A Ruff Life in Ireland

The people of Listowel love their animals.  Go for a walk in the park and you will find plenty of hounds running around without leashes, tongues hanging, tails wagging.  A quick sharp whistle from their owner sends them dashing back, knowing exactly who they belong to.  It’s these times that I miss my dog the most.

But there are also dogs in Listowel that are not so lucky.  For a few hours every afternoon, the same collie walks into town and stands in front of the pub across the street from my apartment.  He is brown and dingy white with kind eyes and walks with a limp.  He stays out of the way of pedestrians and never tries to go inside the pubs.  He just stands there, looking very sad and lonely, and occasionally sneaks a drink of water from a nearby water drain. 

Yesterday I came across another stray as I was walking home from the grocery store.  This one was a brown lab and was soaking wet.  It had not rained, so I was very curious as to how he had become so drenched.  Next to him lay a wet tree branch that had to have weighed fifteen pounds—he must have gone swimming for it in the river that runs through town.  As I approached, he nudged the branch in my direction, looked me in the eye, and whimpered.  This dog was not a beggar; he was working for his food.  I reached in my handbag and retrieved a dog biscuit.  The dog politely waited for me to lay it on the ground in front of him before seizing it hungrily. 

Everyday I resist the urge to pull these sweet babies into my tiny apartment and shower them with affection.  Although I am not in the position to become their foster mother, I will continue to buy treats for them and pray that they are able to find shelter at night.  I wish there was more that I could do. 

A Bit of Craic

“When did you come to Ireland?”

“Two days ago.”

“Really?  And have you had good crack?”

“Uh….what?”

I later found out that the kind of crack this nice stranger was referring to was craic, which means fun.  The Irish, especially those under the age of thirty, use this word more than an American teenager uses “like.”  I have also learned that when someone says something is “class,” it means that something is very nice.  For example:

“Did you go on holiday to Dingle?”

“Yes, I did.  It was really class.”

If you want to know if there are any good looking men in a town, you ask if there is any talent.  I found this out when I was waiting at a bus stop one day.  I struck up a conversation with a woman from Cork and she was very curious about Listowel. 

“Is there any talent in Listowel?” she asked.

“Talent for what?” I responded.

“You know, good looking blokes.  Talent.”

“Oh!”

And here are some more translations for you:

Chips = French fries

Crisps = Potato chips

Spuds or Mash = Potatoes

Rashers = Bacon

Bangers = Sausage

White pudding = Solidified pig blood in a sausage casing

(Feel free to cringe, just as I did.)

In grocery stores, the eggs can be found unrefrigerated in the bread aisle (I bought some anyway and haven’t died...yet).  Peanut butter is extremely hard to find, and the label reads, “American Style.”  Also, coffee is found mostly in the form of instant.  I became very excited the other day when I found some real coffee grounds for a French press.

I have found that I have a difficult time with Irish doors.  There are knobs on just about all of them, but none of the knobs turn.  You basically have to push the door in exactly the right position to get it to open.  I have felt (and looked) like a fool many times while trying to open doors here.  But you could say that I have a love/hate relationship with Irish doors.  They may be impossible to open, but they are so beautiful!  Never have I seen so many different colors and unique door knockers.

Since coming to Listowel, I have not been able to find a converter for my curling iron and hair straightener.  Without the aid of these tools, my hair has been wild and curly.  At first I felt self-conscious about my style, but then I realized something: everyone’s hair is wild and curly here.  So I will enjoy this time of not having to worry about what my hair looks like.

Sure, I have had to make some lifestyle adjustments since moving to Ireland, but these adjustments have been minor.  It is easy to allow cultural differences to make one homesick, but I choose to embrace these differences, finding the humor and beauty in it.  After all, I didn’t come this far to find another America.

 Door photography is my new obsession.

I love this note.  The shop owner returned right when I took this picture.  She looked at me very strangely.

In Honor of Granny

This week I lost a very important woman in my life – Granny Aileen.  Before I left for Ireland, I visited her in the hospital.  She and I had a wonderful conversation about some of the many trips she had taken throughout her life.  Granny Aileen loved to travel almost as much as she loved food.  We joked that once I got back from Ireland, I would teach her how to river dance and she made me promise to tell her all about the food in Ireland.

