Irish Pub

Last night, Kate, Steven, and I went to the pub around the corner for a pint of Guinness. And when I say around the corner, I mean walking through the fields 20 minutes on back roads (though really we drove there and walked back).

I had my first pint of Guinness ever in a Irish bar, where older men congregated to talk about their days with the graying man behind the bar. Steven (Kate's new boarder), Kate, and I sat in the corner to drink the dark bitter beer (with a aftertaste similar to that of coffee) that Kate bought. (Pictures will follow as Kate was insistent that my first Guinness be documented)

I was outmatched when it came to drinking beer, as both Kate and Steven soon downed one pint and started on their seconds. But the memorable point of the evening was not having Kate tease me about being a lightweight, but rather the lively debate on philosophy and religion that was tossed back and forth between a man who was skeptical of evolution and a woman who doesn't trust organized religions (I do admit that at certain point I was afraid that one or the other might reach the tipping point to anger; fortunately, this did not occur).

In the end, it was a notable Irish experience, and I'm glad I waited to have my first pint of Guinness in here.
Sláinte! (To your health!) 

A thought

There is this moment where you reflexively reach for the camera. But something stops you--a heaviness in the chest, a tightening at the back of the throat, a tickle behind the eye--and you realise that any picture resulting from this moment could not hope to capture the elusive quality that makes it so... unique. A pixelated representation would only detract from the originality; would dull the memory that you would be seeking to remember.

So you breathe deeply, each breath deeper then the last, thinking that somehow if you only breathe deeply enough you might breathe in the moment--the view, the taste, the smell, the perfection that lives only in that moment.

And then, as quickly as it dawned upon you, it leaves you. The light leaves, the smells mute, you are pulled back to a reality where the sweatshirt on your back leaves you just a tad bit too warm.

And you can never go back.

No medium could ever capture what it was, so you are left with regret. And a calming bath of contentment comes from knowing that if you had tried to duplicate it you would have ruined it completely.

In the Kitchen

Good news for those of you who waited with bated breath to find out how my apple pie was... it was a success. I even got to participate in Irish hospitality when two neighbors dropped by and were invited to partake of tea and and pie, which they polished off pretty quickly, if I may say so myself.


A little tip for those Americans who are looking for another way to eat their pie without ice cream: here one of the ways to eat pie is with a dollop of Greek yogurt. Kate put a dollop of 10% Greek yogurt on a piece of pie, which I have actually found I enjoy more than the ice cream. It complements the apple pie without being too sweet.

I have been spending a lot of time in the kitchen as Kate's been busy at work (her other job in the city). Below are two of the recipes that I've been fooling around with. Warning, these are not professional recipes, so be cautious if you do attempt to try them out.

Variation on Fiona's Simple Lentil Shepard's Pie (Vegetarian)

Note: Fiona is one of the moms who visited Kate this past weekend, and I really liked her version of a vegetarian Shepard's pie. I tried to remake it and this is what I created.
(Serves 6)

1 cup lentils
1/2 can plum tomatoes in tomato juice (can is 15 oz.)
1 medium onion
1 cup vegetable stock (or one cube of vegetable stock dissolved in 1 cup boiling water)
8 medium potatoes
1/2 cup cream
tablespoon of butter
mild cheddar cheese (optional)

Preheat oven to 375 degrees F (190 degrees C).
Rinse lentils. Bring about 2 cups of water to boil and add lentils. Simmer for 20 minutes.
Add plum tomatoes, tomato juice, onion, and vegetable stock. Simmer until lentils and onions are tender and mixture is not too runny. Salt and pepper to taste. Spoon heated mixture into casserole dish.
Make mashed potatoes with potatoes, cream, and butter (Boil potatoes until tender. Mash with a little bit of water, cream, and butter.  Salt to taste.) Smooth mashed potatoes over lentil mixture.
Add grated cheese to cover mashed potatoes. Bake for 15-25 minutes or until cheese is melted (or if you made it without cheese, until potatoes start to brown).

Simple Zucchini Tomato Cream Curry with Vegetable Rice and Feta Cheese

Note: This was really good made with fresh zucchini (called courgettes here in Ireland) which Kate and I got from the garden. The dairy here is also produced locally (there is a Wexford brand that boasts that you are never farther than 10km from the farm where your milk originated), so the cream was especially nice as well.
(Serves 1-2)

1 medium Zucchini
1/2 can of plum tomatoes in tomato juice (can is 15 oz.)
1/2 cup cream
mild curry spices/powder
1 cup brown rice
1 cup vegetable stock (or one cube of vegetable stock dissolved in 1 cup boiling water)
feta cheese

This is the garden where I got the zucchini.

