Crossing Paths

I remember, when I was about 16, my cousin and I were driving into the valley to pick up her kids from a weekend camping trip, when ran into a man at Starbucks who was clearly interested in my cousin. 

"Was he looking at me?" she questioned. 

"He definitely was!" I said.

Always the hopeless romantic, I asked her why she didn't just say hi. He obviously wanted to talk to her; what if e was "the one"? My sixteen year old brain went into overdrive, propelled by caffeine and the giggles. 

"Well," said my cousin, "if a person is really supposed to be in your life, I believe you'll see them more than once. If that guy - that cute guy - is supposed to be in my life, I'm sure I will bump into him again." 

I remember thinking that that seemed pretty sound. Why she wouldn't just say hi, I still didn't fully grasp, but I could understand her thought process. Thinking about it now, I think her theory is pretty accurate. My best friend Maddie came to visit me in Ireland for these last two weeks, and I realized just how powerful our friendship is. 

We can communicate an entire sentence with a look or a nod. Words are rarely necessary before we acknowledge what the other is thinking, what the other going to say. My now infamous line is, "I knew it in my soul." We are just connected. And the more I think about it, the more I realize that the universe was trying to bring us together for a long time before we actually became friends. 

When we were in 7th grade, Maddie's dad died. Christmas of that year, the priest discussed the tragedy in his homily. I was there. I was alter serving with Maddie that day, but we didn't really know each other. Around the same time, our mutual friend had a birthday party we were both at. I know she was there, but I'm  not sure we were even really introduced. In eighth grade I sat next to Lily, one of maddie's closest friends. She had a picture of Maddie on her binder, and I remember looking at it thinking, I know thy girl from somewhere... Finally, Freshman year we were assigned to sit next to each other in Dr. Malhotra's Biology class. That was it. We have been practically inseparable since then.  

Having her in Ireland with me was amazing. As soon as we see each other, it's like no time at all has passed. We're right back to joking and laughing and having the occasional DMC (Deep Meaningful Conversation). She knows what I've been through. She knows what I'm going through, and it feels so good - after having to introduce myself to a whole new group of people in Ireland - to just be, no explanations needed. 

I needed her in my life, and the universe made sure to bring us together. 

Not Quite the Tuscan Sun

I know, I know, I haven't written in forever. I have been writing, just not posting. But now, as I sit in the Dublin Airport for the next three hours, I figure I can take the time to upload some things.  Here is what I had to say Firenze: 

Florence 

Florence was not my city. I had dreams of wearing my floppy hat, a maxi skirt, and flip flops and enjoying some time under the Tuscan sun.  When we first rolled into the train station, we were surrounded by graffiti and run down buildings. Chelsea said sarcastically, "Oh God, we'd probably have to live here," knowing full well that we are both out of money after a long semester abroad. We laughed about it, until the train stopped. "Firenze Rifendi" the sign read. "This is our stop." 

Well, we thought, at least the apartment was cheap for the night. Maybe it'll be nicer than these, we do have a 10 minute walk. Well, with 20 pound backpacks and full purses, an easy 10 minutes walk easily becomes a troublesome 20 minute walk. We just kept reminding ourselves, though, that we were in Florence, Italy; that it would all be worth it. We met with our host, who was very nice and helpful and we thought, it's ok. We'll catch a bus into the city tonight and have a glass of wine in Florence and enjoy our time. We found a wine bar with wifi, and for a moment everything seemed great. Then we tried to book train tickets for the next day. 

Not only has ticket prices jumped significantly, there were only 2 possible times for departure. Either we had to leave Florence at 7 in the morning  or at 5 at night. Knowing we had an early flight out of Venice the day after we got into the city, I was really disappointed. "I guess," I finally said, "we'll just have to see Venice at night." But of course, as soon as we went to buy the tickets, the website wouldn't accept Chelsea's info. So we left the wine bar feeling utterly defeated. 

"Let's just go buy 3 bottles of wine and go home and make some pasta, Si we can get up early tomorrow and see as much of Florence as we can." So, we bought our 3 bottles for 10Euros and were ready for our wind down night. We found a bus stop that said it picked up for route 23, and that the bus would be there in 17 minutes. 17minutes later, the bus drove up, and away. Are you kidding me?! We just sat out in the fond for almost 20 minutes, at the RIGHT bus stop and it didn't stop?! Ok, we regrouped and walked down a ways to a different stop. Again, it said 23. Again, it showed the pick up time. Again, it drove past us. Fine! Fine, universe! We are not meant to take the bus. So we got a taxi. We spent 6 instead of 2, but we got dropped off at our front door. Fine. We'll just eat and go to sleep. 

"Ali," I heard, "do you know how to turn this stove on?" 

I went to the stove, flipped a few switches, and then figured out you had to twist the nob for the gas, and then push down the button for the flame. I couldn't see it, but I heard it. I figured it was just one of those new, sleek stove tops; the kind that turn red when the burner gets hot. "Got it," I yelled. 

Within seconds, what I thought was the stove top, but was actually just a glass cover, exploded, sending glass flying all over the kitchen. My instincts must have kicked in. Next because I don't remember turning the burner off, but when Chelsea came in the room, I was standing in front of the stove just staring. Shaking and staring. 

"What happened?" 

"I don't know. It just exploded." 

After cleaning the entire kitchen, on my hands and knees, we finally ate some pasta - at least the pesky stove cover was gone - and drank some wine.  Nothing, we decided, about this day went as we'd hoped. 

Opportunities

As I lie in this bed in an apartment in Krakow, Poland, I can't help but think of how lucky I am to be here. I think the rain makes me reflective. The soft patter of a gentle rain on this top floor apartment has me thinking about a lot. Of course - being so close to Auschwitz - I think of how lucky I am to have been born in a time and place where I am free. I have never had to fight for my freedoms or my life, and I think that's easy to overlook. It's easy to forget how lucky I am to have born in a beautiful place like Thousand Oaks, with a beautiful family like mine.  

Today is Mother's Day, yet another reason to reflect, and I can honestly say that I am so incredibly grateful to have been born to my mother. My mom is one of those people who just makes friends. I've never seen her burn a bridge or end a friendship. She just loves. She has shown me how to love - how to build connections and how to keep them. She has raised three pretty great kids (if I do say so myself) and each of us has a little bit of her. Vinnie rambles the way our mom does, picking up conversations in the middle, after he's started them with himself. Gerard loves more openly and more honestly than anyone I've ever met. And I, well, I look like our mom and I talk like our mom and I'm a little weird like our mom. We share a similar sense of humor, and I know in about 30 years, I will practically be my mother. This is something that I am very grateful for because if I someday can give my children the courage to traveland the   opportunity to study abroad, then I'll have done something right. I know that my mother has sacrificed in order to give me the things that I want, and for that I am grateful. Realizing that a human being in the world loves me so much they are willing to put themselves second, feels pretty incredible. That's what it is - pretty incredible. The love between me and my mother, the opportunities I've had to travel, the way things fall into place - pretty incredible.    

And then there were two....

I know I've been very bad at updating this blog of mine, but I guess lately I've been busy trying to soak in the last moments with my study abroad friends before we all had to say goodbye. Starting April, just three days after returning from Amsterdam, I had to say goodbye to Carolyn - the friend I'd seem the world with. Then just three days ago I had to say goodbye to Markelle - a friend I connected with more quickly than anyone in my life. And then this morning, I had to say goodbye to Erin - the friend I have had the pleasure of living with for these last four months. Of course there were other goodbyes along the way, other see-you-later's and it's-been-fun's, but saying goodbye to these three has been the hardest. I've written before about how I truly believe people come into your life for a reason, and I know that each of these three ladies were brought into my life for their own reason. I will cherish the laughs we have shared and the memories we have built, but it is still hard to say goodbye. Sure, we're all going back to America, but America is a big country. These friends I've made are scattered all over the country, so it will be hard to keep in touch. I believe we will, but we'll never have the same experience as our time shared living in the Niland House in Galway, Ireland. 

