Autumn.... FINALLY!

Autumn, despite my deep love for snow, is my favorite season, and it has sneaked up on us here. The weather these last few days has been deceptively warm. However, as I walked home, I could clearly see the leaves changing, changing into those magnificent reds I love so much. Those deep dark reds, which symbolize the ending of one thing and, in another brilliant way, the start of something else.

The breeze, though warm enough to really move about the city with merely a sweater and scarf  as protection from the slightly cooler temperature, has a bite to it. It stings my cheeks a little, in what I hope is the promise of a long cold winter, with plenty of snow. Even the moon seems to be settling into the laziness that comes with shorter days and played hide and seek with me behind the clouds tonight.

The tourists, who have been invading since Spring, have all but left, leaving behind only those who seem to understand that, in many ways, Prague is at its most beautiful as Summer morphs in to Winter. The quiet adds wonderfully to the peace I find meandering through the city now. I think it is time for a trek to Vysehrad, to simply sit, reading, periodically looking up to see Prague with its symphony of colors and relish in the visual delight of this gem of Central Europe.

Books and books and books.

As much as I love Prague, and I do, there has been something missing from my life there: huge bookstores. Yes, we have bookstores in Prague, most of them even carry English books. However, there is something about bookstores so big you can get lost in them as you run your hands across spine after spine of books you know you can read. Bookstores so massive you can find a book you didn't know you existed and changes your life or some ancient title which moved you as a child that when you see it again, you smile wistfully and are instantly immersed in memories.

I have somehow managed to be good this trip and not blow tons of money on as many books as I can carry. I think of the sad little library I have in Prague, the one that barely takes up two tiny shelves in my closet, filled with books I couldn't leave behind and I long to fill it out, but now is not the time, I know. There are other things I need to be focusing on, but still, the bookworm in me tugs, kicks, and screams to take all the lovely volumes home with me, to give them a good home with someone who will love them. 

So I torture myself, showing a restraint I never knew I had, by spending more time in Hodges and Figgis than I probably should, roaming the stacks, lightly trailing my finger tips over the words I can understand, soaking in the Irish Interest section which is larger than my entire flat, tempting myself to break, and coming up with ways I could justifying spending way more than I should on books I would then have to ship to Prague and find a place to house them. Yet, in the end I don't. It is like the mere fact it exists and is waiting for me is enough to keep me in line. However, I make no promises for when I come back.

A not so white Christmas.

So the last Christmas I spent in the Czech Republic Europe had been blanketed in enough snow to shut down airports and generally make life impossible for millions of us. That being said, it created a stunningly cliche and perfect aesthetic. Imagine picturesque towns filled with Christmas markets, dusted (or covered) in snow, people rushing about, bundled up, cheeks glowing from the cold, and everything seeming to be pulled from some postcard. Yeah, It was lovely.

This Christmas is different. While the people are still bustling about, bundled and glowing, and the Christmas markets are everywhere, there is one key fact missing to really make it feel like a lovely Central European Christmas, SNOW! Sure the temperatures are still in the realm of cold, (but never really cold enough to suit me) it just doesn't feel right without the sound of snow crunching under my feet or the delicate weight of snow flakes on what little skin is exposed. I am finding I even miss the smell of it. All of the other smells are there: mulled wine, roasting chestnuts, trdelinks, but without the crisp clean smell of snow they seem lacking. 

However, even with the missing clean white backdrop, Christmas here is just this side of magical. There is really something about the stalls peddling everything from wonderful hand made wares to some of the tackiest mass produced crap ever. The Czechs, still grumpy and lacking in more Westernized over cheerfulness, seem to be a little less likely to scowl at everyone. They are more tolerant of my terrible attempts to practice my broken Czech, a little more helpful as my fellow expats and I navigate the markets, metros, and major department stores. It is a nice reprieve.

Now if I could just get it with a side order of fluffy snow. 

A little more today.

As another cold snap threatens St. Petersburg, I find myself overcome with words which need to get out. Thank CHRIST!!!!! The 10 month writer's block of Ireland was almost too much to handle. This sudden burst of creativity and productivity is like being able to breath again. I have missed it so much.