Saute brown rice in olive oil for 1-2 minutes. Add 3 cups water and 1 cup vegetable stock. Bring to boil then simmer until rice is tender (add water until then, but be careful because you don't want to end up with runny rice).
Saute sliced zucchini in olive oil. Add tomatoes and tomato juice. Simmer until zucchini are tender. Add cream and curry spices to taste.
Serve rice, covered with curry, topped with feta cheese.

Fresh Apple Pie

It's fall in Ireland. And that means that the leaves that were green when I arrived two and a half weeks ago are either a bright yellow or a dirt brown and they are starting to fall on the ground. The days are also getting damper, the morning dew lasts till about 9 am, when it becomes a drizzle. On a good day we get a  couple of hours of sunshine in the early afternoon. They are saying that we might get some snow as soon as October.
But I don't mind this weather. Compared to the bleak winters of Ohio, this is a piece of pie.

Speaking of pie, I made one this afternoon. Ask anyone who has ever picked apples from apple trees knows, apples are harvested in the fall. And while there are many uses for these apples (cider, crisps, alcohol, etc.) my favorite still remains apple pie. I harvested the apples from Kate's trees a couple of days ago, and today I took a couple of hours to peel, cut, and sugar some apples for the pie. It was an interesting experiece as for the first time in my life I made an apple pie without a specific recipe. This is because not only is Kate's recipe book collection lacking, but she doesn't seem to have any measuring utensils.

This morning I pulled on a pair of Wellies over my socks to keep my toes dry on my walk with Chica. And tonight, when I get back from an afternoon walk to Tintern Abbey with her, I expect to enjoy a slice of apple pie and ice cream. Hope the weather is fine wherever you are, and if it's not, then I hope that your taking proper advantage of the weather to bake something nice.

Shaking up the Routine

It is weird to think that I've been in Ireland for over two weeks. Even through when I got here I never thought that it would become routine, I've found that my days on the farm has fallen in to a facsimile of a routine. It is time to shake up the routine, and find a new one.

This trip wasn't about finding routine, it was almost about avoiding it (at least in the form of a 9 to 5 job). I wasn't ready for routine, instead I wanted adventure. And though I'm a bit nervous about my new hosts in Ireland, I recognize that every time I change hosts I'm bound to be nervous (and as far as being wary of strangers when I stay in their houses, nervousness is good).

Tomorrow, I start packing my newly laundered clothes up in my backpack, adding the bits of things that I've picked up from my time in Co. Wexford.

Sigh

...of relief? ...at the silence?

All I know is that the kids are gone, my feet are propped up, and I have a cold beer in my hand... and a jar of Nutella that I am eating with my fingers.

Life, right now, is good.

Chica's Birthday Weekend

Up until a couple of months ago I hadn't babysat since I was 18. The last summer before college I spent babysitting a young boy in the neighborhood. But I stopped working that job before the summer was over because the stress of working, packing for college, seeing my mother move to Omaha, and saying good-bye to all my friends was a bit to much for my emotional health (this was also the summer that the vague "anxiety disorder" made itself known).

And although many of my friends in college took babysitting jobs to make a little extra money to fund late night hang outs (read: beer runs), I decided that I would rather work part-time for the school (in the Alumni office and in the school cafeteria, as well as notetaking with the Diabilities office for awhile).

To make a couple of extra bucks towards this trip over the summer, I worked as a nanny. For 4 weeks I worked 8:30 to 4:30 with two young boys, aged 18 months and 3 years. And for 2 and half weeks after that I worked part-time for 3 kids, ages 6, 11, and 15.

Let me tell you working with kids is no picnic (not that you parents out there aren't aware of this already) . It also makes me think about how far I've come from being a kid. Though I would hesitate to label myself "grown-up" (I still sneak cookies, refuse to clean my room, and wonder what I'm going to be when I "grow-up"), I would also like to think that I'm no longer a kid. And it is not just because I no longer have a bedtime (though it gets harder and harder to stay up pass midnight when I have to be up and outside working at 8).

And you might be saying to yourself, Interesting, but what does this have to do with Ireland or your trip, Elaine? (Well, maybe you aren't saying Interesting, but my train of thought started with the summer before college, so you'll just have to bear with me.)