I guess that's life, though - a string of missing things. Here in Ireland, I miss home; at home, I will miss Ireland. I will miss going to formal tea at Cupan Tae. I will miss being able to walk to the beaches of salt hill to clear my head. I will miss the Quays, and being able to order a drink and just enjoy the company of my friends. I will miss bopping around the shops of shop street, spending too much money on souvenirs. But most importantly, I will miss being able to burst into Erin's room and demand she come out with me; being able to walk down the stairs to watch a movie with Markelle; being able to call Carolyn and say "come hang out with me." I will miss the ease with which I could see my friends. 

Now, I suppose, I'll just have an excuse to see parts of my country I've never seen before because as Erin walked out our door this morning, I realized, it's down to two - just me and Chelsea. 

Nice to be here

I'm usually not one for sun bathing. To start, I'm very white, which means that if I don't apply the proper amount of sunscreen then I burn, and if I do, then I'm just still pale. On top of that, my mind wanders terribly. I'll be laying out, enjoying nature, and all of a sudden I remember every phone call I have to make and every email I never responded to. I compile grocery list and a chore chart and then I usually think of a great possible chapter to a book I've never started. So, inevitably, I spend five minutes in the sun before giving up and running off to do something more productive.

Today, though, I fell asleep on a rock in Nice, France - it was all very Little Mermaid - and it was wonderful. One second I was day dreaming about the adventures we've had so far, and the next, I was being rudely awoken by a cruise ship's blaring whistle. What a dream I am living! (Aside from the whole sunburn thing.)

Espana

I have a million and a half things to say about Spain, but for now, as I lay in bed thinking about waking up in 8 hours to catch a long train to Nice, France, I will give you this little vignette.

Today Carolyn and I spent a good majority of the day people watching. At one point, we were sitting on a bench on the Docks of Barcelona, resting our feet after a day spent exploring the city, and we were caught in the middle of two very interesting scenes. Just to our left, there was a private yacht, surrounded by a gate, protected by a body guard. Three cars - an escalade and two mercedes vans - drove up onto the dock to drop off some apparently very wealthy people. Other passerby stopped to take pictures if the boat, the barceletta; impressed, I suppose at the extravagance of the vessel. The women wore heels and the men wore suit coats. It was all very posh, very over the top.

Then, just to our right, five street venders, each holding a folded up white sheet - rucksacks, if you will - ran to the edge of the dock to hide from the policia. One man jumped down to a hollow, cylindrical buoy, where he stashed each of the five or six bags. Then they all split, running in different directions, just as two policia cars pulled up. All of the men left the area before policia arrived, except for one lookout. This one man, who looked to be in his early twenties, perched on a bench right in front of the policia, never looking in their direction. At one point, he took his sweatshirt off and walked away, returning a few moments later, sans sweatshirt, and sat in a different spot. Here was this kid, hiding from the police in plain sight, as others dined on a lavish yacht 30 feet away. It was really strange, and pretty socioeconomically accurate, to be sitting in the middle of the two.

Gone from my sight...that is all

I know I am in Ireland, and this blog is supposed to follow my adventures around the Emerald Isle and not around my roller coaster of emotions, but there are somethings that I would rather share. Last night, two of my closest friends from home each told me that they love to read my blog, that it speaks to them. Upon reading those texts, as simple as they were, I felt surrounded. Even though I was, at the time, sitting alone in my room, I felt surrounded by their love. I felt connected to them because I am able to share who I am and where I am through this little blog of mine, and they are willing to take the time to read it. I love that feeling. I love feeling that my writing means something (as scary as it is to press "Publish" every time). So, tonight I will share with any reading eyes that I am torn.

I have reached this strange point in my journey, where I realize that I am running out of time here in Ireland, and I don't know how to feel about it. On the one hand, I am so excited to see my family; to hug my nieces and snuggle my mom and see my friends' new home and grab coffee (good coffee) with my friends. I am excited to see sun and walk outside without putting on three layers. I am excited to eat burritos. There are so many things that I miss about home that I am excited to return to, but I'm also sad. I'm sad that I will leave behind these new friends I have made - my friends from Missouri and Virginia and Boston. I'm sad to be leaving this land that is so rooted in tradition, and filled with beauty. I'm sad to be leaving a country where I can go to a pub to grab a casual drink and listen to the incredible live music. I'm sad to be leaving the Irish accent - especially an Irish accent singing an American country song ;) There are a lot of things that I will miss about Ireland once I am at home, enjoying the things that I am missing now, and that has me in a strange state of mind. I suppose all I can do is enjoy the time I have left, and take advantage of every day!

That is something that I have tried to do since my dad died - enjoy life. Before his funeral, we tried to collect as many pictures as we could of my dad, and it saddens me to realize that there aren't many of him in the last few years of his life. I don't have any pictures with my dad at my high school graduation or my last dance recital. In realizing this, as sad as it is, I realized just how important it is to take advantage of the time you do have, to embrace those around you.

If I'm being honest, I'm in this reflective mood tonight because I just watched "the video." It is a collection of pictures from his childhood to mine, and I love it. My friend made it for me, and even though for him - an incredibly talented editor - it was probably nothing, to me, it means the world. Those twenty minutes or so that we sat together, ordering and adjusting the pictures I'd scanned into the computer meant more than I could even describe to you. It is one of the few memories from those two weeks after my dad died that I remember vividly. So, when I watch "the video" it is bittersweet. I remember that time, sitting in my friend's office, recollecting on the photographs, and laughing at the fact that every time Stevie Nicks bolted out, "Cause I built my life around you," the picture was of my dad and a fish. We couldn't stop laughing. In a lot of ways it was true, but he fixed it so the focus of the lyrics were a family picture. I mean, we should have just recorded over and made it "I built my life around fish," but I don't think it would have had the same effect. I digress. The point is, I am filled with happiness that my dad was alive; he was a brother, a husband, a fisherman, and he was my dad. I love to watch as the (often mischievous) gleam in his eyes shines through each phase of his life. I love to see his Optic Zone necklace, and his love for those around him. I love to see his love for me. It is often, though, the picture at my birthday party, where he is looking with such love and adoration into my little, blue, four year old eyes, that I tear up. He really loved me. And I miss that. I miss knowing, no matter how mad I got at him or how loud I yelled at him, that he loved. I miss his bear hugs and his foot waves. I miss snuggling next to him and watching Swamp People. (I found a show called Lizard Lick Towing that I wish so badly I could tell him about.) I miss him, and that makes me sad. It's a complicated sadness, though, because much like my mixed feelings about leaving Ireland, it is a sadness derived from happiness. I am happy that he was alive. I am grateful that I got the time I did have with him. But because I knew that love, I yearn for it. So, I guess what I'm saying is that even when I post sad things on this blog, I recognize that it all originates from a place of happiness. I'm never trying to be too over the top, I'm just trying to be honest, and the truth is: I love my dad.

Feeling the Beauty

Today I went to the Cliffs of Moher for the second time. Since my friend Dani, who I know from dance, is here on her Spring Break, we've been exploring quite a bit.

On Monday, we went to Connemara to see Kylemore Abbey. It was amazing! We got on the wrong bus, because nothing seems to go quite as planned, but we still made it to the Abbey, and its picturesque beauty was well worth the three hour ride in the back of a van. Yes, a van. We were supposed to go with Galway Tour Company because I had a student discount card, but in our frantic haste to get on a bus on time, we just agreed to go with the First Lady holding a sign that said "Connemara." So, we bumped along in the back of the Healy van - at one point, the road was so bad, we were actually flying with every divet - until we finally rounded a corner and caught a glimpse of the dream. Growing up as a little girl who often referred to herself as Princess Ali (who are we kidding, i still do) I can honestly say that Kylemore Abbey is what I pictured as my dream home. In fact, Kylemore Abbey may be more breathtaking than my imagination's idea of a proper castle.

