Wherein I am the boat propeller blades from Indiana Jones

It's interesting how an accent differential makes a funny situation slightly more humorous. I wonder why that is.

I went swimming today during lunch at the UL sports arena (same as here). The pool is set on race course, so one lap is 100 m. The pools at Emory are set to the short track, and that way you can fit in more lanes to a pool, so you get fewer people to each lane if they have to share. At UL, there are maybe seven lanes, and five of them are often used by the swim team so the general public has to share the remaining lanes.

**aside: though even when all seven are open and there are only a few swimmers (everyone could have their own lane), someone invariably ends up sharing the lane with me. "Why Mr. Stranger, when you could have your own lane??" It's like when electrons defy electron orbital filling patterns or guys break the urinal usage order**

Anyway, today two guys decided to share the lane with me, which meant that we had to swim circular laps (read: highly stressful laps). It works fine if everyone is the same pace, but passing people can be a pain, figuratively and literally.

One of the guys was probably in his mid 40s and when we talked, I couldn't understand half of what he said. Luckily, I developed a skill in China where I take a guess at what the person is saying or asking and respond accordingly. The success rate is surprisingly high, either because I guess correctly or the other person realizes that I'm an idiot and changes topic.

During my last lap, I was super focused on proper technique and a strong finish when I suddenly saw feet wriggling, face up, under me! Realizing that I was about to spear the guy with my ferocious paddling, I veered to the right to pass him.

When I reached the end of the pool, he caught up to me and said, "You were almost the end of me! Didn't ya hear me hollerin'??" I guess he'd been doing the backstroke, yelling to me as I approached him that he was in my path of destruction.

I envision my arms coming down with terrifying force, obliterating whatever comes in their path.

Hours later in tissue engineering class, I got a short laugh as I imagined the guy with widening eyes and increasingly frantic kicking and shouting (Irish accent, of course) as I zoomed in towards him, like a monster closing in on a kill.

Bonus: he also asked if I was at UL for a swimming competition ("Who, little old me? Why I'm not that great of a swimmer. Stop.") and then recommended I participate in a triathlon... perhaps not for my athletic prowess but because I would scare everyone off the course.

A shamrock by any other name

The distribution of names here has really interested me. Not surprisingly, there's a healthy dose of religious-based names--especially among men--such as Daniel, James, Adam, Luke, and Michael. What's fun is to meet people with uniquely Irish names (at least according to my ear).

One of the serving lady's name on campus is Sinead ("shuh-NADE"). I responded, "Oh, like Sinead O'Connor?" It was probably all she could do to not roll her eyes. It's like when people ask me if I've ever heard of the rapper, Warren G.

Then a cashier I met in Dingle had a nametag with "Siobhan" on it. "Shuh-VAHN" is how you pronounce it, then," she said. Oh yes, "si" make the "shuh" sound and "bh" make th "v" sound.

I went ahead and looked up Irish birth names commonly given in 2010. Here's a completely non-scientific sample:

Female
Aoife
Ciara
Saoirse
Caoimhe
Niamh
Clodagh
Aisling

Male
Conor
Cian
Darragh
Oisin
Cillian
Eoin
Callum

The differences in names between the US and Ireland has been especially apparent and fun in Coca-Cola's recent "share a coke" campaign. The soda bottles have written on them, "Share a Coke with" and then a name ("Aoife") or title ("Mate"). Proof that I'm a total sucker for Coke's amazing marketing machine, I've enjoyed pawing through cans and bottles in shops and restaurants to see what common names in Ireland are (according to Coke, anyway, which should inherently be taken as Truth).

Here are some of my findings:

The next parish over is Boston

One thing I’ve heard several times in the Dingle Peninsula is that “the next parish over is Boston.” When I first read that phrase several weeks ago, I passed it off as a community’s boast to something uniquely big and fun but ultimately inconsequential (like “home to the world’s largest ball of yarn” or “site of greatest water balloon fight”). I think that’s the case for many of the local youngsters. But having learned more about the area and its former population loss due to emigration, my guess is that the phrase arose out of a longing for family members who’d departed to far away lands.  Saying “the next parish over” was an act intended to close the gap that was the Atlantic Ocean.