But back to the weather. I think I may have finally found a place cold enough to suit me. Of course, when I explain to the St. Petersburgians that I moved here for the winters, they all stop, look at me as if I am completely insane, and then tell me with no uncertainty I am. And in many ways they aren't wrong.

This is the coldest place I have ever been. There are moments when the icy temperatures feels like a knife cutting away at you, so sharp and swift it makes your skin ache, and part of you is a little afraid you may never be warm again. It hurts to breath outside for the first few steps beyond your front door and feels like snow is filling your lungs. Getting dressed is a production requiring a director, producer, stage hands and a prop master. The amount of time it takes to put on that many layers makes it almost not worth the effort, almost.

Part of the problem with the 18 hours of dressing it takes to brave the elements outside is the fact every single building, store, metro station, apartment, and bus effectively tries to make one forget about the subarctic degrees outside by attempting to recreate the Sahara inside. Honestly. So instead of keeping the temperature a nice lovely 15/16 degrees, the heat is cranked up to at least 30 and we are left to fend for ourselves in the sweltering heat of indoors. I don't think I would mind so much if I could control the temperature inside my own apartment. However, in the older parts of the city entire buildings are controlled by one main thermostat. This means to get my flat to feel normal and not like some Turkish Bath I have to open every window, which I find odd when I know it is -15 outside and I see the snow cascading down. 

However, do to these extremes in temperature I have begun to find 0 to 2 degrees lovely and temperate. This new found acclamation allows me to occasionally make up for the epicness of my usual attire by rolling up my jeans, throwing on a hoodie and slipping in to my Chucks. Though I still feel a bit of the sting of winter, I find it less annoying than having to lace up boots or look at coats I am already sick of, or to wish I hadn't taken the time to suit up in first place the moment I step in doors. Plus it allows me to be even more of an oddity than just wandering around with my joyful smile and eager laugh. That has to be a plus, right?

White winters

I know I haven't written about my impressions of St. Petersburg yet. Instead, my time has been spent attempting to arrange the latest chapter of my life into some sort of plot line which makes sense. However, as I sit looking at the snow flurries dancing gently just outside my window, I realize it isn't so much that I have been busy, but more I am afraid of not being able to do this city justice.

St. Petersburg is really unlike any other city I have ever been in. There are moments when I walk down Nevsky Prospect, the main street in town, and I feel almost as if I had been transported to Paris due to the amount of Art Nouveau architecture, or when I am in the outer regions of the city and I see the communist boxes that I am reminded of Prague. Yet some how neither of these impressions last for long and I find myself thrown into a world which is neither East nor West, but instead a mixture of both which I am not sure would work anywhere else except here. Most of the city looks as if it could be almost any large metropolitan area, littered with shops and apartment buildings, people rushing about, fixated on their daily lives. Then you turn a corner and come face to face with something so beautiful, so awe inspiring, your breath literally catches and you stand in struck for a moment at the sheer magnificent beauty of it all.

I live in the old part of the city, just beyond the walls of the monastery, which guide me to the metro every morning and quietly remind me of the power the Orthodox Church once held here. It is easy to forget as a foreigner this hold, as many of their churches are situated off the main drag, laying in wait, popping out when least expected to leave you awestruck and marveling in the passionate love affair between people and their religion. While many of the churches look like any other Baroque temples of devotion I have seen in places like Austria, Germany, France, Britain, etc, with only a slight hint of Orthodox flourishes, there is one which stands out against the Western cityscape. The Cathedral of the Savor of Spilled. With its truly Eastern aesthetic, the spiral domes, and almost Byzantine like mosaics both inside and out, it leaves you in no doubt of where you are. It also happens to be one of the most beautiful buildings I have ever seen. Colourful, with blues and greens which I had previously only thought existed in the realm of a Seuss book, immense and at the same time strangely humble, and bursting with love and praise. It is wonderful.

While work and getting settled into my routine has left me with little time to explore and discover, every day I see something which reminds me of all I yet to see and leaves me longing to know more of this wonderful and slightly magical city I find myself in.

