Ireland is like a spaceship with sheep

Ireland is blowing my mind. Sure, I always knew Ireland had rocks and grass and stuff, but what everyone failed to mention was the high volume of space age technology cached in this country. Here are some revolutionary ideas from Ireland which will change the way you look at life, travel and the Terminator franchise.

1. Escalators. Our library has not one but three glowing escalators. They beckon you into the library as if to say, "Come. Read with me" and you lose the power to do anything but. I have personally visited the library three times today simply to ride those escalators. Imagine combining the appeal of a Six Flags amusement park with the concept of learning. This is not a kindle. This is real life.
2. Vending machines. Purchasing a bottle of liquid is not just a choice, it is an experience. Enter your selection and a swinging robot arm performs a graceful dance of cosumer satisfaction to the soundtrack of "Whrr! Whr-WHRR!" and you get your Tato chips and a show. But there's more; If the machine malfunctions and you don't get what you want, it gives your money back to you. Compare this with the American standard of "Oh, you wanted juice? Well that's too bad. Nom on your monayz." Simultaneously the most depressing and infuriating thing I have seen at 3:50am on a Monday morning.
   
3. Queuing. For you American people, that means "waiting in line." Not that revolutionary sounding, but let me tell you, these Irish people know how to queue. Here, you queue for everything. To obtain paperwork from the registration office, to immigrate, to buy a slanket (that's right, it's like a Snuggie, but better in every way). Through the powers of automation and the realization that you are not special, everyone can accomplish what they need to do without ever having to encounter another human being.
4. Barcoding. Not only books, but also people, are tagged and scanned here. In the library, you can check out a book without getting the stink eye from a librarian for pronouncing Synge "Sange." In the bathroom at Garda (Ah. A bathroom post.) you can get profiled by a blue alien light for God knows what purpose.
5. Street sweepers. 21st century street cleaning machines provoke both admiration and terror when you pass one on a deserted street corner and it proceeds to stalk you with fervor across intersections and traffic for three city blocks. These machines are particularly effective at ridding the streets of SuperMacs wrappers and infants.
6. Robots. I kid you not, the Terminator lives in Ireland. The next time Kyle Reese comes back to save/impregnate Sarah Connor, he had better be ready to break out the big guns when he comes to Glendalough, a one street town in the Wiklow mountains.
   

Lynham's, one of greater Dublin's top ten pubs...

...and the Terminator, comfortably settled into the decor beneath an elk's head.

In sum, Ireland has taught me much about the world's potential through technological advances. Note that I speak to you from a laptop who's charger has all but shouted "I am going to explode," by the dark of a lamp which was curiously not immune to a sound smack during a Marjaani samba routine, next to a shower fueled by my teapot.

Oh yeah, and Ireland also has a lot of sheep.

Special post: Corroborating material

Hello my fellow flushers. Should you desire a compliment to my Irish adventure log, I invite you to visit my friend Ryan's blog. It's very humorous and far more alcoholic.

<---This is Ryan. He is Canadian. Don't hold it against him.

Ryan's excellent account of our Dublin adventures and more can be found at http://ryantofte.wordpress.com/. Do pay him a visit.

Leprechauns are my new nemesis

I f*$%ing hate leprechauns. They are the worst. If, when you imagine a leprechaun, you think of the Lucky Charms cereal guy, you need to start in on the Weetabix, because it is all a lie.

No.

You may be wondering, “Kate, why do you have such a fiery passion against these cheerful little faerie f*$%s?” Well I’ll tell you.

On one of my first days in Dublin, I placed myself among the group of approximately 30 foreigners who said, “school doesn’t start for like six days. We have absolutely nothing to do. Let’s go get lost.” So, into the city we went, herding around like a pack of mules saying “what do you want to do?” “I don’t know.” “Do you want to go anywhere?” “I don’t really mind” “Is there anything you need to get?” “I don’t have a clue.” Finally, one person said they needed to go get a blender or someshit from a department store. So off we went. By that time of course, it was rush hour and Dublin foot traffic was getting hairy. As a result, the group got separated, the pack lost their direction and everyone started milling about going “Ohhhh… ohhhh… what do we do?” Something had to be done.

