10 July 2007

Even though I just got back, I've basically forgotten everything that happened in my last week in Ireland. I got home on Friday the 6th, extremely exhausted. No one has asked me about my trip, and it seems strange to me. I guess I thought I would have more to say to people about my trip, but it hasn't come up as much as I expected.

The airline lost one of my bags (the one containing all of the clothing I own) and it is going to take twelve weeks to get money for the stuff they lost. I saw "Once" and it made me homesick for Dublin, if that makes any sense. I loved being able to point out all of the places I'd been to and the streets I'd walked down, only a week before.

Even though it all seems like a blur now, my Ireland experience was one that I will always remember. As I go through my journal, photos, and things I brought back, I remember all of the experiences I had and all of the things I saw while I was there. Being able to study Irish Literature while actually being in Ireland is an incredible thing that I will surely help me in the rest of my career as a student.

29-30 June 2007

So, today (Friday, I think) we get up at 5:30 and walk to the bus station to catch the 7:00 bus to Galway. We ride the bus to some town I don't remember the name of and it takes close to four hours to get there. We change buses and get on one that is going to take us to Doolin, where we are staying for the night. We get on the bus that is packed with tourists and covered in graffiti, and we're at the mercy of the worst driver ever. I'm really sick of riding on buses at this point, but we've still got a while to go before we get to Doolin. We pass another bus on the way and the roads are so small and curved that we almost touch the other bus as we pass. We get to Doolin at about noon and are dropped off at the hostel--which is one of maybe ten buildings in town--despite the fact that the bus is actually going to the Cliffs of Moher, where we plan to go later that day. We walk over to town, which is actually just a few gift shops, a coffee shop, a music store, and a pub, and eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. One thing I definitely miss about home is the peanut butter.

Skippy peanut butter. The glue that holds the world together.

We decide then to hike up to the cliffs, which we think is a short distance, but actually takes forever. The path is basically all up hill, and I am slow and pale and wearing sunblock, and I am not wearing shoes or clothes that are fit to hike in. We meet a man along the way who tells us we have a mile left and everyone is optimistic but at this point I am slightly annoyed because we've already gone several miles. We take a wrong turn, get sidetracked about a mile and have to go back and walk up another hill in the right direction. We finally get to the top and by this point I can feel the sunburn coming on (the one day of sun the entire month and I go on an 18 mile hike without sunblock). There is a sign that everyone ignores that states in English, as well as a couple other languages, that you are not supposed to pass, not to mention a rock wall that you have to climb if you decide to do so.

The view is pretty impressive though.

We hang out at the Cliffs for about an hour or so and then head back to the hostel. When we get back we watch some really bad Irish soap operas, which are actually worse then American soap operas, if that's possible, and with worse acting. We go to dinner at the pub in Doolin and there is a band that playing American rock songs from the seventies. We talk about Jim Croce and how he is totally underrated and the band starts playing a CCR song which is hilarious to me for some reason. We head back to the hostel and I pass out by 8:00 and my sunburn is basically ridiculous at this point.

We get up at 8:00 the next day to go the the ferry, buy our 20 Euro tickets and sit on the rocks because we get there 45 minutes too early.

We get on the ferry which is sketchy and looks like a fishing boat, and I think I'm going to make it without getting sick but everyone is getting up and going to look at the ocean at the back of the boat and everyone is swaying because the water is incredibly choppy. I get up just in time to get to the bathroom before I get sick. From this point on, I have to stand at the back of the ferry with the wind blowing on my face and the ocean water splashing me. We stop at the smallest of the Aran Islands and let some people off, and my shoes are completely soaked. I get sick again on the way to the big island of Inishmore.

We get off the ferry and I have never been happier to be on land in my entire life. We walk around town and everyone we pass asks if we'd like to take a carriage ride around the island. We get lunch and coffee and really have no idea where we want to go, but decide to walk in the opposite direction of the rest of the tourists.

After about an hour of walking we see lots of cool things, but Suzie and I decide to come back to the main part of town and get Coke's at SPAR and sit on a bench for three hours.

There are people racing currachs and we get bored waiting for the rest of the group so we go into every store in the area while we wait.

The island is really beautiful, and there are so many cool things to see, but after the hike to the Cliffs the previous day, I am too tired to do anything noteworthy.