For the past three days I have spent most of my time around Irish kids aged 3 to about 16. There were 17 of them over at Kate's house this weekend to celebrate Chica's brithday, because although Kate doesn't have children of her own, she is aunt or honorary aunt to countless kids. These kids ranged from the family of a young boy and twin girls who biked down the lane from the house across the fields for the afternoon yesterday to the 4 year old triplet boys who drove down from beyond Dublin (about 3 hours away) late Friday night and who are still here as I write this.

There are times when they drive me crazy, with their noise and crying and messes. And then there are other times when we build block towers as tall as they are, and I can't help but laugh as they knock them down. I alternate between thinking that kids are the best playmates in the world to wondering why anyone would ever have kids in the first place (though, Mom and Dad, I am eternally grateful that you decided to!).

The minor difference between the kids here and the kids at home are questions like "Are you from America? I've heard people talk like you on TV" and  "Do you live close to the White House? Have you met the President?"

I think the major difference between the kids here this weekend and the kid I was is not their lilting accents (which might actually make them cuter then any kids I've met before), but their view on the world. I don't remember when I realized that there was a world beyond my little universe, but I think it came later in life. The kids here are exposed to American and Australian TV. And they are taught the histories of other countries in school (not the history of the UK, but that is a whole other blog post). And they go to Europe for school breaks. And some of their parents aren't Irish. And it is sort of understood that when they finish school they will look for a job in Australia, or England, or the States, because there aren't very many jobs here.
They know from a very early age that the world is much bigger than Ireland.

I first went out of the United States when I was 11. And then my view of the world expanded that much more. But these kids are not even 10, and their worlds are only slightly smaller than mine. At one point this weekend, I was called on by a child named Sara (age 11) to show her where Ethiopia was on a map. and I noticed a nine year old girl was reading a book on Frida Kahlo de Rivera. I'm ashamed to admit that I didn't even care where Ethiopia was until I was in 8th grade, and was required by Human Geography to memorize the countries in Africa on a map. And I don't remember recognizing Frida until a library trip that same year.

So, Elaine, what is your conclusion and what does it have to do with Ireland and your trip?

My conclusion is that people in Ireland, not just kids, are aware of the world in a way that I only recently started to develop. And part of this trip is figuring out just what my perspective of the world is and my place in it. So maybe, with its broad perspectives on the world, Ireland was a good place to start.

Roasted Beets

I have never really been a fan of beets. Though, to be quite truthful, I've only really had them pickled or raw. Kate introduced me to this way of preparing beets that renders them crispy on the outside, tender on the inside, and a bit sweet overall. If you don't like beets, but have never tried them this way, I suggest you try it out.

Roasted Beets

Boil raw, unpeeled beets until they are the consistancy of pickled beets (fork goes in and out of them easily, they are easily cut, or when squeezed they feel like slightly overripe tomatoes). The water should be red (be careful when pouring it out, this is what some people used to dye their clothes redish-pink with).

Peel skin from beets and refrigerate.

When beets are cool, preheat oven to 375 degrees F.

Remove beets from fridge and cut into slices which are about 1/8 to 1/4 inch wide, 1/2 inch across, and 1 inch tall. Mix with Olive Oil until beets are covered and then arrange the pieces on a baking sheet. Place in oven for 20 minutes.

Take beets from oven and mix them with a spoon. Add salt and pepper to taste.

Put tray back in oven for 10 minutes or until they are the desired consistancy (for crispier beets, put tray in for up to 20 minutes).

Eat warm beets over lettuce salad (I had one that was lettuce, tomatoes, parmigiano, green olives, hommus, and cucumbers, with olive oil and Rosso (red wine) vinegar, with the beets that was really very good).

Kate says that she really enjoys these beets in a salad of goat cheese, rocket lettuce, and some type of olive oil vinaigrette.

If you try it, let me know what you think!

Halfway through First Visit

It is Wednesday night, 10:02 pm here in Ireland. But back on the east coast of the United States it is 5:02 pm. Exactly two weeks ago today, I was near Central Park, excited about the adventure I was about to embark on.
You would have thought by now, some of the excitment would have worn of. Or that maybe I would be less nervous about the adventures I'm going to have. But no; I'm still excited, still nervous.
I'm about halfway through my time here with Kate (been here a week and a half) and in another week and a half I will probably be heading to Wicklow County, Ireland (about 40 minutes south of Dublin) were I will spend a month helping take care of competition and rescued horses on a family run farm.
I haven't been near a horse in about 5 years, since my summers away at camp, where I took horseback riding pretty seriously for a city girl. I'm excited to meet some new horses. And maybe ride one or two if the owners are amenable.
As much as I love it here at Kate's, I am ready to see more of Ireland.