In the far lands of OOvah, also known as U.Va., I have earned amongst my companions the title of “SafetyKate.” This means that, whenever we go out, I become the go to person for decisions. It is my job to keep everyone happy and alive. Which is what I did.

Friends, standing on a bridge: Where do we go?

Me: That way.

~10 feet later~

Friends: Where do we go now?

Me: That way.

~About 11 feet later~

Friends: Ummm… so… what are we supposed to do?

Me: GWRAAAAAARRRRRR

Surveying the immediate territory in a foreign city, I made an executive decision. We were going to the one thing nearby at 4pm which had clear signs pointing the way and could entertain a group of that size for an hour or so before pubs offered us a chance to forget all about it. We were going to the leprechaun museum.

Two signs and thirty minutes later, no leprechaun museum in sight and the pack growing restless and movements becoming more concentric by the minute, I had a moment of truth in the setting sun. Taking a breath, I walked into a nearby arts center, swallowed my pride and asked the most shameful question an American tourist in Ireland could possibly fathom.

“Where… is… the leprechaun museum?”

The arts clerk gave me a smirk and replied, “Oh yeah about that, we can’t really afford to change the signs because it brings everybody down here, but it’s on the other side of the river.”

We hit the bar immediately.

That's right. You get a screen shot. Of a Google map. Of the leprechaun museum.

So, as you can see, the entire pot of gold phenomenon is no child’s play. It represents a giant cover up by the Irish government to boost sales in the Temple Bar district. And it’s succeeding.

That is not to say that I have not seen leprechauns. Most of them work at UCD. I will be minding my own business in the Newman arts building or the library and one will almost bowl me over on their way to teach a class or reshelf a book (bottom shelf). I have even seen a leprechaun chieftain. He looked like a twelve year old boy with a soul patch.

In conclusion, leprechauns are a snotty bunch of social miscreants who spend their time tormenting students and fabricating marketing schemes. If you see one, punch it. Maybe you’ll get a shamrock.

There is something in this tea

Just that. Ever since my flatmates moved in, they have been giving me tea. Up until this point, I have considered myself a chai person, since the combination of coffee and myself is hazard to both me and society at large, but I find myself swiftly slipping into Irish convertism.

vs.

Upon recieving a dagger wound, traditional Irish warriors were known to exclaim, "Oh that's grand," take their leave of the battlefield and pour themselves a cup of tea.

My Glenomena house family gets along jovially on all but one subject. The great Lyons-Barry debate has, on several occasions, threatened to rift apart the bonds of flat. Personally, I have declined to side in the debate, and have instead devoted my time to musing over the key ingredient of this magnificent tea. I believe it is crack. Let me explain.

Irish people are wont to use the word “craic” (pronounced “crack”) in all manner of expressions, such as “what’s the craic?” (what’s going on?) and “was it good craic?” (did you have a good time?). Somehow, no matter what they do, Irish people always seem to exude happiness. Similarly, show me an Irishman who doesn’t like their tea and I’ll show you an imposter. Therefore, I propose that the general Irish disposition and consumption of tea share a direct correlation. Good tea brews good will. So, whether that substance has a powder or spiritual base, it’s working.

Canada is real

Disclaimer: this post is not about Ireland. It is about Canada, which is real.

As some of you may know, I have long contested that Canada does not exist. It took a trip outside North America to prove my deeply rooted belief wrong. In the past weeks, I have had ample time to observe Canadians both in their natural habitat (pine trees) and civilized society. God willing, you’ll never need it, but just in case, here is a guide to surviving a Canadian attack.

Being able to identify Canadians is key to survival

Can you spot the Canadians?

• All Canadians resonate with Avril. Should you encounter an angry Canadian, simply sing to them “I see the way you’re acting like you’re somebody else, gets me frustrated.” This will lull it into a sense of teenage existential crisis and render it docile for approximately thirty minutes. Back away slowly; ignore the tears.

• Canadians are trained from birth to withstand temperatures up to -40 degrees Celsius. Under no circumstance should you challenge a Canadian to a swimming contest in a frozen lake. As infants, Canadians are extracted from their mothers, immediately fed an ice pop and thrown into a bath of ice water. Instead, distract the Canadian by starting a conversation about hockey, then leave.