We catch the ferry back to Galway this time and the ride is much smoother. We get off the ferry and have to catch a bus to Galway City and there are tons of people trying to catch the same bus to we have to fight our way on. We get to the bus station in Galway and decide to take the 8:30 bus back to Dublin, which gives us some time to eat dinner before we leave. We end up eating at Supermac's because everywhere else is completely packed. It takes forever to get back to Dublin and our bus stops at every stop along the way, and I fall asleep right before we get back at midnight. We walk back to campus and there are tons of people out because it is Saturday night. This is the most exhausted I've felt in as long as I can remember. I wish I would have seen more of the Aran Islands, and I am glad I went, even though I got really sick and really sunburned.

28 June 2007

I wake up today and go to the computer lab, which I am beginning to feel I spend way too much time in. I have just finished Winterwood by Patrick McCabe, and his books are always incredibly strange, but enjoyable nonetheless. McCabe writes an unreliable and somewhat unstable narrator, which is typical of many of his works.
The main character Redmond Hatch has what he thinks is a normal happy life and initially it seems that his is going to be a good life. He is married, he loves his wife, his daughter is the best thing that has ever happened to him, and though he may not have a best job, he seems to love the work he does. Then, through the use of a series of flashbacks and strange encounters (which could be real or imagined) McCabe takes us into the realm of the strange world of his main characters’ subconscious.
Redmond’s journalistic spirit and longing for some knowledge about his past sends him from his Dublin home to his mountain birthplace of Slievenageeha, where he speaks with Ned Strange, a local storyteller and fiddle player. The story takes a turn when Ned is convicted of paedophilia and hangs himself in prison. Redmond finds himself obsessing about the disgraceful nature of Ned’s crime, as well as the time they once spent together in the mountains. And, as is true of McCabe’s characters, Redmond becomes unstable and even reinvents himself. He divorces his first wife and marries another, starts a new career, and takes a new name.
An important element in the story is the dichotomy of mountain life, or what could be called traditional Irish life, and that of life in Dublin. Redmond Hatch’s former mountain home of Slievenageeha is portrayed by everyone other than himself and Ned Strange as a backward town. Ned paints a romantic picture of the mountains and gives a lesson on traditional values and local history through his songs and stories, and through the ceilidh tradition. Dublin, on the other hand, is portrayed as an expensive, overpopulated place, and Redmond refers to the Temple Bar area as:

The epicentre of Dublin’s hedonistic empire, a playground exclusively populated by louche adolescent Euro-ramblers and indigenous chemical-filled youths vertiginously wading in the currents of an ever-expanding opalescent ocean, shorn of history and oblivious of religion.

This is a hostile view of modern day Dublin, to say the least. Whether McCabe is making a personal commentary of Dublin life of the early nineties, or trying to give a glimpse into the hostile and introverted nature of his main character, it is difficult to tell. This view does seem to suggest, however, that Dublin is not the prosperous center of wealth and steady work that it seems. Redmond is unable to keep steady work in the city, can barely make the rent with his income and that of his wife, and his mind always seems to return to the stories of Ned Strange and of his former home in the mountains.

After finishing the novel, I go with a few people in the group to Penney's, which is packed full of woman of just about every age, climbing over one another to get cheap clothing. Needless to say, it is pretty frightening, and I won't be going back into Penney's in the near future. I buy a dozen nectarines from a woman selling fruit on the North Side for two Euro. We then go to the 2 Euro store, which is basically like the Dollar Store back in the States, where you buy a bunch of cheap stuff that you don't really need because it costs a dollar.

27 June 2007

Today I skip breakfast and then meet up with Emily, Stephanie, Dan, and Ryan for our weekly meeting. We go to Waterstone's and get lattes and talk about Irish Literature and why so many people drown in the sea. In Ken Bruen's novel, The Sea, this is the case, and I talk about how in Irish Drama we read several plays in which people commit suicide by walking into the sea and drowning themselves. For class I am reading:

The Teenage Dirtbag Years: Ross O'Carroll-Kelly by Paul Howard

The Ross O'Carroll-Kelly books are really funny. Paul Howard has a great sense of humor about the things he writes about. Though he is the protagonist of The Teenage Dirt-bag Years, Ross O’Carroll-Kelly is the embodiment of everything that is wrong with Celtic Tiger Ireland. He, along with his family and friends, exemplify the worst kind monied people. They are Dublin southsiders (not that they’d admit to there being life north of the Liffey), they are newly affluent, they are snobs, and they love their rugby. The complete extremes present in the novel create a parody of Dublin life during the Celtic Tiger. The class fortunate enough to be effected by the economic boom, those with the excess wealth, are throwing their money away on designer bags and flashy cell phones with the text messaging function, and at the same time they are criticising and taking advantage of those that have not been affected by the boom. There is a benefit to reading the novel while actually in Dublin. Having been to both the north and south sides of the Liffey, as strange as it seems, you can see a definite class line drawn between the two sides. The south has Chanel and Planet Hollywood and the north has…well, it doesn’t matter because Ross wouldn’t shop there anyway. Being able to walk aroud Dublin makes this novel much more enjoyable than it would be if I had never seen and experienced the things Howard addresses.

The Rooms by Declan Lynch


Winterwood by Patrick McCabe


A Star Called Henry by Roddy Doyle

26 June 2007

Today we get a lecture from Dr. Sarah Keating on modern Irish drama. Before our lecture, a group of us go to the tourist office to get information about a trip to Galway. We book a hostel. Our plan is to meet Dan and Stephanie in Derry, but we haven't worked everything out yet. Suzie and I go to the Queen of Tarts which is excellent, and by far one of my favorite places in Dublin. We walk back to campus and Sarah Keating's lecture is interesting, but I feel like most of the class isn't really interested in the lecture. Most of the class hasn't been exposed to Irish Drama, and doesn't really seem to grasp a lot of the things she is talking to us about. She then shoes the class a clip of a Chinese version of "Playboy of the Western World" which, though potentially interesting, doesn't make sense to a bunch of people who haven't read the play in the first place. She talks about how she thinks Yeats is a terrible dramatist, and has some really interesting things to say about modern Irish drama and why there are so few modern Irish women playwrights.
We go to Collins Barracks which has an interesting exhibit on the Easter Rising. At this point, I feel like I know more about Irish history than I do about American history. It's getting close to the end of the trip though, and I feel like I can't fit any more information about the Easter Rising into my head. There is a high cross exhibit which consists of plaster casts of some of the important high crosses of Ireland, some of which we have seen in person.
We go to a coffee shop and I think about how metropolitan Dublin is, and how no one really realizes what they city is like until they actually see it. There are portraits of Joyce and Leopold Bloom that are being sold for three hundred Euro. We take the Luas back to Trinity and I realize that there are a huge amount of young homeless in Dublin.

25 June 2007

We go on a day trip to Glendalough. Ride the bus into the mountains in County Wicklow at about 8:30. We get there and take a walk around the museum and watch a film about the monastic site there and head out on our own onto the trails. I walk on my own past the upper lake and it is starting to get really cold and windy so I decide to turn around and head back to find the rest of the group because I have no idea what time it is. The view is excellent and the cemetery near the monastic ruins is very cool. I think about St. Kevin and can see why this site was chosen for a place of religious worship, solitude, and private reflection.

21 June 2007

Stephanie, Suzie, and I have been looking for a book of Pat Boran's poetry since he came to speak to us, and have not been able to find anything. I go to Hodges Figgis and spend entirely too much money on books. Stephanie, Dan, and I go to the National Museum to see the bog people exhibit which is really gross, but somehow, really fascinating. We walk around the rest of the museum but the bog people is the most interesting exhibit and we head back to campus.

18 June 2007

*One thing I noticed about my journal entires while in Ireland is that if I didnt' write down everything that was happening, as it was happening, I forgot about it until days later. Some of my entries are out of order chronologically, but I have decided to post them as they are in my journal.

We take a tour of the National Gallery of Ireland from the Curator Dr. Sighle Bhreathnach-Lynch today. We see the portrait gallery and she speaks to us about the history of several of the paintings, as well as how they came to be in the collection at the National Gallery. One of my favorite paintings there is of a woman with a red scarf over her head, sitting over a harp, with green fields in the background. I'm sorry to say I do not remember the name of the painting, or the artist, or even who the actual woman in the painting is, but this depiction of Ireland as a woman is one that is very familiar to Irish history and culture. This painting reminds me of Yeats's "Cathleen Ni Houlihan," which I actually enjoy, though it seems that I am the only one.