Potatoes

Why has Ireland always been associated with potatoes?

Because the Great Famine of 1845 (ended 1852) was caused by a blight that turned a majority of the potato crops in Ireland into putrid waste in the ground. Before the Famine, potatoes were a staple crop that feed Ireland's poor as well as their livestock. When the blight decimated the potato crops, 1 million people died of famine and another 1 million immigrated out of Ireland.

Even though other parts of the world, especially Europe, were affected by the blight, no country experienced the devestation that Ireland did.

It is sad to think that the main food product associated with Ireland comes not from its abundance of it, but rather the dramatic dearth of it.

Digging through Kate's garden it is hard to imagine that there ever was a shortage of the pudgy, pinkish-brown tubers. They literally multiply in the ground (You can plant one and, like any other root, it spreads. As it spreads, one tuber becomes many.) Kneeling in the garden this afternoon, fingers shifting through the dirt mounds that had been built to protect the potatoes tubers from the cool atmoshphere, I was able to fill a medium-sized basket with the little suckers in less than five minutes.

Many of the potatoes here don't look like the ones you can find in the supermarkets back home. Every once in a while my hands grasped the brown, rounded shape of a Russet Potato that is familiar to me because it has been mass produced in the States. But most of the potatoes I found were small and pinkish. And looked more like huge, chubby fingers than potatoes. In fact, sometimes tubers grew out of the tops of other tubers forming three- or four- fingered hands.

Putting aside my reservations on eating hand-like objects, I carefully washed the potatoes and cut out any spoiled or rotted parts. Then I boiled them for over half and hour. When they were done, the fork slid into them with little resistance. I mashed them up with a bit of milk and butter for lunch.

Let me tell you, Helen (one of the neighbors) was right. I don't know if it was the working for my supper or the history of the potato that made me so appreciative or what, but there is nothing quite like a Irish potato.

Sick Day

I woke up yesterday morning thinking that it would be just another day in Wexford. I woke up and walked the dog. Fed her and the cat. Went out to the polytunnel to plant lettuce (yes, more lettuce).

Unfortunately, here is where the day took a turn. I got nauseous and threw up.

I spent the day in and out of bed, trying to avoid dehydration. Only thing I was able to keep down all day was weak tea and bread.

It's funny how every single time I get sick, I get homesick. No one takes care of you when you are sick like your mother or worries about you like your dad.

Good news is that when I woke up this morning it was like I had never been sick at all.

Hook Head Lighthouse

Today, I took a trip to Hook Head Penisula. More specifically, today I rode my bike to Hook Head Lighthouse, the oldest operational lighthouse in the world.

You'll have to excuse my photo, I haven't quite figured out the whole taking pictures of myself in new places things. All my other photos show me blocking the lighthouse.

Like,

Oh, well.

The bike ride was intense. The wind was blowing, and the hills, though not steep, were long. 17.2 km from Tintern Abbey to Hook Head Lighthouse (almost 11 miles) and the same back. But the sun was shining and I couldn't resist.

Now, Hook Head Lighthouse is a tourist attraction. The first I've been to in Ireland. But unlike the tourist attractions in London, England or Washington, DC, most of the visitors seemed to be from the country we were in. They were just enjoying the view.

I did take the opportunity to be sappy and look out over the Atlantic Ocean towards home.

You can't see it, but over that horizon is the East Coast of the United States.

All in all, the day was a success because I got to see more of Ireland.

Tomorrow, I'll finish posting my pictures from my first week in Wexford!

A day...

Today I listened to "The Ballad of Billy the Kid," sung by Billy Joel, on repeat for about half a hour. It was that kind of day.

Woke up, it was raining. Made porridge (oatmeal) for breakfast. Went on a walk. Came home.

Went on a bike ride. Found out bike was broken. Walked bike home. Got other bike. Rode to corner store (which was about a 2 km away). Bought milk, yogurt, and butter. Came back home. Killed some slugs in the garden.

Baked bread. Really good bread. Without a recipe (cause I didn't have all the ingredients the recipes asked for) and without measuring cups (couldn't find them in Kate's kitchen). But the bread still came out really nice. Especially fresh from the oven. With raspberry jam.

Went on another walk. Listened to "The Ballad of Billy the Kid" for the second half of the hour walk. Decided today was a "The Ballad of Billy the Kid" on repeat kind of day.

Back to the house. Fed dog and cat. Ate more bread. Made pasta with pumpkin seed pesto and cheddar cheese. Drank milk that I bought at store. Got online.