The story of the Abbey is an equally beautiful and heartbreaking tale of a man's love for his wife. In 1867 Mitchell Henry built a castle for his wife of 32 years, the mother of their 9 children. It was a grand estate, fit for a hundred people, resting at the base if the Connemara mountains. Sadly, only four years after its completion, mrs. Henry died. Distraught over his wife's death, Henry moved his family away, and the estate was eventually sold to a group of Benedictine nuns. It is still owned by the nuns, who now, rather than using the facilities as a girls' school, display it for tourists like me.

After Mrs. Henry died, her husband had a gothic church built on the property in her memory. Even in it's small stature, the church was just as incredible as the castle. It has all the flying buttresses and intricate piping details of your average gothic cathedral, but it's personal size. If this church were a pizza, it would be a personal sized shitaki mushroom and red onions - earthy ingredients with an element of class placed atop a mini-pie. The whole experience was great.

Then on Tuesday, I had a productive day, going to class and working on my looming psych paper, while Dani explored the Aran Islands. And today, we went to the Cliffs.

In my last post about the Cliffs of Moher, I talked about how infinite they seemed, how full of possibilities I felt they were. Today, was a totally different experience. Again, I felt the vastness of the infinite, but today, on a perfectly clear, sunny day, I couldn't help but feel the presence of God. When I see things like this, in their indescribable, natural beauty, I can't help but feel the love of God. How could I doubt the awesomeness of God (awesome of course in the original sense of the word, the awe inspiring witness of the sublime) while I'm sitting with my feet dangling over the edge of a 15 mile drop, looking out at the ocean that connects us with the US? How could I not feel the beauty of a God who loves me unconditionally as I look out at a bright blue ocean, resting under cliffs of immeasurable green? Of course I've seen beautiful things, but I swear I could feel the beauty of Ireland.

Like a Rose

Last night, I had a heart to heart with my roommate, who opened up about being sad about leaving Ireland. She's recently come to the realization that after she returns from her trip around Europe? Which she leaves for on Friday, we'll only have three weeks together. As she lives on the other side of the country (and both of us are pretty adamant about our coated pride) it is fairly safe to say that we will never again live together.

As we talked about our impending separation, I couldn't help but think about the idea, which a friend of mine shared about this time last year: people come into your life when they're meant to, for as long as they're meant to. Everyone you meet has a significance. Of course there are some people who I hope are meant to be in my life for a long, long time, but I do believe that - as hard as it may be - relationships end. With every end, there is hope for growth. It's like a rose, when you prune back a branch, it grows back healthier. While I hope that my roommate and I do stay in contact, which I really think we will, I know that because she has come into my life at all, I have grown.

Like losing my dad. Of course I wish it hadn't happened, but it did. And because it happened, when it happened, I have grown. I have grown into a person who seeks happiness, a person who pushes for adventure, a person who holds onto love.

Passion Sunday

One of the really nice things about belonging to the universal church is that, as a Catholic it's generally pretty easy to find a local Sunday service. Coming to Ireland, I must admit that I had this dream of meeting a kind, Irish priest, who would take me under his wing and reignite my connection to the church. So far, no such luck. In fact, the few masses I have been to, I really haven't liked. Of course the churches are beautiful, and the history is rich, but the masses themselves are cold.
Last night I went to a Palm Sunday Service, and I was wildly disappointed. You have to understand, I love Palm Sunday. Sure, it's the longest mass of the year, but it's worth it. The children in the church excitedly playing with their palms, the dramatic affect of participating in the gospel, and the overall feeling that someone loves you so unconditionally they are willing to die for you. Sunday night, I didn't feel the love, the joy, the celebration. Sunday night, I felt cold.

I went to St. Augustine's Church just around the corner from my apartment. I'd never been there before, so it was quite a shock when I walked in the main doors and saw that the Alter was in the middle of the aisle, and all of the seats faced the middle if the church rather than the crucifix. Speaking of the crucifix, it was this weird, silver modern adaptation. It was really beautiful on its own, but in a church that looks to have been designed hundreds of years ago, something was wrong. I suppose it looks much like I felt - simply out of place.

Anyway, the mass began with little warning, as the priest walked up to the lectern and said, "We will now begin our celebration of the Passion Sunday mass. This day marks the beginning of the holiest week in Christianity." After rushing through the opening prayer, a young woman took her place behind a second lectern, which was facing the first. She read the first reading, then led us through a spoken hymn, and finally through the second reading. It was rushed and impersonal, but I thought maybe she was told to speed through because we would be focusing on the Passion. Nope. We sped through the Passion too, sometimes the congregation slurred so quickly through the audience participation sections that I couldn't even catch up. And then, the priest didn't give a homily!

You may be thinking, why would I be upset that the longest mass of the year was only 45 minutes? The answer is that I love Passion Sunday. It makes me feel loved, it makes me feel impassioned about my faith, and this mass was just cold. The stark white walls of the church, the monotone Asland voice of the priest, and the coat-necessary temperature made for a not-so-life-affirming experience. Let's hope that Easter at Galway Cathedral is better than last week.

What Life is About

Yet again, I've let myself go two weeks without posting anything new. A lot has happened in the past two weeks, so this may take a couple posts, but for now, I'll start with my trip to the Cliffs of Moher.

On Monday, March 4th, I woke up bright and early to board a bus and begin an adventure ending at the famous Cliffs of Moher. I've had several friends go on this trip before, and it came with rave reviews, so I can easily say that I was excited to see Ireland's most breathtaking natural landmark. And let me tell you, they were not kidding. Standing at the Cliff of Moher (aka the cliff of insanity for any fellow Princess Bride fans), looking out at the ocean, I couldn't help but feel little. Here I was, one person out of the hundred there, looking at the end of the world. It was really incredible. I'm not sure if the fog was preferable to a clear day, but it added to the endlessness of the cliffs. Hidden under a bank of clouds, the end of the rock formation seemed completely intangible. I imagine that it would be like standing at the bottom of the Grand Canyon, surrounded by the endlessness nature created. To some this may seem intimidating, terrifying even, but for me, on that Monday afternoon, it felt like an opportunity. Like infinite possibilities.

Maybe I felt that way because our bus driver had prepped us with such an optimistic personality. Before we even left Galway, I could tell it was going to be an interesting adventure because our bus driver was so excited to share Irish history, political tensions, and even personal anecdotes. When we first set off, he instructed the bus that we must "think positively to move these clouds." As I said, it was a pretty foggy day, so throughout the entire bus ride, our driver kept telling us that we had to stop thinking about water - "best not to say the r-word" - and start thinking of sunshine. He continued sharing this optimism by saying things like, "You think it's cold? Nah, it's just fresh. It's a nice, fresh morning." What struck me the most, I think, was that throughout the journey, he had to have said, "That's what life's about: enjoying yourself," at least six times.

What a novelty. Life is about enjoying yourself. That's such an Irish mentality. "Sure," he continued, "Irish is in a pretty bad place financially, but I think it'll get better and Ireland will come out of this in the next year or two better than ever before." It seems to me that in the US, people use the recession as an excuse. He's fallen on hard times since the recession. He used to be a very hard worker, but since the recession there just isn't work. We are the 99%. Don't get me wrong, as a college student, facing tens of thousands of dollars of student loans, I know the feeling of being the little guy. I know the feeling of bitterness at the fat cats on wall street getting bailouts, while I am faced with a future of financial struggle. But I think that the difference between the US and Ireland is that here in Ireland, kids work. Everyone works. Maybe our bus driver used to have a career in marketing, and now has to drive a bus. But you know what, he drives that bus like it's his favorite thing in the world.