Two weeks to go

Okay, so now that I got confirmation I have what I need to start the visa process (FINALLY) I need to get ready to head to Russia. This means a lot of shopping. A LOT!!!! As I am moving to place which actually has four seasons, I need to make sure I have clothes for all kinds of weather ranging from "Holy mother of GOD, I think my brains are frozen" to "Jeez I wish the world had air conditioning". This isn't to say Russia won't have stores to purchase things I need, however, with the introduction of capitalism to the mix and the fact Russia is one of the most expensive countries in the world to live, I am stocking up on as much as I can here. Plus I remember how difficult it was finding clothes to fit me right in the Czech Republic, and I don't think Austria or Germany is going to be quiet such an easy trip.

The problem with moving to a place where the winter temperatures regularly dip to -20 c or lower for three months or so out of the year is I have never had to really deal with weather this extreme. It got cold in Ceske Budejovice, but never that cold for that long. So I am feeling a bit overwhelmed and daunted at the prospect of having to guessitmate what I am going to need. I have a feeling it is one of those things where no matter how much research I do, no matter how prepared I think I am, it isn't going to be enough.

Then there is the language thing. A completely different alphabet with more letters and an entirely different phonetic base. GAH!!!! I mean, it is me. I do love languages, but I am a little freaked out. I think I will take classes at the University, rather than paying for private lessons. I tend to do better when there is a professor and homework involved.

Well I better get cracking rather than sit here and dwell on what I need to get done. GAH!

It is begining to feel a lot like Dickens.

Ok, well not quite. However, it is still pretty dang magical right now, in my life.

While I have no fear of being visited by ghosts showing me how my life is totally wrong (probably because I am exactly where I need to be) everything around me has a fantastical quality which I want to hold on to for as long as I can. Since I was a child I have dreamed of spending a holiday season in London, surrounded by all of the whimsy and delights of the British imagination. After all, I have long felt, if it weren't for "A Christmas Carol" the Christmas we know today wouldn't be. Now, I understand much of this holiday I credit the British with inventing was stolen from other culture, the Christmas tree being Teutonic, the Christmas markets being from Central Europe, etc, however there seems to be a way the Brits put it all together to make it somehow their own.

I wandered today, down Oxford street, relishing in the holiday decorations, the huge lighted banners spanning the width of the street, high above my head, as I headed to Hyde Park, embracing the cold, crisp air, the kind which hurts a little the first few breaths outside. I watched people, tourists maybe, or perhaps people on their lunch breaks trying to fit in a bit of shopping before heading off to wherever they needed to be next. I delighted at the smell of roasting chestnuts being sold on various street corners, as if crumbs to the sugary spicy smells which would permeate my nose the moment I stepped foot in the Christmas market. I enjoyed the sight of couples falling in love, the sound of families shopping together, the taste of the mulled wine as I sipped it, feeling the warmth of all of these things, reminding me that sometimes the happiest moments in life are just a quiet series of blissful snapshots not just the grandiose events of life changing proportion.

Kilmainham

It has been almost a week since I walked the passageways of this gaol and I really can't stop thinking about it. I have been living in Dublin for 6 months and while this place should have been one of my first stops, shortly after a trip to Sandymount and the GPO, it took my housemate Lisa dragging me along with her on a day of site seeing. Boy am I glad she did.

I have to admit, I was a little scared to go at first. It has housed some of the most important political prisoners in Irish history behind its walls. Everyone from Robert Emmet, to C.S. Parnell, to the Uprising's leaders, to Countess Markievicz spent time incarcerated there. It was in the stone cutter's yard that the turning point in the fight for Irish independence happened with the execution of James Connolly. So, to be in a place with so much historical and political importance was a daunting to me.

While only 15% of the thousands of people who were jailed there were political prisoners, they were the ones which interested me the most. To walk in a place knowing that those who fought and died for their beliefs and convictions had not even a century ago was a bit awe inspiring. To see the rooms which held Parnell as he fought for home rule was amazing and slightly unreal. To hear the stories of the small children, the youngest of which was 5, who spent time in the drafty construct was shocking and horrific. And finally, to stand so close to the spot where James Connolly was tied to a chair and shot, despite being a dying man, literally brought tears to my eyes.

