same all the way over there on the Scottish
coast? Sometimes the easiest explaination isn't always the wrong one.
The Burren,
in the Northeast. So clearly a Leprochaun habitat that in my mind it's no longer
a question of whether or not they exist, it's a question of why can't I see
them? Obviously they live here. Why won't they come out and play with me? I
mean you no harm! There are even small Leprochaun headstones for the ones who
have passed on to the little shamrock field in the sky. Over the Rainbow, and
safe from those trying to steal their pot of gold. Personally, I didn't spend
too much time searching for the gold. But I'll admit, I was after their Lucky
Charms! No such luck, though.
Derry, Northern Ireland. The Bloody Sunday Memorial.
The Hunger Strike Memorial. The Murals on the walls. I wonder how there will
ever be peace in this part of the world when children walk to school every day
reminded of the violence by the paintings on the buildings. Idolizing the Martyrs.
Glorifying the fight. Painted images of guns right outside a bedrooom window,
or surrounding a football field like giant ghost fans pleading to keep the game,
the violence, alive. I've been in Ireland for two months now, in and out of
Northern Ireland, taking tours and learning the history, and I'm just starting
to figure out what all the fighting is about. Just another part of humanity
trying to make sense of the paradox of war.
Back down south in the Republic,
we stopped at Blarney Castle, where I kissed the Blarney Stone. Me and about
500 others before me that day. I hope I didn't catch anything (the Stone was
damp with the kisses of those who went before me when I pressed my lips to it.
Eww!). All of us hoping to recieve some of the powers offered by the stone.
According to legend, kissing the stone (while hanging upside down) will give
you the "gift of gab." The ability to talk flatteringly to anyone
you meet. My, that's a nice shirt you have on. I really like the way the green
and orange swirl together to bring out the brown in your eyes. You should have
seen the line of people waiting to snogg this rock!
Doolin, in the West. The
Trad Music capitol of Ireland. Sat in the pub (the only one) and took in the
tunes. I probably could've stayed longer, but the five mile hike to the nearest
internet cafe was just too much. Besides, I had things to do.
Now off the backpackers
tour, I found my way to a town more or less in the middle of Ireland called
Thurles (pronounced tur-liss) where I had one of the most sureal experiences
of the past year. Thurles, you see, is home to a place called the Dwan Brewery.
How cool is that?! I walked in, took a seat at the bar, and ordered a pint of
Dwan's Irish Stout. And as the bartender poured, I noticed that the tap was
set right beside the one for Guiness. As it should be. I noticed a firefly zipping
around the pub, but paid it no mind until it nailed me in the back of the head
as I took my first sip. What an interesting sensation.
There are five different
types of Dwan to choose from... Let me rephrase that, there are five different
types of Dwan BEER to choose from. An Dubhain (The Dark One) 5% ABV. Black Pearl,
a Stout, 4.3%. Rich Ruby, an Ale, 4.6%. Cool Amber, a Pilsner 4.3%. And Silver
Frost, what they call an American Style Lager, at 4.1%. I tried three of the
five. The other two were not offered. But still, the only thing cooler then
three pints of Dwan would be if they decided to call one of them Dwanimal Ale
(or maybe even DwanimAle!). But somehow, I don't see that happening. At least
not just yet. If you'd like more information on Dwan's Pub/Brewery (to which
apparently I am no relation) then go to this website: www.dwan.ie (editor's note: This website is no longer active)
A few days later in a town called Carrick on Suir, I found my homeland. The
underlying reason for the whole lengthy excursion to Europe. Find the headstones
of the Ancestors. And there they were, in the churchyard. Repaired at some point
by someone. Edward and Catherine Dwan. My great, great, etc. grandparents. Laid
to rest, up on the hill overlooking the town and the grassy green countryside.
Quiet, with clean air. It was nice to see that my roots are dug into such a
picturesque landscape, even if it does rain once in a while. It was also nice
to see that threre was actually a headstone to see, as many of the stones from
that time have fallen over, been rendered illegible by erosion, or simply stolen
for use as building materials. To find an intact Stone, still able to be read,
and still standing is quite a remarkable find. And I found it!