Of course I'm worried about what I will do to bring in an actual pay check, but at the end of the day, I know that I will work. If I have to be a waitress or a barista or a nanny for a while, at least I'll be working. Because life is about enjoying yourself. So I won't stress myself into an early grave by worrying about that which I cannot control. I will do what I need to do to be successful in my own eyes. I feel confident saying that I will figure out a way to support myself, so that I can enjoy myself. I'd say I've done a pretty good job of that up to this point. I mean, I figured out how to get to Ireland. I've budgeted my money here so I can afford a trip to Spain, Morocco, France, Amsterdam, Poland, Germany, Switzerland, and Italy. (Yes, this is actually happening!!!!!!)

Right now, I am happy saying that I am simply enjoying myself.

Locked Out

Today, after spending the majority of the last 48 hours in bed with a bad cold, my roommate Erin and I decided we'd take a walk around shop street. As we left out apartment, I made sure to ask, "do you have your key?" When she said yes, I didn't think any more about it.

We walked over to shop street, where I got my eyebrows threaded at The Body Shop - some much needed pampering. Then we went to the post office, and I mailed my many postcards. We then ventured over to EuroGiant, which is the Irish equivalent of a Dollar Tree, and we stalked up on some St. Patrick's Day decorations. (If I'm being totally honest, I'm a little scared for the upcoming St. Party's Day festivities. I mean, it will be an incredible experience, I'm sure, but the fact that the day after is a national work holiday is a little bit frightening.) After that, we looked in at Brown Thomas, and dreamed about the bags we'll never afford. We went to the Pandora store, so Erin could get her Ireland charm, and we went to a souvenir shop so I could buy more post cards! We went to a bookstore, and a church, and a bookshop in a church.

Overall, it was a really nice day, just walking around. But as we parted, Erin went off to school, and I headed back home, where I am now sitting outside of my apartment waiting for someone with a key to let me in.

My Long Lowdown of London

I was just reading my friend's blog, and I couldn't help but smile at her positive words. I know, from her writing, that she is in a good place. It's as if you can feel the warmth of her heart through the computer. In reading her blog, I realized that I don't always take time to talk about the times that I have been incredibly happy while on this amazing journey. Especially in the last couple of weeks, I fear I've been giving the impression that I'm just miserable.
I'm not.
In fact, I'm really happy. Of course I have bad days, but I'm making changes, and I'm working on embracing the happiness in my life, rather than the negativity. I think that I live out my happiness, and then reflect on my sadness, which is why I tend to write when I'm sad, and not when I'm happy.
So, here I am, writing about my weekend in London; a great weekend!

About a month ago, Chelsea and I decided we were going to go to London. Just like that. Our roommate Erin had planned a weekend trip with some of her other friends, so we thought, why not? We may as well go that weekend too, so we could all be on the same bus to and from the airport and the same flights to and from London. Shortly after we booked our tickets, we convinced our friends Anna and Carolyn to come that weekend too. So, on a Thursday afternoon, we all made our way to the Galway bus station, and began our long journey to London. Theoretically, the trip to London is a short hop, the flight is just about the same distance as between San Francisco and Los Angeles. For us, though, it was about a 7 hour experience. We had to catch a 3:30 bus, so we could get to the airport around 5. Then we checked in (which let me tell you, Irish security compared to American security is like comparing a pocket knife to an AK47. Everything here is just so much more relaxed) and waited for our 6:20 flight. By the time we landed, and figured out where our bus was, it was nearly 9, so we didn't make it to my cousin's flat in Zone 2 until like 10:45.

It was well worth the travel time, though. Upon arriving to my cousin Laura's flat, we set our bags down and ventured out for a great Afghani dinner. I'd never eaten Afghani food before, but it was great! Laura tried to tell us that she never knew how to describe it to people, and after eating it, I find that I have much the same issue. It's kind of like Indian food, but with more of the sweetness found in some Thai food. We had naan with hummus and samosas to start, and even though, I thought I knew what I was eating because of the familiar names, it was different from anything I'd eaten before. It was really good! With food in our bellies, and sleep in our eyes, we made it back to the flat to pass out for the night, knowing an exciting day of being tourists was ahead.

Chelsea and I haven't had much tourist time yet, as we've been taking our time getting to know Galway. We don't really sightsee because we live here, so I was really excited to wake up (relatively) early and explore the city. Much like the Afghani food the night before, Chelsea and I dove in head first, not really knowing what we were in for. We just hopped on a tube and got off at Westminster. We knew that if we walked around Westminster long enough, we'd stumble into all of the must-sees. As soon as we left the underground station, we saw a building to our right that seemed familiar.

"What is that?" we asked.

"Is it the House of Parliament," I suggested.

"I don't know," Chelsea responded, "but I know that that's the river David Beckham road in on at the Olympics."

What embarrassing Americans we were, as we turned around and realized we were standing right in front of Big Ben.

"It IS the House of Parliament!" I said. "...Isn't Big Ben attached to the House of Parliament building?"

Eventually, we got it all figured out that the Palace of Westminster is, in fact, where the Houses of Parliament meet. We took our cheesy tourist pics, and then made our way across the street to get a couple shots of the London Eye. We never made in the London Eye (partly because of time constraints, mostly because of budgetary constraints), but we did get some great pictures of it. In fact, we got pictures of the London Eye from at least five different locations. After getting a little bit lost, while trying to decide which way to walk down the River Thames, we decided that instead of focusing on a destination, we would appreciate the journey, and take the standard red phone booth pics, double decker bus pics, sitting on a bench contemplating life pics. You know, the usual.

Eventually we made our way to Westminster Abbey (again, entrance to the church is quite pricey, so we enjoyed the outside) and the adjoining St. Margaret's. St. Margaret's Church is really cool on the inside. All of the kneeling cushions are handmade, and nearly every inch of the church is dedicated to someone. Also, the stained glass was not just dedicated to biblical stories, but also to English history. It was really interesting.

After that, we decided it was time for food. As we made our way to an old pub that we had passed on our way to the Abbey, we passed through what I believe is called Parliament Square. In the square, we recognized only two statues: Churchill and Nelson Mandela. I don't really know why Mandela is in the square, other than that he is a great man, but I liked it. But then, just as we were headed away from the park, my Ameri-senses began tingling "LINCOLN!" I yelled. I don't know what it is about leaving the States, but almost as soon as I left the country, I became very proud of us. I don't think I've ever been as patriotic in the United States as I am in Europe. The point is, we took our Lincoln pictures, and then made our way to lunch.

Again, it was delicious. We opted to eat English, in honor of our surroundings. I got what they called an open pie; mashed potatoes, carrots, chicken, and gravy with a little flakey pastry on top. It was pretty much a chicken pot pie, only with no side crust. Yum.
After that, we kind of lost steam. We made our way over to Buckingham Palace, which we were very disappointed in, since we didn't get to try to make the palace guards laugh (I guess that's just in the movies...and Fergie's music videos). Then we tried to find the Tate Modern, which promised a great view, but instead we found the Tate Britain. The art was nice, and the coffee was good, but there was no view.
Then, in our tired delirium, we thought it would be a good idea to just hop in a cab to get back to flat. Big Mistake. In London, there are a lot of one way streets and roundabouts, and well, 25Euros later, we made it back to the flat for a nap. Yes, we took a nap. I know what you're thinking...but you were in London! You should have taken advantage of every second. Believe me, we needed a nap.
When we woke up from our nap, we got dressed up, and headed out to experience the London nightlife. Turns out, we were not prepared for London nightlife. We got to the pubs too late, and the clubs too early. We did manage to have a good time, though. We went to one of the oldest pubs in London (turns out there a quite a few "Oldest Pub in London"....I think it's kind of like "Best Coffee in New York"), called Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese. It was a really cool building, and not a bad atmosphere, but it was kind of empty. It turns out, the guys getting off work head to the pubs straight from work, around 5 or 6, and then pretty much head home by 9. We got there at 9. So, after one drink, we moved on to check out Picadily Circus. It was described to me as being like Time Square, but I got a much more Vegas Strip vibe. There are a lot of 24hour restaurants and fast food places (including a McDonald's that we ate at - not good) and neon signs. There are more clubs than pubs, and a lot of street performers - bad street performers, but street performers, nonetheless.