"It is a hard service they take that help me. Many that are red cheeked will be pale cheeked; many that have been free to walk the hills and the bogs and the rushes will be sent to walk hard streets in far countries; many a good plan will be broken; many that have gathered money will not stay to spend it; many a child will be born and there will be no father at its christening to give it a name. They that have red cheeks will have pale cheeks for my sake, and for all that, they will think they are well paid."

22-23 June 2007

Ok. Actually, without looking at my clock, I truly have no clue whatsoever what day it is. Poet Pat Boran comes to speak to our class and talks about the creative process (at least, I think so) and the artificiality of the less spur-of-the-moment creative processes, as in music. He speaks about Robert Frost's poem, "Birches"

When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay.
Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-coloured
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
[...]
which I have actually never read, but find incredibly interesting in respect to Boran's presentation. He is my favorite speaker and manages to make everyone laugh and actually teach us something at the same time. I mean, very few people can make jokes about sex and drugs and somehow relate it to poetry.

The following weekend, Stephanie, Suzie, Sam, Eric, Emily, Dan, Matt, Laura, Ben, and I decide to to go Belfast. A few of us catch a cab to the bus station even though it is only a few blocks away because it is 5:30 in the morning and we are all tired and lazy. We wait outside for the bus station to open and catch the early bus to Belfast and we are very late meeting our tour bus at the station because Bus Eirann stops at every stop along the way. I have "Happiness is a Warm Gun" in my head all weekend. We finally make it to the bus station but have to call ahead and tell our tour guide that we are going to be late (nearly thirty minutes). I haven't exchanged any Euros for Pounds yet, but by the time we get to the bus station there is no time to visit a cash machine. We get on the Paddywagon bus, which is slightly embarrassing. The bus is bright green with a leprechaun painted on the hood and rear and is basically offensive in every possible way and obviously caters to tourists, but the driver makes fun of it. He says that in Northern Ireland, and more specifically, Derry, where he is from, he never thought he would be driving a bus that color. He is quite funny, tells us his name is Joseph Patrick Mulligan in Irish, and sings nearly the entire time we spend on the bus. Not to mention the fact that his tour is very well synchronized up with Irish music, and perfect comedic timing.
We listen to some pipe music while traveling through the fog, which Joseph jokes about, and I am really enjoying the fact that every tour guide has a great sense of humor, especially when it comes to Irish weather. Our first stop is the Carrick-a-Rede rope bridge in County Antrim. The bridge is suspended over the water between two bits of land and although we have to do a bit of hiking to get there, and I very nearly fall down some stairs on the path, it is an amazing view and the fog that surrounded us for most of the day has cleared up a little and we can see the water and the birds and the caves below the bridge. Being here reminds me of Van Morrison's "Into the Mystic," for some reason, and I am really enjoying the scenery and am enjoying the things I'm seeing outside of Dublin more than being in the city.
We continue on the tour and go to Giant's Causeway and our driver tells us the folklore behind the site.

We hike around for a couple hours climbing all over the strange rock formations and really underestimate the work required to do so, and have to hike back up the hill in order to get to the bus.

I realize that we are surrounded by tourists and we are reminded once again when we get back to the bus and two of our passengers (from Spain) are not back because they don't speak English.

I am glad we aren't the only tourists here. We then drive around Derry and the driver tells us to wave at his sister if we see her car drive by.

He puts on a Cranberries CD which is nice, because I can finally get to sleep for a while in between stops even though riding on the bus all day has kind of made me feel sick.

We finally get into the city and take a tour and get to look at all of the wall murals.

They are really impressive and our tour guide took part in the civil rights movement in Ireland and having a person who actually took part in the marches and riots actually helped me understand the history much more. When we get back on the Paddywagon our driver starts playing "Bloody Sunday" by U2. Best tour guide ever.
We head back to Belfast and stay the night in a hostel, which I had never done before now. The next day we go to a market and walk around Belfast while we wait for the bus home. Everyone is tired and ready to get back to Trinity.
When we get back that night I realize that I've spent more time doing things outside of Dublin that I have in Dublin, so that night a group of us go to The Flowing Tide and watch a hurling match and walk home in the rain.