Just about that
time, my six months in the UK was up. So to avoid another international misunderstanding
like the one I encountered when I flew from Norway to England (see "Look
Ma, I'm an International Felon"), I decided to leave the country. And since
technically I never entered the Republic of Ireland (I flew into Northern Ireland,
which is part of the UK) according to my passport, which they never stamped
when I crossed the border into the Republic, I decided to play it safe and leave
the country from the same place I flew into. Back to Northern Ireland for a
quick flight to Holland. The perfect excuse to visit a certain dark-haired,
light-eyed Dutch girl I met in Scotland. Besides, April 30th was Queens Day
in Holland. Yet another celebration I just happened to be present at. I've told
you before, I don't plan to be at these things, they just sort of happen around
me.
But in other news, May 8th marks an anniversary for me. One year ago, I
was packing a bag and telling my friends that I might be gone for as long as
four months, six at the most. A year ago I thought Europe was a big place. Until
I landed in Geneva I had only ever dreamed of going to Switzerland. I never
thought I'd meet the people I did. I didn't think they'd affect me the way they
did. One year ago, I thought it took a certain type of person to just pick up
and leave everything behind and just wander around with no real plan.
That was
a year ago. 12 months and 22 countries later Europe is much smaller then it
was before, and the world is much closer.
It's been a busy year. I've seen a
lot. I've done a lot. I've been homesick. I've been in and out of love. I've
been kicked out of Europe and told not to come back for two years. Only to find
out three months later that they didn't really mean it.
I've been closer to
the Equator then I'd ever been before. I've been north of the Arctic Circle.
Skinny dipping in Italy, and rolling naked in the snow in Finland. I was in
England when Princess Margaret died. I was in Ireland when the Queen Mother
died. And I was in Holland when Pim Furtyun was shot.
Then, like a firefly to
the back of the head, something unexpected happened. A few weeks ago, I woke
up and felt like I hadn't really been gone for that long. I've never been away
from my friends and family for more than six months in my life. It's been twice
that since I've seen some of my oldest and best friends. Yet somehow, it doesn't
seem like that long ago that I was packing my bag and wondering how many pairs
of socks I should bring, or if I should even bother to pack any winter clothes.
The second most common question I get asked these days via email (after "where
are you now?") is "where are you going next?" Well, I'm on my
way there now, actually. Trouble is, I can never seem to get there. Because
once I get there, I'm here. Meaning 'there' is somewhere else. But I'm determined
to get there somehow. Meanwhile, I'll just be heading Out There.
And that was
going to be the end of the letter this month. Until I flew back into Northern
Ireland from Holland today. And that's when it happened again. The lovely folks
at Immigration didn't seem to think I had a good enough reason for coming back
to Ireland after I'd already been there. After three months, I must have seen
everything. Why could I possibly want to come back? Geez, where's your national
pride guys?
Note to Self: Don't write 'unemployed' on that little survey slip
they give you at the passport check. And then don't tell them that you don't
have any money!
This time I was searched. They went through my day pack, my
bum-bag, my beloved CDs, and he even skimmed through my journal! I felt so violated!
I guess that's what I get for being honest. Yes, I've been here before. No,
I haven't been working. Yes, I plan to stay for a few months. No, of course
I don't plan on working on the sly at a small town pub. That wouldn't be right.
Somehow, I was granted entry! Although, I don't think I would have granted myself
entry if I was in his shoes. I was having enough trouble believing what I was
telling him, and I was the last person I should've been doubting!
So now I've
got one month in Northern Ireland (where I plan to spend exactly one DAY), and
then three months in the Republic, provided I get the appropriate stamp on my
Passport. And remember, NO WORKING. Hmm, where have I heard that before? I wonder
if they'll forget about this one too...
Props to My Peeps, and Peace on the
Mothership,
Chris