• Bears and Canadians are closely related. Canadians may claim to know a lot about bears “because they live in my back yard,” but really they’ve been allies for years. Should you, most unfortunately, find yourself confronted with both a bear and a Canadian at once, offer to take them both to a Tim Hortons coffee shop. If there is no Tim Hortons nearby, spend your last moments treasuring the happy, Canadian-less years you enjoyed.

How well did you do?

Irish people have livers of champions

Two words: Black Monday.

Campus bar, Monday night. Also known as: The Ultimate Frat Party Pwner.

See: The first day of [classes] drinking.

Start time: Monday, January 17th, 10am. End time: Tuesday, January 18th, 5am. Location: The student bar; everywhere.

Friend Janetta and I checked the place out at 12pm. Olympic drinking athletes were already underway. Returned with posse at 2pm for a pre-first-class drink. Bar was in full swing. Went to class, left class, returned at 4:30pm: Madness.

Irish flatmates, returning at 5am the next morning with declarations that they had “died and would never be alive again," dubbed the night “slow.”

My education truly has commenced.

University College Dublin is radioactive

The elevated level of radon at UCD has affected both its architects and students.

Beautiful, spectacular, toxic lake at the center of campus, complete with mutant swan birds.

Tour Guide Paul, standing in front of gigantic sculpture of a sperm covered egg: “This is the sperm egg. You should look inside. It’s quite weird.”
Group: “Um, no… that’s ok.”

Tour Guide Paul, standing in front of the toxic lake in the center of campus: “Don’t jump in the lake. My friend did, and everyone was saying, ‘you’re the hero!’ and then he got pulled out by a security officer and had to pay a fine and get a tetanus shot for all the diseases in the lake.”
Group: …

Tour Guide Paul: “Can anyone guess why they put the lake here?”
Group: …
Tour Guide Paul: “No one ever guesses. It used to be a big square where people would organize protests, so they put a lake in. I don’t know why; students can’t protest on grass apparently.”
Group: [gone].

So there you have it. A haven of learning.

The Irish have stolen every sport

Hurling, also known as the greatest heist the active world has ever seen, does not involve the regurgitation of gastric fluids. Rather, it demands the ingestion of every major sport, stewing in a vat of Irish angst, and crapping out of testosterone fueled art. Standing in a puddle of foreigners and mud on the coldest night in Dublin, I tried for half an hour to make any kind of sense of the rules. Here is what I came up with.

To succeed in hurling, grab a large wooden spoon. Hurl a hard, tennis-sized ball to your teammates in a lacrosse-like fashion. Catch the ball with your spoon, or use your hand like a badminton racket to hit it. Chase the ball across a field hockey field. Pass it to your teammates rugby style. Hit the ball into a combination soccer goal with football posts. And tackle as necessary.

Giant spoon things unfortunately not used for whacking opponents

Hurling has been called the fastest game on grass, so if, upon viewing this clip, you decipher any further rules, ten points to you. Too bad I have no idea whether that would bring you victory or sudden banishment.

Most Europeans will try to eat you

On January 10th 2011, I expelled myself from the eastern colonies of the United States, made a turn at Paris, France and dove deep into the heart of the black pool. En route, I encountered a few suspect characters.

1. Grandma Sharry. Relation: Irish Air France seatmate. Suspicious behaviour: Predisposition to share her food, life stories, and phone number. Will drive four hours to pick me up from a ferry in England. Must want something from me.
2. Unnamed West Virginian Cadaver Toucher. Relation: Only other passenger in Air France terminal at 5:45am. Suspicious behaviour: Discussing her love of touching dead bodies for "anthropology" at "school" in "Scotland" with her bare hands. Also, wearing flip flops.
3. Flatmate Ciaragh. Relation: Flatmate. Suspicious behaviour: Welcoming me to my new home with open arms and a fistful of bloody papers. Says they're from pig carcasses. Veterinary science may be cover for more sinister recreational activity.

Sketch of Grandma Sharry, in absence of photo record

First day of travel promises rich cache of mysteries to come. Will pursue investigation with caution.