14-17 June 2007

I’m just getting back to Trinity from the group trip to Sligo. We leave Thursday morning and stop in Boyle, in County Roscommon, where we see Boyle Abbey. When we all split up for lunch in a small diner in town, we get some strange looks, but we keep fairly quiet and the strangeness dies down. Another three groups soon show up, however, and overtake the diner with noise. Most of the locals promptly leave, and as I sit there, embarrassed, I realize that this is the first time I really feel like a tourist.
When we arrive in Sligo Town we stay at Yeats Village, where I’m rooming with Stephanie, Dan, Matt, and Tasha. We’re allowed to walk around town before the group dinner. We find a bookshop (our first of many during the month) and a record store, but the selection is a bit disappointing, so I leave empty-handed. I buy some postcards in the shop downstairs, and continue to wander around town. We find the statue of W.B. Yeats, which, until this point, I do not even know is in Sligo, and take photos of Matt sitting on Dan’s shoulders (which I appropriately name “The Wanks at the Bank”). We find a pub called Harry’s, which is filled mostly with old men, but we find that we like it very much. It is quiet and very different from everywhere I’ve been in Dublin thus far. It is excellent being able to talk to Irish people, and everyone there is very friendly and welcoming. We nearly get lost trying to find the restaurant for the group dinner, but eventually make it. At some point during the dinner, Dan decides we should have a Yeats séance, but at the end of the night the idea falls through.
We spend the rest of the night at Harry’s where we meet a man called Johnnie, who we can’t understand and who insists upon singing to us, and playing air guitar over and over again. The only words out of his mouth that make any sense to us are “Nebraska” and “I’m retired.” At the end of the night Dan and Matt recite poems from the Yeats reader and we all head to bed. The next day we visit Drumcliffe Cemetery where Yeats is buried. Being able to visit Yeats’s grave under Ben Bulben gives his poetry a new meaning. It is one thing to read those famous words:

“Cast a cold Eye
On Life, on Death
Horseman pass by”

But it is quite another to actually see the headstone at Drumcliffe and read Yeats’s epitaph there. His epitaph is taken from the last lines of "Under Ben Bulben", one of his final poems.
We then head to Lissadell House, which was the childhood home of Constance Markiewicz and Eva Gore-Booth, along with their siblings and family. A family friend of the Gore-Booth’s, Yeats wrote about Eva and Constance and their Georgian mansion (Lissadell House) in his poem, “In Memory of Eva Gore-Booth and Con Markiewicz.”

The light of evening, Lissadell,
Great windows open to the south,
Two girls in silk kimonos, both
Beautiful, one a gazelle.
[...]
Many a time I think to seek
One or the other out and speak
Of that old Georgian mansion, mix
Pictures of the mind, recall
That table and the talk of youth,
Two girls in silk kimonos, both
Beautiful, one a gazelle.
[...]
The grounds of the mansion are very impressive, as is the house, and there is a large garden as well as an exhibit of artifacts from the lives of both Constance Markiewicz and Eva Gore-Booth.
When we return to Yeats Village we eat at a chipper in town, and meet up at Harry's. The next day we go to Carrowmore Cemetery and see megalithic graves. We walk around the fields in the rain all day but get to see some very cool things and I am impressed how well the monuments are being preserved. We stop at a holy well, which is amazing and very peaceful and beautiful. This is probably one of my favorite places that we've been to thus far. We then go to Dooney Rock and see the Lake Isle of Innisfree where Yeats spent his time, and I hike through the woods on my own and climb to the top of the hill to take pictures.

"The Lake Isle of Innisfree"
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening's full of linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear the lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.

We go to Parke's Castle, which overlooks Lough Gill, and get a tour there. We go to a beach in Sligo where we play football with two little boys who, basically, put us to shame. I walk around in the water and my shoes get completely soaked when the tide comes in. We go to Harry's again for our last night in Sligo, and after unsuccessfully trying to find cheap dinner we give up and go (much to my disappointment) to Abracababra. At Harry's we meet a woman called Mary who tells us that she thinks Yeats is still buried in France, next to Maude Gonne. She is rooting for Limerick in the hurling match against Tipperary that is playing on the tv. The game is a tie, and I think I might actually understand the rules by the end of the game. An older man called Paul tells us about The Left Bank and a jazz show he is playing in there, and we tell him we might show up even though we will be back in Dublin when he is playing. Mary's husband walks over to our table and apologizes to us, saying "she was very glad to talk on an intellectual level." We're not really sure why he is apologizing, and he seems a bit embarassed. We go to The Left Bank and witness a number of "hen parties" going on at once.
Our weekend in Sligo is my fondest memory of Ireland.