Eventually, we stumbled upon a promoter for a club that promised three floors worth of dancing, each with its own style, the best view in the area, and up to 800 people. Well, there were three floors worth of dancing, and there was a great view, but there were probably 8 of us. Including staff. I didn't care. With just me and Chelsea sitting in a booth, I danced by myself! I love to dance, and no amount of awkwardness is going to stop me. I had a great time there on the 8th floor, for about an hour. After that, we went home. We are so lame that by the time my cousin, who had gone out with some work friends, got home that night, we were already in bed. What can I say? All that touristing really wiped us out.
The next day, Saturday, we spent the whole day with my cousin, and I am so glad that we did. She showed us the South Bank, which is a cool kind of hipster area, and we got lunch at this really cool, really yummy place called Wahaca. It's a pop up, which I guess is really popular in London. Rather than food trucks, (since it's a city and can you imagine driving a food truck through crowded streets?) they have popup restaurants, where eateries just insert themselves into places that wouldn't normally be a restaurant. Wahaca, one of these such popups, was incredible! It was almost Mexican food, but like Mexican food meets hipster tapas. So good.

What I have learned about my trip to London was that I really just liked the food in London.
After that, we made our way to the Tate Modern, and finally found that view we'd heard about. Then we found The Globe theater, the London Bridge, and the Tower Bridge. Let me just say, the London Bridge is a disappointment. Why wouldn't they just call the Tower Bridge, the London Bridge? I mean, that's the bridge that is featured in Fergie's "London Bridge" video. That's the bridge that Becks drove his little boat through during the Olympics. Honestly, I don't think anyone would really care if the London Bridge were falling down. But I guess I don't make the rules. And I can now say that I've walked across the famous Tower Bridge, and I've had Starbucks from under the Tower Bridge. (Starbucks in three countries, I don't know if I should be proud of my self or saddened by that reality).
Our final stop of the day was at Harrods, where we held jewels worth more than my car, and pretended we were far fancier than we ever have been. I mean, please, your watch only cost $10,000? I got mine at Harrods for $207,998.

That Saturday may have been one of the best I've had. It was really nice to be able to spend the whole day with my cousin. As she does live in London, I don't get to see her very often, and it was really nice to just have one-on-one time. I love my loud, crazy, Italian family, but when there are 40+ in the family, it can be hard to really know each other.

Becoming Grateful

Warning: The following post is written from the heart and reflects some truths that may be considered sad, dramatic, intimate, etc. Proceed with caution into my psyche.

Recently I have been getting in fights. Not physical brawls, but emotionally fueled altercations with people who love me. Why? Why am I fighting lately against that which I should be embracing? Why won't I allow myself to be open to advice...especially when I have gone out seeking it?

Tonight a friend of mine was standing across the street from Coyotes waiting for me to escape past the security guards, who were acting as a human wall between a man inside the club and a man outside the club trying to hit inside-the-club guy. While we were still within the barriers of the brawny security guards, my friend across the street overheard a girl say, "Look. It's red pants again." Tonight I was wearing my bright red pants. I love them. They are one of the most flattering pair of pants that I own, and I always feel top notch when I wear them out. Anyway, my friend heard the girls clearly taking about me, in the catty "oh, remember when we're talking shit about this girl earlier?" kind of way. I know the statement, I'm familiar with the intent.
Instead of just letting me live in ignorant bliss, my friend told me about it, so I did what any reasonable young woman dues, and I marched after the alleged offenders. (Sorry mom). Unfortunately, I was in heels, and couldn't catch up to them before they ducked into the Charcoal Grill. We did end up having a nice little chat with their friends outside, who supposedly were oblivious to the snarky girls, and calmed down.
When we got home, though, and were running through the events of the nights, I couldn't help but reflect on myself. Why had I allowed a comment, which I hadn't even heard, and which wasn't actually a direct attack on me, affect me so much?
The answer, I realized, is tied up in the fact that I still (after a years worth of therapy working on the issue) think first of the bad.
I have always struggled with being grateful. Not in the Veruca-Salt-more-more-more way. I wouldn't say that I'm particularly ungrateful for the physical things that I have. I'm more ungrateful for myself. When I think of myself, I don't think about the fact that, after years of dental work, I have a great smile. I don't think about the fact that if a friend were in need, I would drop everything to be a support to them. I don't think about the fact that I have been blessed with the ability to bullshit; that I have never really had to work hard to be successful at school. I don't think about the fact that I must be a pretty good human since I have managed to surround myself with an incredible group of friends.
Instead, I think about the fact that I am quick to tears, and quicker to anger. I think about the fact that I wish I had the calm demeanor of my father. I wish I lacked the ability to burn bridges like my mother. I wish I weighed less. I wish I felt better about myself. I wish I didn't turn red when I drink. I wish I didn't over think alcohol. I wish I didn't over think everything. I wish I wasn't as sensitive about criticism. Hell, I wish I wasn't as sensitive about advice. I wish, I wish, I wish. I could quite literally go on for pages about the things that I wish were different about myself. But most of all, I wish I could figure out how to take action. I wish I knew how to change the things I don't like about myself, instead of dwelling on them.
I mean, even the start of this idea was a criticism. I was criticizing the fact that I am not grateful for that which I have been blessed with.
I'm not trying to make excuses (which you know means I'm about to) but how am I supposed to start loving myself when for 19 years, I've told myself, "You're not good enough"?
It's like I have the devil and the angel on my shoulders. The devil always tells me how subpar I am. What a mess I am. What a disappointment I am.
For me, the devil is a voice in the back of my head. When I picture this voice, I picture it residing in the furthest depths of my skull, in a dark place. It whispers my greatest fears, and screams my smallest mistakes. It overpowers the other voice in my head. The one struggling to make it to the front. The one that says, "Everything is going to be ok. You are not irrational. You're allowed to feel the way you feel." This second voice is very buried. It is hidden behind the dark, looming cloud of failures, and I just don't know how to help it escape.
I want so badly to be the kind of person that others look to and think, "Wow. She is a great human." Mostly, though, I want to think that way. I want the voice that is now so hidden, so locked away, to be at the forefront. I want to feel good about myself. I want to truly love myself. I just really don't know how to make that happen.
For the next week, I am going to write down in my special pink journal - meant for only good things, fun things - one thing that I would like to improve about myself, one idea for how to improve it, and one thing that I love about myself everyday. Hopefully, I'll eventually see some of the things in the to-be-improved list move to the things-I-love list. Because at the end of the day, I do know that I'm worth loving. I know that I have good intentions, and I love with an open heart. I know that I am beautiful, and that my warmth lights my smile. I know that I am good human. I just can't let my brain get in the way of what my heart knows.

In a Rut

It's been a long time since I've written anything, and I couldn't figure out why. A dear friend of mine has been asking me lately why I haven't been writing. You're just not writing anymore, or what?

Thinking about it lately, I think that it's because I've gotten comfortable here. When I would first write for my blog, I would describe all of the crazy things I was doing, all of the strange adjustments I was making. Lately, though, not much has been out of the ordinary. I go to sleep later than I should (usually after catching up on my American sitcoms) and I wake up later than I should. I go to class (most on the time) and I go out a couple nights a week.

We go to either The Quays or The Front Door. On Tuesdays we usually go to Fibber Magees for Kareoke night. After Kareoke we usually just go to supermacs for some taco chips, but sometimes we make it to Coyotes for a bit of dancing.

I guess, as I sit down to write something, anything, I realize that I've let myself get into a rut. I spend too much time thinking and not enough time doing. Next week I will challenge myself to push the boundaries. I will challenge myself to do something outside of what has now become mundane. I will live while I'm in Ireland.