Since I have been in Ireland, I have done quite a bit of cooking of my own.  In my grandmother’s honor, I made her famous chicken salad with grapes this week.  It was not as perfect as hers, but it tasted so much like home that I ate the entire batch in one day.  I have also made tacos, hot chicken and cheese sandwiches, and various pasta dishes.  My cooking skills are basic at best, but I am trying.  I can remember when I was a little girl, Granny Aileen told me that she could not boil water when she first got married (she was sixteen).  It is hard to imagine a time when she could not cook – this woman was a whiz in the kitchen.  Every Christmas and Easter she would cook enough for a small army, making the most amazing candies, cakes, and cookies.  There was nothing that she could not make.  I remind myself of this as I struggle to whip up a meal – skill will come with time. 

For Granny, family and food were her top priority.  And I have found this to be true for the Irish.  The day after Granny died, I learned that my Irish mother’s husband unexpectantly passed as well.  At the young age of 56, he had a heart attack.  I had been dealing with the grief of my grandmother’s passing fairly well until that point – I had been removed from the realities of death, but suddenly I was looking it straight in the eye.  I walked past the family’s drapery shop to find it closed with a black bow on the door’s handle.  The next day I went to the visitation.  As I paid my condolences to the family for their loss, I thought of nothing but my grandmother.  How I wanted to go home and be at her visitation.  I felt a deep guilt that I could not be there when she had been there for me throughout my entire life.

But since I cannot be home right now, I have decided to experience Ireland in her honor.  I will eat amazing food, have enriching experiences, and try to live life without regret.  As I stroll down the streets of Listowel, I can feel her walking with me, encouraging me to stop in every bakery and try all the different kinds of sweets.  She would love it here. 

 Granny Aileen

Grey's Anatomy and Michael Jackson

I have been in Ireland for exactly one week now, and I cannot remember a time when I have had this much free time to myself.  Today I purchased a little potted plant for my windowsill and am now considering getting a goldfish to put in my apartment.  Needless to say, I’m getting a bit lonely.

To ease the sting of loneliness, I made my way down to the pub next door, known as Con Dillon.  Walking in, it looked like a scene straight out of Leap Year.  There were four older men seated at the bar: one was talking on his cell phone, two were laughing loudly with one another, and the other was staring off into space.  I ordered a drink and snuggled into a corner with the book I toted along with me.  It was about that time when the bartender, a red-haired woman in her early thirties, switched the television channel over to Grey’s Anatomy.  The men all grumbled in unison.  The bartender quickly told them that if they wanted to drink, then they would have to sit through her favorite show.  Giggling to myself, I put my book down, happy to watch a bit of American television.

As the show progressed, the men became more involved, laughing at the show’s punch lines and growing upset when one of the leading ladies realized she was indeed in love, but it was too late.  The show ended with her love kissing a new girl.

“It won’t last,” one of the men at the bar said.  “It’s just lust.”

“No, it’s love, I’m tellin’ ya,” another piped in.

“Lust!” the first man argued.

The two bantered back and forth for quite a while.  I realized that Irish men are similar to American men: both claim they don’t like Grey’s Anatomy, when in reality they are quite interested.

Michael Jackson was also in attendance at Con Dillon.  One of the men at the bar politely introduced himself to me, saying that on Saturday nights he is known as Michael Jackson.  I smothered yet another laugh as I looked this man over.  He had to be in his mid-fifties (which, now that I think about it, Michael Jackson was also fifty when he died), white as could be, balding, and had a grey mustache.  I asked him if he had a white glove and could moonwalk.  He gave me a look as though I had just asked the obvious.

“Of course, love,” he said.

Soon after I said my good-byes and gathered up my belongings.

“Come back for Grey’s Anatomy next Tuesday, now,” called the bartender.

Absolutely.  I wouldn’t miss it for anything.

The Apartment Over Denmyr's

I laughed out loud when I saw the realtor write the address of my new apartment:

Apartment over Denmyr’s

William Street

Listowel

“No apartment number?” I asked.

“’Tis a small town,” she answered, “The postman’ll know where ‘tis.”

Listowel may be small in area, but no on can say that it is empty.  The town is bursting with little trinket shops, draperies (which I discovered is a place that sells anything textile: clothes, bedding, towels, etc.), pharmacies, and cafes galore.  I mean, they even sell Clinique makeup here, for goodness sake.  My apartment is located over a little trinket store known as Denmyr’s.  They sell jewelry, cards, and many other odds and ends.  I have found that stores here rarely specialize in just one thing – many stores sell a little bit of everything. 