10-11 June 2007

I left home yesterday. I said my "goodbyes" and "so long for now’s" and packed my things for a month away from home, my longest period away from home up to that point. After the long flight and even longer sit at the airport--a six hour layover in Chicago-- I wonder why I don't feel more tired than I do. I meet someone from school in the airport in Chicago, and although the conversation is a bit awkward (probably because neither of us has any idea what we are supposed to be doing), I manage as best I can and when we arrive in Dublin we share a cab to the Trinity College campus. The cab driver is quite funny and polite, and is listening to The RTE, on which we hear a Springsteen song, I think, and "Dreadlock Holiday," a song by 10cc from the album "Bloody Tourists," which I don't think I've ever actually heard on the radio before. Nothing like a song about cricket, reggae, and Jamaica to welcome someone to Ireland.

We pull up to Trinity and pay the thirty Euro cab fair, and lug all of our bags across the brick walkway to the Accommodations Office, where we collect our room keys.

With the help of one of the skinny kids working in the Accommodations Office, I manage to get all of my things across campus to my building, number 34, and up the 47 stairs to my room on the second floor.

I find my room is hot, but comfortable, and decide I liked it very much. Being on the top floor allows me to get the exercise that is long overdue, as well as an excellent view of the campus, and a great breeze that will circulate through my room for the remainder of the month. In my room: a bed, a side table, a desk,—which I will not use throughout my entire time here—a bookshelf, a desk chair, a closet, a sitting chair, and a sink and mirror.

After sitting in my room for about a half an hour, I decide to take a bus tour of Dublin (the cream and green bus line), which is actually far more entertaining than I had anticipated, and, thanks to the bus driver, actually pretty fun. The driver makes jokes about business names such as “Knobs and Knockers,” and after dropping off passengers at the Guinness Storehouse, makes a joke about this being the part of the tour when he starts talking to himself. He swerves through the streets surrounding the Guinness stop and sings a song I’ve heard dozens of times before, but do not know the name of. He asked the passengers on the top level of the bus to stomp their feet to make sure he isn’t actually talking to himself, listens carefully to the stomping, then shouts, “Ah yes…seven,” into the microphone. I have to say, people in Dublin are insane drivers and I am extremely happy that I do not have to attempt driving while I am here. It’s hard enough to brave the city traffic as a pedestrian.

I forget to bring a watch along with me—to Ireland, not just on the bus tour—which creates a bit of a problem, since I am meant to be to class at a nine (I think) tomorrow. At our first class meeting, I am glad to see somewhat familiar faces and meet Tasha, who shows me around Dublin a bit, and brings me to a noodle restaurant, the name of which I can’t remember, but that is next to a Dunnes, which I will need to remember later. We eat noodle soup with chicken out of giant bowls and have to pay for water, but the tea is free, so I guess that’s a plus. We head back to campus and although she has made an effort to try and explain to me where I am while we are walking around the city, I still feel quite lost. We meet up with someone who is looking for the computer lab, and although we do not find the actual lab, we find and use computers in a hallway in a building we don’t know. It feels strange being here, and although I feel I should try to be self-reliant, I’ve also never had to figure this many things out for myself before.
Strangely enough, the thing I’m thinking about most is how much I wish I could bring my mother and sister here with me someday.

Forward

For the purposes of creating record of my time spent in Ireland that is both coherent and legible, I have chosen to create a digital version of the journal I kept while I was in Dublin at Trinity College--from the time I left home on June 10th, 2007, until when I returned home on July 6th. The purpose of keeping this journal--both for the assignment and for my own benefit--was to provide a legitimate and meaningful record of my intellectual engagement with Ireland as mediated by our speakers from class, our texts, and my own personal experiences. Basically, the point is not only to document what I did in my time in Ireland, but also to provide a meaningful analysis of my experiences.
At the start of each entry, I have included the original date of which it was written. Unfortunately, any drawings from the original "text" have been omitted, but have been thoughtfully replaced by another suitable media (read: digital photos, videos, song lyrics, etc).