 

Home in Dingle Peninsula, circa 1940

Perhaps where this is most readily symbolized is on Blasket Island, a tiny island that blebs off from the tip of Dingle Peninsula, making its now-abandoned village the former western-most European community. The small but hardy islanders survived centuries of weather-beaten, luxury-free living. During the Great Famine (potato blight) of 1840s-1850s, the population dropped from 153 to 97, and during this time the people started looking elsewhere for prosperity. Later in the 1930s (population ~140), in part due to loss of industry when trawlers from nearby cities depleted their local fish supply, the people moved en masse away from the island. Poverty and the lack of any long-term employment at home and reports of abundant work “over there” lured many a young person on the emigrant’s trail. I was surprised that the citizens, who had just won their independence from England, would apparently renounce their homeland to move to the US. A local responded to me, “Despite their great sense of being Irish, if there was no way to survive, then they needed to leave.” The population shrank drastically in just a few decades to below 50, and in 1953, the remaining Blasket inhabitants—all past their prime and unable to have emigrated—left their island and moved into mainland Ireland.

village on Blasket Island, circa 1940

Now, my guess is that in the US we have a more fluid and free sense of mobility than people did in the “Old World.” I can move away from family and into new communities more seamlessly than did my ancestors (no doubt made much easier by modern communication technologies). But for the people of Blasket Island, their sense of community built through generations was presumably much, much tighter. Not only must it have been painful for them to lose their rising generation to emigration, but it must have also been heart-wrenching to lose their families to physical separation. Wrote one man who interviewed a widow:

     “I was inside with an old widow a few nights ago. She had three lovely rooms in her house. Her children are all in America only one son that’s a man here, but not in her house. Imagine her sitting in the corner alone thinking and looking at her empty house which her grandchildren should be playing in and she knows that she will never see her dear ones again.” – Eillis Ni Shuilleabhain

So I watch the sun set on this side of the world, with the breeze picking up and sheep bleating behind me, with birds diving for fish and the waves crashing against Blasket Island. I am grateful for the sacrifices that immigrants made that also helped create the US that we have. But also, I reflect on the longing that the people of this island must have felt. Perhaps they tried to bolster their desire for the success of their progeny to smother any sense of betrayel, and maybe they would look at the setting sun and remember that it shone also on their departed family.

After all, they were just one parish over.

The impertinent sheep of Eask Tower

This weekend I'm down in the Dingle Peninsula, checking out the small touristy seaside town and jaunting around surrounding area.

But before I got there, I drove by some (cloned?) cows.

Did we learn nothing from Where Late the Sweet Birds Sang??

I climbed a large hill. (hey, it's 600 feet above sea level! that's a decent hike.)

upper right-ish is Eask Tower!

I met some sheep who I thought were new friends.

I thought about chasing them (like Malcolm and I did in England '99) but noticed that they were watching me out of the corner of their eyers. I was simultaneously creeped out and discouraged.

And I saw lots of wild fuchsias here, as well as in other parts of the 'sula.

Unfortunately, I hadn't taken my hiking boots. My shoes were fine for walking on flat ground, but are not tight. Therefore, with every step I took uphill, my shoe would bite onto and pull down a bit more of my sock. I could make it 70 paces (I counted) before my socks looked like this:

I mean, I am single-handidly making fanny packs a thing. But squinched socks is beyond even my trend-setting skillz.

I finally made it to the top of the hill, which had clear signs of life.

And great views!

Eask Tower is solid stone and was built in 1847. It had a giant wooden hand on its side to direct water traffic into the tortuous bay. Construction was funded by a Protestant priest who--according to the plaque--wanted to get in good with the starvation-stricken Catholic population.

Somewhat ironically, the locals eventually (100 years later) held Catholic Mass on the site.

Having gotten my fill of the grandeur, I headed back down.

BUT some sheep blocked my path. Some friends they turned out to be...

"Ewe shall not pass!"

The landowners have thoughtfully left a bucket of water and a brush to remove aforementioned signs of life, and there was a puppy border collie there to greet me!

Not quite a cat, but Sally did the job.

St. Bridget's Well: a place of faith

After my stop at the Cliffs of Moher last weekend, I noticed in my guidebook a small entry on St. Bridget's Well (near Liscannor). As I was in the area and had the time, I fancied a stop, imagining an unvisited natural spring dedicated to one of Ireland's patron saints.

Upon arrival, I could only find a cemetery, which was situated atop a hill overlooking lush, patchwork fields; quite the place to rest in peace. Here and at other Irish graves, I've noticed that in addition to silk and cut flowers, there are quite a few potted plants, indicating dedicated, continued attendance.