My apartment (or flat, as they sometimes call them here) is a gem.  For the measly price of 75 euro per week, I live in a fully furnished one-bedroom double, with all hardwood floors, updated appliances, and a washer and dryer.  My landlord is such a sweet man.  I randomly mentioned that I needed to purchase a European hairdryer, and an hour later he was back at my door with one for me to borrow while I am here.  He also told me that he would bring me a desk and chair later so that I will have a place to do my studying.

I have found that I feel much less like a “grown up” in Listowel than I do back in Kentucky.  Everyone I meet is astounded that I am so far away from home on my own, and their general response is, “But you’re just a little thing!  Your poor mum!”  My first night in Listowel, I stayed in a lovely B&B called the North County House.  During breakfast the next morning, I told the owner that I would be staying for the next four months in an apartment down the street.  The owner, a beautiful and tall blonde lady, immediately went into maternal mode, telling me that if I ever needed anything – someone to talk to, food, money, anything – to let her know.  That morning, she became my Irish mother. 

Two days later, I was adopted by another mother.  On the bus ride from Tralee to Listowel, I met a lovely lady whose husband owns a drapery shop in Listowel.  After we got off of the bus, she very kindly helped me find the B&B and then went on her way.  Well, last night, right after I had finished washing the dishes from my supper, I got a buzz from downstairs – it was the lady from the bus!  How on earth did she find me?  I opened the door and there she stood with three bags full of items.  I was amazed as she pulled each goody out in my kitchen – a cake, a huge tin of chocolate biscuits, candy, oranges, orange juice, paper towels, aluminum foil, magazines, and a new electric blanket.  She had gathered all these items up for me, and then called the owner of the B&B, who then called the realtor in order to get my address.  Before she left, I gave her a hug and thanked her for her kindness.  She said, “Not at all, my dear.  But make sure you drink your orange juice.  You’re just a tiny thing and need the Vitamin C.”  Irish mother number two.

It’s been less than a week, and I have already met some of the nicest people that I have ever encountered.  My second Irish mother told me once that it’s my personality that attracts the good.  I beg to differ – the Irish are just that nice.

 Pretty Listowel

 View from my window

 Living room

 Kitchen

 Bedroom

The wonderful spread from my Irish mother #2

Cork, Not Cock

“Excuse me, but where is this train going?”

“Cock.”

“…Excuse me, where?”

“Cock.”

“Cock?”

“No Miss, C-O-R-K, Cork.”

“Oh!”

This was my first difficulty with the Irish accent.  I honestly have been able to understand everyone for the most part, but Dubliners’ accents are quite thick and they speak so quickly!  This poor man at the train station probably thought I was an idiot, but he smiled a toothless grin and was very helpful, nonetheless. 

And helpful is the best way to describe the Irish.  Everywhere I’ve been, strangers have gone out of their way to help me find where I need to go, lift luggage onto a train, and drag luggage off a train.  One man smacked his head pretty good on a rail as he hoisted my 50 pound suitcase onto the top shelf of a train luggage rack.  I apologized for this profusely (after all, he hurt himself while trying to help me), but he just gave a smiling wave and said, “Not at all, Miss.  Not a worry.”

The good thing about having a five-hour train ride across Ireland was getting to see the beautiful countryside.  Ireland looks so much like the horse farms in Kentucky – for a moment, I felt like I was back in Kentucky. 

I spent my first night in Tralee, the capitol of County Kerry.  It’s a cute little town with shops, restaurants, and small businesses.  The Christmas decorations are still up, so when I arrived, the town was completely lit up.  I stayed in a beautiful hotel called The Grand Hotel.  The lobby has a small fire with a sitting area and the bar serves delicious food, where I had my first good meal in Ireland – chicken curry with vegetables over rice and a glass of Heineken. 

Before I went to bed, I checked my email – I had over 35 emails and Facebook messages from my family and friends wishing me good luck during my travels.  One message was from my father (or Daddy, as I still call him).  In his note, he reminded me of how much I dreaded growing older when I was a little girl – after all, being a child was so much fun.  He then said something quite significant – that I should enjoy my adult years as much as I did my childhood. It occurred to me that I had never thought about adulthood in that way.  I always thought that being an adult meant having so much responsibility that life is no longer “fun.”  Although maturity does come with responsibility, it does not mean that we cannot still enjoy life.  And that is exactly what I am going to do.  I am going to take this life and see what all is has to offer.   

 Tralee at night.

 The outside of my beautiful hotel in Tralee.

 My room.

 The hardest bed I have ever slept on.

My reward for making it to Ireland.