However the solemness was more than just the tragedy of the Easter Uprising Ringleaders. It was the  lingering sensation of despair which permeates through the gaol, lingering in the air, despite the fact it hasn't been a working prison since 1924. It was as if the despair from those held during the famine, the main failed rebellions, and the ones who had simply lost hope lingered there, imprisoned still with in the limestone walls, continuing their daily routines simply because it has no where else to go, creating an ambiance which could not be faked.

The in house museum was amazing as well, with wonderful personal artifacts including a cane of Michael Collins, C.S. Parnell's wedding ring, a letter from an 18 year old rebel to his mother. Add to that the information of the docent, whose brain I want to pick for my thesis, as his willingness to talk about prison life and the research he has done and there was a completely blown away Gillie. I may have to go back. And by may I mean MUST!!!!!

The play's the thing to capture the imagination of a Gillian

Sometimes life changing moments are hard to detect. Sure there are the big ones: getting married, becoming a parent, the glorious realization you aren't like any of the people on Jersey Shore. However, then there are the smaller ones, the ones which takes time to digest, understand, notice them for what they are. Friday night was that one, the quieter one.

I have seen "Juno and the Paycock" before. I have read it for at least three classes. I have seen the Hitchcock movie. So needless to say, I wasn't going in blind. I knew what to expect, or so I thought. In reality nothing in the world could have prepared me for the perfection of this production. In the first joint effort between the National Theatre in London and the Abbey Theatre in Dublin, there was an intensity and beauty to it I have rarely seen in any play. I was only five rows back, close enough I could see the colour of Cirain Hinds and Sinead Cusask's eyes, watch Hinds brilliantly droop his mouth as Captain Jack Boyle got drunker and drunker as the action wore on, feel the despair Cusack radiated as Juno learned of the disintegration of her family and get caught up in the smallest of details on stage. It was heaven.

O'Casey's masterpiece seems to be strangely modern, despite being 78 years old. Between the politics of a country searching for independence and a family's slip into destitution, there is a timeliness to the story of Juno Boyle. It is strange to realize how similar people are, not just in different countries, but also throughout time. The greed, ideologies of the young, longing to see our children better off than we are, still linger today.

Equally as interesting to the action on stage was the audience's reaction. From  the young French couple a few seats down from me who made out for most of the third act to the uncomfortable laughter at Hinds' final scene as he ponders where he will get his next drink and the loss of his family, I found myself amazed at human nature and my own snobbery. I think I had expected everyone to be as transfixed at what was going on and moved by the sheer power of it.

When the curtain fell and the actors came out for their bows, I didn't want it to end. I wanted to sit there applauding for what I had seen for as long as I could, just to linger in that moment of what I can only describe as a religious experience. I loved watching the looks on the actors faces as we clapped, whistled, whooped for what they had given us for the previous 2.5 hours. The best of these looks came from the lady herself, Sinead Cusack. In the history of the Abbey Theatre, there have only been 7 women to play Juno Boyle, so to be one of the seven is to be, well, part of history. Yet as we clapped and poured out our love and admiration for her portrayal, she stood, looking out at us with humility. It was incredible to witness. All of it. Incredible. I am certain my life is never going to be the same.

Sometimes it is the little things

I don't really get homesick anymore. I guess maybe it is because where I am living feels more like home to me than most places I have ever lived. That being said, there is still something about things from where you grew up which can be a little slice of heaven, especially when one is a little under the weather. Today it was two snickerdoodles, which happen to be my favorite cookie in the world, from my favorite hometown bakery.

It is amazing how something so small can give you comfort. Just that familiar taste of sugar cookie rolled in cinnamon and brown sugar with a nice cup of coffee makes life a little sweeter and some how offsets the tired, fuzzy headed feeling of having a cold. Walking home from the post office, with my coffee and cookies, watching the Dubs running around, battling the mist and cold today was pretty close to heaven and the perfect way to get ready for my 36 hours in London, which starts tomorrow. 