Faith

On Wednesday evening, a group from Saint Mary's came to Galway. They're making their way around Ireland exploring the literature from the country, and for a few days, they're studying here in Galway. I was so excited that they were coming because the two professors leading the trip are people who I hold close to my heart. One is Father Tom, a priest, who lived two doors down from me last year, as my Resident Director. And the second is a professor that I had my first semester freshman year, Rosemary. Rosemary means a lot to me because it was through her class and with her guidance that I was able to get through that terrible time in my life. English 25: Introduction to Creative Writing was my beacon of light. I was able to write about my dad and my sadness and my hopes. It gave me a direction, when I could barely tell you which way was up. It was through that early writing, and through Rosemary's unwavering support that I knew I needed to write my book.

Needless to say, I was excited to see these two wonderful figures in my life , not to mention getting to see some familiar SMC faces. (Although, I'll be honest, I didn't really know any of the students on the trip, there is something about our small school in Moraga that tends to create an immediate bond). They were kind enough to invite Chelsea and I out to dinner on Wednesday night, which sadly, Chelsea couldn't go to as she's fighting off a sinus infection, a respiratory tract infection, and possibly strep throat. But I went, and it was just a really nice evening. Nothing truly extraordinary happened, and I just stayed in on Wednesday night, but it really was a taste of home. It also made me realize just how lucky I am to be studying here. While I am truly envious of the traveling these students have done, I realized the benefits of having planted roots in one part of Ireland. We know the bouncers at the pubs. We know the best places to eat, and which places to avoid. We're, I finally realized, comfortable here.

Today we met up with the group again, as we bummed a ride to the Celtic Crystal factory. It was absolutely incredible. You walk into this big showroom, where every inch of every wall is lined with hand-made crystal ware. There were bowls and glasses and just about everything you could think of, each with a Celtic design inspired by Irish history, or something from the Book of Kells. There were wine glasses with the claddagh design and bowls with the shamrock and a whole set of tableware with a beautiful wheat pattern, commemorating the great famine. Several times the joke was made that all the girls were making their wedding registry as we looked around in awe of the artistry.

The impressiveness of the place didn't stop there. It turns out that none of the glass cutters use patterns. Each and every piece is made from memory. It is made from knowing the designs, feeling the patterns, and living the crystal. It takes a tremendous amount of work before you can be considered a glass cutter. First, you must prove your artistry by having an honors certificate in art and design. From there, you are taken on as an apprentice for five years. If you ever hope to work with the colored crystal - red from gold, green from nickle, and blue from cobalt - you are required to do two more years as an apprentice. Only then, after years of training and practice, are you considered ready to work with the pieces.

Perhaps even more impressive than that, though, is the owner's story. A little old lady named Mary owns Celtic Crystal; she has for 41 years, and she built it up from nothing. Her mother wanted her to be a teacher. That, she thought, would be a stable, respectable position. But Mary studied art and crystal cutting and fell in love with it. After graduating from college, she traveled to Germany to learn how to make colored crystal, and when she came back to Ireland, she knew she was ready to open her own factory. Her mother said she wouldn't bail her out if the factory didn't produce revenue, so she was in a sink or swim situation. She swam. Boy, how she swam! 41 years later she is the proud owned of a beautiful collection of crystal works, with a trusted staff of glass blowers and cutters. It is so inspiring to think that as a young woman, Mary bought an abandoned railway station and turned it into a crystal empire. I am so grateful that Chelsea and I were able to join the SMC group and see something that, on our own, I'm sure we never would have know about.

After the tour at Celtic Crystal, Rosemary and Father Tom offered to buy us lunch, and if that wasn't nice enough, they listened to us complain the whole time about what a pain it's been to get money here. Father Tom has already emailed someone at St. Mary's to see if she can help us with getting our scholarship money into our Irish bank accounts. He had to have gone straight back to the hotel and sent that email, since right after lunch, he took us grocery shopping.

Yes! Father Tom bought us groceries.

It started because he asked Chelsea if she had honey to help sooth her sore throat, and when we said no, he offered to buy it for us. Honey was one thing, but we got to Dunne's and he insisted that we get whatever we needed. Fruit, bread, turkey, crackers, hot chocolate. Everything on our shopping list. It was a simple gesture, but it was one of the sweetest things that anyone has done for me. Chelsea and I left the store feeling like we could cry from the kindness of it all. To be invited to join the group for dinner and at Celtic Crystal was already so kind, but then the spring for lunch today and buy us groceries, it was almost too much.

It's people like Rosemary and Father Tom, people with hearts wide open, that keep my faith strong. I know that I was in Rosemary's class freshman year because it was exactly where I needed to be. I know that Father Tom is in our lives to remind us of the good in the world. The good in mankind.

I'm Crampin' Up, Coach!

Trees were bending, seeking cover from the cold. Birds were huddled together, seeking shelter from the rain. I had my head down and my hands tucked away, as I wound my way through the streets of Galway, just trying to make it to school. Thursday morning was particularly cold - below zero by the local weather station's accounts - and I was facing something terrible. A leg cramp.

I'd been walking about 5 minutes when it happened, about half way there. I'd already passed Finnegan's on my left and La Salsa on my right. I was just about at the bridge, when I seized up. It was a Charlie horse of epic proportions. So, of course, being the English major I am, I saw it as a metaphor. I could either give in to the pain; sit down, go get a burrito, worry about class later. Or I could work through it. Stretch a little at the stop light, take some deep breaths, make it to class on time.

I like to think that in life, I tend to do the latter. I trudge through whatever hardships come my way. Sure, I may shed a tear or two, but at the end of the day, I fight through the pain. I get past the cramp, and enjoy the reward of finishing the walk. It feels good to finish. It feels good to commit to doing something, and sticking with it. I have a dear friend who moved to Kansas City, a far way from the quiet comfort of Thousand Oaks, to pursue an opportunity working for a Catholic newspaper. I remember being in awe of the fact that she would be able to actually move across the country. The farthest I've ever moved is across the state, and that was traumatic enough. Of course, once she got to KC there were some hardships, a serious adjustment period, but she's sticking it out. I haven't talked to her in a while, but I know she must be experiencing a tremendous sense of self worth. She worked trough her leg cramp, and has worked up to a jog.

You see, life is hard. I've, in my short time, experienced a lot of pain. A lot of leg cramps and broken arms and tremendous heartache, but I just keep going. I am lucky enough to have people surrounding me, my own track team (may as well really stick to the metaphor) helping me along the way; training with me, growing with me, holding me up when I need it and being equally supported when they need me. I have a life filled with joy and beauty because I choose to seek it out. Sometimes it's hard to see the finish line when you can barely walk, but I feel confident saying, I will always make it to the end.

Some Thoughts

I'm lying here in bed, debating about taking a nap before my next class, and doing what I do best - facebook prowling - when I stumble upon a shared link called "19 Things You Should Stop Doing in Your 20s." While I'm not yet 20, I figured I have a couple months to start thinking about these suggested things; get them out of my system, if you will. I found something very interesting, while reading this post. I agree with it. While, sure I fall into many of the categories, I also recognized that I do try to be attentive of many of these 19 things. For me, number 6 stood out as a front runner of things I'd like to work on to make me my best possible self.

"6. Stop identifying yourself as a cliche and start treating yourself as an individual. Constantly checking your life against a prewritten narrative or story of how things “should” be is a bought-into way of life. It’s sort of like renting your identity. It isn’t you. You are more nuanced than the narrative you try to fit yourself into, more complex than the story that “should” be happening."