My day in 6 paragraphs or less. So very riveting.

Oh... and for you entertainment: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PPRjvHB_nv0

Musings on a Country Life

I'm sitting here in Kate's living room typing away at my computer (well, my netbook), listening to Chica's heavy breathing from her position curled up on the floor. My parents were commenting earlier this week that I seem to really like Chica, which, I guess, is a bit of a surprise, as I have never really expressed any special interest in dogs before. Probably because my earliest memory of a dog is getting bitten in the park down the street from our house. But in Ireland, it seems like the dogs can actually be dogs. At home (well, in Arlington, at least), dogs always seem contrained by leashes or fences. Or they are small dogs whose only task is to lay in the lap of their owners.

Dogs in Ireland are very different (well, in this part of Ireland). They seem to be in control of their own days. Chica, though she allows me to take her on walks two times a day, is free to not only roam around the farm yard here, but make excursions onto other people's land without any supervision. For example, I met Bran, a bran-colored dog who lives down the lane, two days before I ever met his owner, because Bran has taken to visiting Chica during the day. In fact, Bran joined Chica and me on our walk this morning. Yet it wasn't until Kate had me take some salad (lettuce that I harvested yesterday and edible flowers) over to the neighbor (Barbara) this afternoon that I found out where Bran lived and who his owners were. (Note: given my limited knowledge of dogs, I would guess that Bran is some kind of Terrier breed, but he is about as big as Chica. He's probably a mutt.)

I suspect that it has more to do with urban versus rural than the United States versus Ireland. For example, there are quite a few dogs in the States that I know who were raised in the country, and they too seem to have a laid back attitude that is lacking from dogs who are in the city.

I can image having a dog (when I'm grown up, whenever that might mean) as long as it has plenty of land to explore. I know that I don't mind waking up at 6:30 in the morning if it means that I get to walk through the countryside with Chica before breakfast. And this is coming from the person who wouldn't wake up before noon any day if she could get away with it.

I like Chica, cause she's loyal and friendly and forgiving and a great listener (she has to put up with my singing as we walk). But part of her appeal is that she embodies the country life I have come to find is a sanctuary for me.

That is not to say that I won't get tired of the country life, but for now, it suits me just fine.

On the first or second day that I was here, Kate was talking about the difference between being lonely in the city and being alone in the country. And how you can be very lonely in the city surrounded by a lot of people who you don't connect with. Then you come to the country, and you find that perhaps there aren't that many people, but you talk (not just talk, but really talk) with a farm-owner and her dog, and suddenly you aren't lonely anymore.

I think it is this way because there is more opportunity to connect. In the city, people walk with their eyes cast down, or listening to their iPod, or talking on the phone. It is rare that people will say hello to a complete stranger. In the country, you smile at everyone you past, even if you've never seen them before. It's not impossible to connect with someone else in the city, but it is harder.

Don't get me wrong. I love the city. There is always something to do. Always something new to see. Most of my friends and family live in cities or in suburbs. But I definitely would not object to having a country retreat.

Did you know...?

Did you know that pesto made with pumpkin seeds instead of pine nuts and cheese is an anti-parasitic food and good for the digestion (and it tastes good too)?

Did you know that the best time to harvest lettuce is in the morning when it is still a bit chilly outside and the nutrients in the leaves are at their peak?

Did you know that Ireland is currently facing a huge revolution concerning their educational system?

Did you know that if you plant potatoes spuds, they will produce more potatoes spuds as the plant requires more nutrients from the ground (they are roots after all)?

Did you know that the national and first official language of Ireland is Irish, but many native people don't speak it since the Union of Great Britian and Ireland introduced English?

Just a couple of the things I didn't know before.