I wandered around the cemetery a bit and couldn't find the spring. But there were a few small families milling around one end, so I asked them, and they invited me to join them as the rounded a corner down some stairs.

The number of people there really surprised me! Three or four small families were visiting the area and sipping water directly from the well or filling bottles with (blessed?) water. Apart from the kids who were just running down, the people were actively praying or pondering in the little grotto. Out of respect, I waited for people to leave before snapping some shots.

People had left memorabilia of their loved ones, or even reports of miracles in their own lives. Among the items were many small program notes from loved ones' funeral services.

At the far end, a trickle of water sprung out of the hillside.

Testimony of the miraculous healing of Jimmy Delaney (with brother Michael).

Many of the notes were carefully prepared, but many notes were written seemingly on the spot, as though someone close to them suddenly came to mind.

A prayer request for Shirley in America who is healing from cancer (6/6/14).

A plea for the protection of Julia's husband, Kieron, written on the back of a receipt.

It was a beautiful place to be in. Although the memorabilia ranged from prepared to "in the moment" and new to faded, what was really touching was the devotion and faith that was demonstrated; visitors didn't come because of routine, but out of real intent and care.

Baby's first bazzer

I've purposely been letting my hair get a wee bit shaggy so that I could get a haircut ("bazzer") in Ireland.

Today was the day that I transformed to look like a local.

After a quick google search, I found a barber a quarter mile from campus: Johnny Barber!

note to self: Rio's sells fish & chips. return.

My barber was from Killarney and looked like a pierced, delinquent Seamus Finnigan (from Harry Potter).

When I was living in Beijing, haircuts were a bit of an adventure: I'd sit down, the barber would presumably ask me how I wanted the cut, I'd kinda wave my hand and pinch my hair at varying lengths, and then shrug. I figured that getting a haircut in Ireland would be pretty straightforward.

Well, Seamus' accent proved a challenge.

When he asked me (presumably) how I wanted it cut, I had to ask for clarification three times before I understood what he was asking. I responded, "oh whatever the trending Irish haircut is right now." (think of the European soccer players in the World Cup. That's what I see a good bit of [ohhh the World Cup..... the US is out.... *cries*]).

Then I asked him about soccer/football vs rugby, and he said that rugby wasn't huge there. Then I asked about Hurling because I'd seen a celebratory banner in a small town about a local Hurling team. He said something something something "stick" something something "ball", I filled in the blanks and asked, "oh, so like field hockey?" He responded that it wasn't quite, and then he and another barber got into an argument about how best to describe hurling, and kinda nervously laughed, and then I realized that the guy was holding a buzzer to my head and I decided to stop asking questions, lest things escalate and I end up looking like and Irish skinhead.

I mean, things were fine, but I surmised that this "meeting the locals" thing wasn't going very far.

Anyway, the haircut ended peachily (12.5 euro) and I was on my way.

Btw, apparently my Irish haircut is very similar to my American haircut, except that the guy cut my back hairline very straight/angularly. I totally blend in now! (get it? "blend"? like in a haircut?)

Afterward, I ran over to UL's sports arena for a group fitness class: Trak Attack! (c omitted for stylistic purposes)

It was basically a circuit workout with various stations. Main differences: they called "jumping jacks", "star jumps" and "jumping rope", "skipping." At first I was slightly confused and almost started American skipping.

The small group that I went through the stations with had a lass whose name was Aileen. By the end, we were all cheering for each other, and at one point, the phrase "come on, Aileen!" came out of my mouth.

You can guess which song I've had stuck in my head all evening.

A Poulnabrone pick-me-up

Tonight was the last World Cup soccer game for the US Men's National Team. so many tears. I went to a pub downtown (Smyth's) to watch the game with a bunch of Americans. According to my new-found expertise of the sport, the US played well for the first 10 minutes, and then so-so for about an hour before an exciting rally at the end. But to no avail. Still, the US did better than expected overall (again, according to my totally justifiable analysis).

so many feels.

With the loss heavy on my heart, I feel the need to post a nice picture to lift my spirits.

I took this on Sunday, when I was driving through the Burren. It's a region that is characterized by a lot of exposed, craggy limestone and little topsoil. This is Poulnabrone Tomb, which was a portal tomb for deceased people, dating from the Neolithic Period. I happened to get there near sunset and caught a bunch of rays shining on it.

There. That makes me feel a little better.