So often, I find that I am trying to fit myself into a cliche, a certain type of person - the kind of person I think I am, the kind of person I think I should be. At the end of the day, I am just me. I am Alison Marie McCranie. There is only one of me, and I should really be able to embrace myself, as I am, for who I am. This doesn't mean that I can make excuses for poor behavior. "Sorry I'm not sorry, I'm just doin' me." But if I go out to a pub, I don't need to drink as much as everyone else (because, seriously, they drink alcohol here like it's water). I don't need to go out every night, just because my friends do. I'm allowed to have me time. I'm allowed to go off on adventures, and explore new places, new aspects of my surroundings, and in turn, myself. As number 13 said, "It's unlikely that one of the things you'll regret when you're older is not having consumed enough beer in your 20s, or not having bought enough $5 lattes...Fear of missing out is a real, toxic thing." I don't need to construct a character for the book I aim to write, I already am a character. I am a character ready to love myself. I am a character seeking out happiness. 

Mo Money Mo Problems...

I seriously need to get my spending habits in check. I was doing so well this week at not eating out, not ordering drinks from the pubs, not going to places where you have to pay a big cover charge. I really felt good about my finances. So, of course, I let loose today. First, I went to a little souvenir shop and couldn't help but buy a present or two (not to mention the pint glass key chain, which is only necessary if I can ever find my key again). Then we went over to Thomas Dillon, the original Claddagh ring store, and invested in some Claddagh rings. I knew I wanted one before I left. I've always liked them, and I figured being in Galway, the home of the original shop, I could treat myself. Not to mention, the sterling silver ones are only 45Euro. So, I did it. I spent 45Euro on a new, shiny Claddagh ring. I don't regret it - especially after all of the research I put into it about which way to wear it, what the parts mean, etc, etc. - but I definitely feel the void of where the money once was.

After that little investment, we went over to the mall, to a store called New Look. I'd been in there before and thought their stuff was really cute, but last time, I was strong and didn't buy anything. This time, gulp, I dropped another 40Euro. I invested in a pair of wedges - which in all honesty are much needed because the girls here wear these six inch heels, and I just can't keep up - and a pair of red pants. The pants were on sale. So, of course, I had to get them.

The point is, I'm running out of money. Fast. But, at least I'll look good in two weeks, when I can't afford food ;)

Silent Disco

Every Tuesday night a local pub, the Roisin Dubh, hosts something absolutely incredible. They call it Silent Disco, and it's brilliant. Really sound. The Silent Disco works like this: You pay a 5Euro cover charge to get in, and to get a free pint. As you walk in, a man at the front door hands you a pair of head phones, and quickly mumbles, "Volume here, stations here," pointing out the two buttons you need to know how to use. Then the fun begins. There are two DJs, playing two completely different stations, and you can flip between the two, deciding on the one you like best. For our purposes, we will refer to the DJs by what was on their shirts...A and B. DJ A tended to play more of a rock feel. Everything from Mumford and Sons to Cindy Lauper. I would say that his station was the more popular of the two because more of his songs were of the sing-along variety. I mean, when "Livin on a Prayer" came on, you could here the masses more clearly than the headphones. I personally preferred DJ B. It may have been because he was the cuter of the two, but I would also attribute it to the amount of Justin Timberake he played. I would describe his station as more of the dirty rap variety. It started out with mostly old-school rap: Biggie, Ice Cube, Snoop Dogg (from when he was still called Snoop Dogg and promoted the "izzle"). But as the evening progressed, there was more and more late 90s, early 2000s, even including some newly released Jay/'ye stuff. It was perfect dance music! Come to think of it, that's probably why Chelsea and I loved it, and the Irish weren't as into it. haha They like to bob. We like to dance. And dance we did, all night.

Here's to you Silent Disco! See ya next Tuesday :)

The Onslaught

It's really incredible how quickly you can be transported back in time. The smell of your favorite food reminds you of cooking with mom. The feel of warm rain takes you back to a family vacation. The sight of an old friend jogs a memory of time spent at your favorite restaurant. Yesterday, I was writing a facebook message to a cousin, and the last message between us was from her, sending her love and condolences after my dad's death. Wow. In an instant, I was taken back to that time, that mind set. I struggled for air, and my heart rate picked up. The surge of emotion at a simple message on facebook was incredible. Nearly unfathomable. How is it that seeing those words, simple as they were, could bring about such an onslaught of pain?

Of course, though, after a few deep breaths, and some steadying thoughts I was back in Ireland, back to planning a weekend trip to London, back to reality. But for that moment, I was a small, scared child trying to wrap my head around a phone call that shattered my world.

Vulnerable

The other day I made myself very vulnerable by posting something that I would usually keep to myself. I've written things like that before, attempting to describe my pain, but I've never really shared it. Sure, there were probably only my three adoring fans who read it, but still, it was posted publicly. There was a thought of taking it down - I don't want to make them worry, what if I sound crazy...or worse, stupid - but I decided that I could share, I should share. I should not be afraid to share my true feelings, I should find strength in the fact that I have people in my life who might actually care to know what I am experiencing.

I am happy to report that the last four days have been great days! The morning after my last post, last Friday, 13 Jan (as they'd say here) I woke up nice and early, and went to school to sign up for my seminar class. Even though I was a good 50 people deep, I got the class that I needed, and I finalized my schedule for the semester. This of course, only happened after I went to a class called Nietzsche's Philosphy and realized, I cannot take Nietzsche's Philosophy. The class only had about seven people in it, and the course load seemed very intense. The professor asked us several times about why we had chosen the class, if we were philosophy majors, how much we knew about Nietzsche, and every time I was questioned, I just realized more and more that the class was not right for me. And I was certainly not right for the class. So, half way through the period, Chelsea and I gathered our belongings, explained to the professor that we were over our heads, and left. We then spent about an hour looking for other classes and trying to work out our schedules. Eventually, I landed on 18th Century Ireland. Why would I take a class as fascinating as the history of Ireland in the 18th Century? To be honest, it's a lecture, and it worked in my schedule. I have not had much luck...any luck in finding classes that I actually want to take. The system here didn't really allow for that. However, I finally have ironed out my schedule with some of the classes that I need, and all of the classes that fit into the timestable I want.

As we walked home from school that day, heads held high, feeling very confident in our planning abilities, Chelsea and I made an extraordinary discovery. Eddie Rocket's. Yes! It's Johnny Rocket's, Galway-edition. The food wasn't exactly the same - the Chocolate Malt was a little disappointing and the fries didn't have enough salt - but it was really nice to have a little taste of home. The interior was just like a Johnny Rocket's, and it was awesome to find it. A little place to remind me that I can still carry the love of my home with me, it's just a little bit different here.

All Kinds of Sick

For the last couple of days I have been feeling the nagging pain in the back of my throat that means I'm getting sick. I knew it would happen eventually, that I would get sick in Ireland, but I really thought that it would be further down the road. As they would say here, fer godsake, I was just sick last week! I came to Ireland with a bad cold, not to mention a double ear infection, so I really thought I would be in the clear. Wrong! My immune system lost any chance of fighting off this bad boy, while also fighting the cold. I'm just not used to this weather. Everything is damp. All the time. Outside, the roads are slick with the constant moisture in the air. Inside, the rooms are muggy, equally full of moisture, as the fresh air is avoided because of the fear of the nip. We've finally gotten our apartment to a fairly balanced temperature, but for the most part, there is no comfortable. Inside is too hot, too stuffy, but outside is too cold. Where is Goldilocks when you need her?

The point is, I'm sick. So, of course, all I want to do is cuddle my mommy and have a bowl of soup and watch crappy TV (crappy, American TV) and just be. Because of this deepseeded need for home when I'm sick, it is not unordinary for my illnesses to be accompanied by a small dose of homesickness. Unfortunately, tonight it feels like the physical sickness and the home sickness have come in equal parts.