First days in Wexford

Now that I've been in one place for more than a day, jetlag has seemed to catch up to me. Until now, I've been doing a pretty good job at outrunning it.
Wexford is lovely.  It is located near Bannow Bay in the southeast of Ireland, about 2 hours away from Dublin (2 hours and forty minutes by bus). The weather here is about the same as Mid-October weather in DC, 57 degrees, windy, with the occasional showers. However, it stays sunny from the time I wake up in the morning (about 7:30) till about 8:30 at night.  A walk here is invigorating no matter what time of day it occurs because of the clear skies and cool breeze.
My days are pretty loosely scheduled. I wake up, either have breakfast or walk the dog, Chica (female German Shepard) who I mentioned before. Then I usually work in the polytunnel, which is short of a rudely constructed green house made of wood and plastic. It tends to be warmer in the tunnel, which means the animals usually are curled up in the corner at some point during the morning. It also means that tomatoes, chilis, sunflowers, cucumbers, flowers, and lettuce can be grown in the cool Ireland fall.  Yesterday, I spent a couple of hours watering the plants in the tunnel and gathering tomatoes. I really love tomatoes and was glad that I was able to eat some of them this afternoon for lunch. Then I replanted some lettuce, giving them more room to grow.  Today, I was only required to water the tunnel, which means that I had the afternoon free to explore. After lunch, I headed out on a bike towards Hook Head light house on the very tip of the peninsula where I am staying. Unfortunately, the threat of rain turned me back before I reached my destination. I do have to say though that the drivers in Ireland are much nicer to bike riders than drivers in the United States. I think most drivers passing me waved, even though most of the time I wasn't quite sure what side of the road I should be biking on.
Tintern Abbey, a Abbey for monks built in 1200 AD, is located a walks length away from the house. The beautiful structure is well maintained for tourists and locals alike, and the grounds are covered in hiking trails. There is a beautiful old church ruin and graveyard set back from the main bridge to Tintern, which I suspect will become a favorite place of mine in the next couple of weeks. There is also a walled garden, Colclough (don't ask me how you pronounce that for I have no idea), which is currently closed for renovations. On our walk today, Chica and I walked there and back in about an hour.
Walking Chica is different from walking any dog near DC. In fact, I have yet to see a leash in Ireland. I simply walk to Chica, tell her we are going on a walk, and head off the property. She runs ahead to were the driveway meets the road, and waits (not so patiently) for me to catch up. Then when I catch up with her, she runs again. The only time I surpass her on this walk is when she stops to investigate the smells around us. When we disagree on the direction that the walk should take, I give a short whistle, and she deigns to humor me. Though it sounds as if Chica is a young dog, she only gives the appearence of this in the morning. By the evening, Chica moves a bit slower and tires easily.
The cat, on the other hand, barely acknowledges me, except for when I open the door to the warm house and he wants in.
I thought that when Oberlin went back into session that I would miss it. I find that I cannot even conceive of going back, and besides my friends, the only thing I miss is dedicated thinking which I get from having a conversation with anyone on my travels. Kate, my host, is a talkative woman who has firm beliefs on organized religion and American politics. Most of the people who I have met in the UK and Ireland are Obama fans (and not so fond of Bush).
I need to get up early in the morning to replant some more lettuce, so I will leave you now. Good night!

Meet me in Wexford

I am now in the home were I will be spending the next 2-3 weeks of my time in Ireland. It is located in the County of Wexford on the Hook Peninsula. The wind is blowing pretty roughly here, remnants of Hurricane Irene.
My host's name is Kate. She has a dog (a sweet german shepard) and a cat (undetermined breed). I am staying in a bedroom that is in another building on her property.
I am a bit tired from the bus ride from Dublin to Wexford this morning, so I'm going to keep the post short.
Most importantly, remembering September 11th, 2001 today on the tenth anniversary. Can't believe it has been ten years since one of the scariest days of my life. My thoughts are with the victims.

IRELAND!

I have decided not even to attempt to describe Wales. Any description of the scenery, or the kindness of the people, or the warmth I felt from the moment I left the train in Holyhead to when I boarded the ferry this morning bound for Ireland could not express the area. I walked to the ocean on the day I was there in foul weather and found that all the pictures I took on my camera could not do justice to the view and the sensations I was treated to. To experience Wales, I'm afraid you have to go there (which is pretty much true of all the places that I have been, but especially so with Wales).
Have you ever felt that you were in excatly the right place at the right time, as if you were destined to be in one certain spot at one specific time in you life? I may be playing it a bit dramatically, but that is how I felt about being on the coast of Wales high above the waves as they met the shore.
As I said, I have pictures, but they are completely inadequate.
I boarded the ferry early this afternoon, sad to be leaving Wales, the people, and even the livestock. After a wonderful lazy morning eating a tuna fish sandwich and drinking heavily sugared coffee in the Hostel talking to the owner and the cleaning lady about the weather and my impending trip to Ireland, I took a taxi to the Holyhead Port.
In the Port, the foot passengers, myself included, were bustled onto buses that would take us to the ferry (which was more like a cruise ship complete with resturants, shopping, movies, and lounges, than a ferry). I connected here with one of my fellow passenger, a middle aged, English woman by the name of Jace. We talked about my travels, her reasons for going to Ireland, and her daughter, who had attended the University of Tennesse for a year.
On the ship, I found a seat close to the windows overlooking the sea with no horizon (I sweat the ocean almost seemlessly melted into the clouds) reading from my Kindle (I have come to the conclusion that this was one of the best purchases I have made in my entire life).
We were again sheperded onto the buses to debark at Dublin Port, where I connected again with Jace. We went through customs (one of the most painless procedures of my life) and collected our bags.
Note to all current and future travellers: NEVER UNDERESTIMATE THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS. Here I am in Dublin Port, having no idea how to get to my hostel, only knowing it was called Generator Hostel and that it was located in Dublin at Smithfield Square. Jace comes up to me, and offers me a ride with her in her taxi. And as we have been talking I already know that she is late for a function (a televised ball, no less) and is meeting her husband for their 23rd Anniversary. She insists it will be no trouble for the taxi to let me off at my spot. I resest, telling her that I have no euros to pay her back and that I wouldn't want her to be any more late than she was. I must not have protested enough, because soon my huge backpack is being lifted into the boot of the taxi with her tiny suitcase.
I probably will never meet Jace again, and I don't even know her last name. But let me tell you, I will never, ever, ever, forget her. I was tired and hungry, and she took care of me for 20 minutes.
By the way, Dad, if you are freaking out, it was a registered taxi, completely safe. I, of course, checked before I got into the car.
This has not been my only experience with the kindness of strangers here in Europe. There was the woman who stopped me on the streets of Salisbury when I was lost and tired to ask if I was alright. When I told her I was, she simply told me to "remember that Jesus loves you." I have never been a religious person, but I was reminded that here people look out for each other.
Or even the kindness of people you know, like Mrs. Strohm who offered not only to let me crash with her for a couple of days in London, but as I was leaving also indicated that her door in London was always open to me. And that I was free to use it as spot for crash landing if I ever got tired of Ireland.
Or the the kindness of the  people in Holyhead, who, when I asked for directions, had no problems pointing me in the right direction. Especially, the kindness of the  people who walked me parts of the way to my destination, out of the way of theirs.
Or of the cleaning lady, who took 15 minutes of her time to  talk to me about my trip and calm me of my homesickness.
So, after all that blabbling, I just want to extend a huge "thank you" those who have helped me on this trip so far (and it's only been a week). I know that without the encouragement and the warm smiles (and the free rides!) that I would probably be packing up my bag right now and heading home.
Fortunately, I am too excited for all the people I'm going to meet to do that just yet.

Bath and Wales

So... It has been two days since I last posted, and since then I have left London, explored Bath, and entered Wales. Ah, posting is getting away from me. Let me attempt to catch you up.
The train ride from London to Bath was uneventful. A little less than an hour and a half from boarding the train in Paddington Station to debarking at Bath Spa Station, which is basically situated at the heart of Bath.
Of course, somewhere during my trip from the Station to my hostel it started pouring rain. Getting off the train I trudged up High Street in Bath (the UK equivalent of Main Street) which eventually took me to my hostel above a bar called Belushi's on Green Street. Shout out to St. Christopher's Inn in Bath, which was a great place to meet people.
When the rain let up I let myself explore Bath by simply wandering about the city. I found King's Circus and Victoria Park and found that the architerture in Bath was both beautiful and historical.
Then I went back to the hostel where I met my roomates for the night, Rachel from England and Maggie and Helena from Germany. They were wonderful. We headed up to the "Chill Out" room to watch Juno, were we met several other people spending the night in Bath. It was a informal meeting of cultures as we contrasted and compared politics, social programs, currency, and education in our various countries (United States, Canada, Germany, UK).
A couple of hours of games later, I crashed in bed. Excited for my second day in Bath.
My second day in Bath started with free breakfast in the bar downstairs. Afterwards, I headed towards Bath Abbey for a walking tour of the city. We hit the Roman Baths, Bath Abbey, the Guild Building, Bridge, King's Circus, the Royal Cresent, Victoria Park, the Assembly Rooms, the main Theatre, the Royal National Hospital for Rheuthmic Diseases, and back to the Baths in a 2 and a half hour tour. Back at the baths I had a glass of the natural hot spring water (it tasted fine to me, but a little warm). I then set off on my own expedition to find Jane Austen's house (or at least the house she lived in for the majority of her time in Bath). Heading down Bridge, I found her house after turning the corner. Unfortunately, I didn't spend too much time there as the owners of the house actually live there.
Now, the reason I planned on going to Bath in the first place was that I always wanted to dramatically "take in the waters" like Jane Austen, or the Romans, did. So it was imperative on this trip to bathe in the waters. Returning to the hostel to pick up my towel, I headed to Thermae Spa which is located right accross the street from the pump room where Jane Austen got the hot spring water that she drank.
2 hours later I was prune-y. But let me tell you, there is something purely wonderful about soaking in hot water, lazing about in a huge scented sauna, being dowsed alternatively by hot and cold water, or swimming in hot water on the rooftop of the building in freezing rain. It is invigorating. Just like the Romans planned.
I grabbed some fish & chips (cod) and went back to the hostel for a late dinner, called the parents, and settled down in my dorm with my Kindle.
I woke up this morning and got on the train headed for Salisbury. There I joined a tour to Stonehenge, were I bumped into Maggie and Helena from the hostel in Bath (this was not planned, and was completely unexpected as they had left the hostel a day before I did). Spent an hour at Stonehenge circling rocks (very prestigious, heavy, beautiful rocks) and listening to an audio tour with them. Hopped back on the bus to the train station and stopped in Old Sacrum to see King Henry I's castle ruins. Back to the train station, for a hour ride to Bristol Temple Meads, to switch trains for an hour ride to Newport in South Wales (where all the signs are in both English and Celtic. Very cool!), to switch trains for a four hour journey to Holyhead, Wales.
After asking multiple people (a couple walking across the bridge, and a waitress and a tipsy woman outside a bar having a smoke) for directions to the closest place to get a taxi, I pocured a taxi to my hostel for the night, Anglesey Outdoor.
Now, I'm tuckered out, and am going to bed. Hopefully I will post this and subsequent blogs when I get more internet service.