Before I left for Ireland, a dear friend of mine made sure to tell me that it wasn't worth it to get homesick. Of course, it would come, she said, but don't let it ruin the experience. So far, I think I've done a really good job at keeping these words in mind. I'll have little moments of missing my mom, or missing friends. I definitely have had times where I just miss America, and having the comfort of knowing what is considered publicly acceptable; knowing where things are, and how things work. But overall, I've tried to make the most of everything around me. Today, though, I just lost it. I miss home. I find that today, I am terribly sad. It is the kind of sadness, to be honest, that I run from. It is the kind of creeping sadness that comes about when I think of my dad, mostly. It is the sadness that feels much like fear - fear of the unknown, fear of failure, fear of loss. It is the sadness that makes it hard to breathe, hard to think. It is a terribly depressing thing, this sadness, which is why I try to avoid it. I try to not let it take over, but sometimes, it just does. Today, I was sad.

Tomorrow, I will be happy.

An Anecdote

"Come here!! Oh my God, you guys, come here!!"

As Chelsea and I scrambled to our roommate Erin's window, she said, "There is a car totally hitting another car!"

What?

Peering out the window, not very inconspicuously, the three of us watched a man in a Volvo back his car into a too tight for comfort parking spot, after pushing the little silver car behind him back. He just, balls to the walls, edged himself into a parking spot he shouldn't have fit in. The best part may have been when he waited for the pedestrians to walk by before finishing the job. It seriously was like a scene from a movie. A woman in a red trench coat was walking one direction, as a man in a black sweatshirt walked the other. "Which way to Dunnes?" I imagine her asking. Because for a good 45 seconds, they each took turns pointing, and talking. Finally, they went their separate ways, and the Volvo continued backing into the spot.

I don't know whether I should be impressed or mortified. On one hand, this man saw what he wanted, and made it happen. On the other hand, how dare you?! What if he had damaged the car he carelessly backed into? What if he had been caught by the car owner and had gotten into trouble? I guess, it doesn't really matter. I'll never see him again. As I don't drive in this country, I'll probably never be affected by his recklessness, but I don't think I'll ever forget that crazy man in the Volvo.

It's Been a Long Time...

It's been a couple of days now, that I haven't posted anything new, but a lot has happened. So, here's to hoping I remember to include everything!!

I would like to start by saying, we met Harry Styles. That's a lie. But we did meet a kid who looked exactly like Harry Styles! In fact, we met two. There were these brothers, who looked very much alike, and who looked very much like the 1D crooner. (to be honest, I've always wanted to use the word crooner in a sentence, it makes me feel very US Weekly) The point is, Chelsea, our new friend Hillary, and I were wandering around this pub called The Front Door, and we bumped into a group of guys. We asked them, in our American innocence, what they were drinking. What's good? When we said we were not Irish enough to handle the Guinness they each had, they suggested Smithicks. I'm not much of a drinker, and after having tried Guinness - when in Rome - I am definitely not much of a beer drinker. So, I refrained from taking their advise, but I did have a nice long chat with Harry Styles Senior. He told us that, as Americans we all sound like JWoww. I mean, he didn't call out the Jersey Shore cast by name, but the American girl impression he did was pretty....JWoww. He also said that if guys danced at a club in Ireland the way they dance in America, they would just get hit. It was about that time that the Styles' cousin came around. Again, I don't know his name, it might have been Luke. I also just called him by his celebrity doppelganger - Macklemore. As the boys headed out of the pub, they said they were headed to carbon (the club Chelsea and I went to for New Year), and they hoped to see us there. Before they left, though, something strange happened. They kissed each of us on the forehead. What? We were really confused by the gesture. Is that an Irish thing, or were these boys just forward? Is a forehead kiss considered forward? I guess we'll never know for sure, seeing as though we didn't really see then again.

The next morning we started off the academics right, and slept through our second day of orientation. Let me tell you, this whole time adjustment thing is a pain. I have now been in Ireland for over a week, and I still don't feel fully adjusted. I'm usually lethargic and ready for bed by 6 (a side effect of the constant rain, I think). Some nights I give in and fall asleep, which then results in a couple hours if napping. Some nights I force myself to stay awake, which results in a serious second wind, and I don't end up falling asleep until the early hours of the morning. Either way, my nights are typically not spent sleeping. I've tried everything to find sleep. I've counted my blessings, read a few books, and even taken Tylenol pm. Nothing seems to work! I'm just hoping that once school starts, and my life falls into a routine, my sleep pattern will even out too.

I guess that leads me to the other thing I've been doing lately: school. As I said, I had two days of orientation (one if which I attended) and then a walking tour of campus. I did attempt to go in the walking tour, but our tour guide must have been raging the night before because he could barely keep his eyes open, and he mumbled so badly I could not hear a damn thing he said. Because of dear Andrew's lack if enthusiasm, a couple of us dipped out about half way through. We looked at the gym on our own, and then we found our way to the international affairs office, where we asked for an update on what we'd missed that morning. Overall, we felt like we had a pretty good grip on what we needed to know. Wrong! Haha I guess we were just being typical Americans, with an unearned sense of confidence (yes, we have been told by two sources that that is how we're seen) because when we showed up at school on Monday, not only did we not know where to go, we didn't even know if we had to be there. I hadn't even made my timetable yet!

What, you may ask, is a timetable? Well, I may answer, it is a piece of paper where you are meant to write down your classes to make sure they don't overlap. Sounds easy enough, sure, but when you have to walk to the department secretaries of every subject area in order to find their listing of the classes offered, and then sort it all out on your own, it is a surprisingly tricky task. This level of difficultly increases when you add in the fact that visiting students are only allowed to take certain classes. And, the times of classes are downright loony! At home, classes are generally something like Monday/Wednesday/Friday 10-11 or Tuesday/Thursday 9:40-11:10. Here, classes are like Tuesday 5-6 and Wednesday 9-10. Not to mention that fact that every English class I was interested in taking was offered at the same time. Well, I can't very well take 3 classes at once! So, I worked on my timetable, and after an hour of sitting in the - what should I call it, eatery? - the eatery, and cycling through the group of guys, the group of girls, and the mixture sit across from us, I figured out my schedule and got excited about the coming semester. I felt, for the first time since getting here, that I had a direction. I knew what I was supposed to do, and I knew how I was supposed to do it.

Slip n Slide

"Oh my God, Ali! Are you ok?"
I knew I should respond, I knew I should get off the ground, and I knew I should not put my head down. Unfortunately, I did not do any of those things. I just gave in to the situation, put my head on the ground, and started laughing. It was one of those times where my body knew only one response - laugh. I had just publicly slid down the street, stopping under a planters box in the middle of Galway.
Safe!
"I'm fine," I finally said, "Embarrassed as all hell, but fine."
You have to understand that Chelsea and I had been walking for at least a mile, with our hands full of groceries. Here in Ireland, like the starting trend in America, they charge you for using bags at the grocery stores, so Chelsea and I decided that we could use the bags we'd gotten from Penney's (a retail store, much like JC Penney). Why would any store in a country that constantly rains give out paper bags? Needless to say, our paper Penney's bag broke, so we were left with 50 Euros worth of groceries in one plastic bag and two small handbags. It was painful. Actually, painful - I have bruises from where the heavy bags were hanging on my wrists.
About halfway through the trip home, we stopped at a pharmacy, soaking wet and pathetic looking, and asked if they had a bag. The woman, showing her true Irish hospitality, made some make-shift bags for us to continue our journey. She said, "Do you have much further to go?" and unfortunately, our response was, "Yeah, pretty far."
I don't know how the Irish do it. It's probably that they can drive....or they're prepared with the correct type of bag. Either way, in that moment on the ground, lost somewhere between tears and laughter, I couldn't help but think, "Why am I here? Why didn't I choose a warm country? I could have gone to Australia!"
But life is a learning experience, and if I had gone to Australia or Italy or some other country, I wouldn't have learned the hard way to always be prepared with reusable bags. I wouldn't have learned that sometimes it is better to let yourself laugh at the absurdity that you have just publicly fallen on your face, then cry that you are wet and kind of miserable. Sure, I would have learned different lessons, but I feel confident in saying that I am supposed to be here. I am supposed to be in Ireland, falling and fighting the rain and enjoying the company. I am supposed to be learning these lessons.