Last Day in London

For those of you who don’t know, or simply are not in the know, Hyde Park is the place to see and be seen… or at least is was during the British Regency Area (think late George III who died in 1820). So there I went to hang out in the Park with the ghosts of England’s high society. 

After about a few hours of dreaming about the past and eating lunch, I took the Underground from Leicester Square to Covet Garden were I visited the open market. Haggling in the market was a new experience for me, but worth it as I saved a couple of pounds on old souvenirs (think late 1980’s).

Met up with Carlyn for a good-bye. Had Snog (think Red Mango or Pinkberry), then fought my way back into the Underground to take the Central line back to the Jubilee line, back to Ms. Strohm’s apartment.

Leaving for Bath in the morning, and will hopefully post from the train.

One more day in London

Spent the day with Carlyn shopping at outdoor markets and London shops. Had a blast, and thankfully didn’t spend too much money.

Then Carlyn and I met up with our college guidance counselor (Mrs. Strohm) from high school for some good Indian Food! So great to see her and catch up! Am going to stay with her for a couple of days until I leave for Bath.

Here are the pictures I took yesterday around the tourist-y parts of London (if your my friend on Facebook, they are pretty much the same). Unfortunately, I can’t quite figure out how Flickr works, so a lot of these are repeats and some are just bad pictures… but still, Enjoy!

http://www.flickr.com/photos/67127526@N06/6109748032/in/photostream/

London's Calling...

… and we answered!

Today, Carlyn and I visited London Bridge, Tower Bridge, London Tower, the Monument commemorating the Great Fire of London of 1666, Buckingham Palace, Green Park, Wellington Arch, Hyde Park Arch, and Harrod’s! And then a London Pub Crawl (still can’t believe Carlyn got carded, but I didn’t)!

Fun Fact #1:

This is not the London Bridge:

This is London Bridge:

Will update with pictures tomorrow!

Night out in Islington

Carlyn (my sister) treated me to dinner with her friends on Upper Street in Islington. A great Turkish restaurant called Gallipoli. I got to meet some of her friends from her time here, which is always fun.

After stuffing myself with hummus and pita, and various other treats, we walked back to Carlyn’s apartment. Since we live so far apart, its rare that Carlyn and I get to talk in person about our lives. So it is always nice to have a heart to heart. Added bonus that it happens to be on the streets of London.

Plans for tomorrow: Tea at Harrod’s!!

England!

6 hours in the air and I have finally made it to England. After a difficult time actually getting into the country (the UK definitely doesn't like unemployed people coming into their country even if only for a week), I took the tube to Islington and my sister's "London flat."
The weather here is chillier, more like the weather of Maine than DC. Not surprising considering how far north it is situated. Had to pull a sweatshirt out of my bag for the trek from Caledonian Road (the closest underground station) to the flat.
Got here and immediately crashed on the sofa. Having gotten only one hour of sleep on the flight, I excuse my laziness in the middle of this sunny London day.
I will try to update later today after I see more of the city!