Hej, Min svävare är full med ålar

So I went to see "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo" last week. Not only is it a brilliant film, better than the Swedish version in my opinion, but it has kicked in my desire to runaway to Sweden, if only for a weekend, into overdrive. I don't know if it is that David Fincher just picked beautiful visuals for the film, or Sweden is really that beautiful, but I have to find out.

The aerial views of Stockholm were unreal, somehow managing to catch both the modernity of the city coupled with the beautiful older architecture which seems to be everywhere. Then couple this with the amazing and compromised, pristine landscape and it looks a bit like how I imagine heaven to be (and it doesn't hurt that there are tall blondes there too).

So.... looks like I am planning a trip to Sweden after I get back from London next weekend.    

It is a Gillian Welch kinda day

It feels like it has been grey for weeks here and in truth it has. Grey and cold. That kind of cold which feels colder than it is (and seems to be an coastal phenomena), piercing you, chilling you to the bone, making you feel like you will never be warm again, no matter how hard you try, which is invigorating during drunken walks home, but kind of a pain in the ass any other time. Needless to say, I have loved it..... for the most part and I still smile every time I walk outside and feel that freezing air infiltrate my lungs.

As I hard as I try to deny it or get rid of it, there is still a part of me which longs for sunshine in January and temperatures so mild I can simply throw on a cardi, capris, and some ballet flats and fly out the door for my day. However, here, getting dressed can be a production. It can be a series of trials and errors, trying to stay warm without looking as if you are wearing every article of clothing you own. I often feel as if I am in an elaborately choreographed dance routine, missing only Jazz hands or spirit fingers.

So I don't know if it the sort of melancholic happiness or an attempt to balance out the feeling Bob Fosse is in charge of morning dressing ritual, but the only music which seems to make any sort of sense to today is Gillian Welch, Neko Case, and Allison Krauss. They remind me of home, all of my windows open during the last few days in January, baking, reading or just listening. It warms up the ice water in my veins, even if only for a moment.

Writing everything but my paper

Dublin is getting colder, and by colder I mean, that lovely icy cold which cuts in, hurts a little with the first few breaths outside, and brings a rosy healthy colour to your cheeks. In other words it is practically perfect. The only thing which would make it better would be snow.

While the upcoming holiday of mas-consumption hasn't really made it down to my neighborhood yet, the city centre and Grafton street areas have been taken over with white lights everywhere and some of the most spectacular window displays I have seen in a very long time, my favorite being Brown Thomas, which whimsically depicts my favorite ballets, including the most magical and inspired vision of Swan Lake ever. I can't wait for the Christmas markets to start showing up and adding fantastic smells to the already scrumptious feast for the eyes.

Getting better....

There really is something about the small things in life. Today it is burritos and really good coffee, both within a decent walk of my house. I haven't felt too terribly creative recently, which is always hard for me to deal with. I have a million ideas trying to get out, but none of them want to come. I also have a feeling this is going to change soon. It really needs to change. I have papers I need to be working on and a play which needs finishing and two short stories in the works. So send me creative thoughts.

Started a while ago while I was still in the CR and even more true now.....

An old friend recently told me I am one of the most fiercely independent people he knows and went on to talk about what an amazing quality it is. He was right. I hate being cosseted, taken care of, allowing anyone into to the inner-workings of my brain. I stand strongly alone, making my own choices, living with the consequences, and walking my own path, by myself. Now, you may be wondering what this has to do with my terminal wanderlust? I'll get to that.

This year has been a lonely one for me. Not that it has been bad. It hasn't, in many ways it has been an amazing experience and one I will treasure always. Just lonely. I have spent a lot of time in my head, as if that was even more possible, trying to figure shit out, what I really want out of life, all that typical bullshit I tend to stay away from talking about, because I think it is trite (next week join me for my blog on how I plan to become less judgmental). This has all be compounded by the recent passing of two friends and a lot of time on trains. I have worked hard to get where I am, a CAL graduate, getting ready to pursue her MA and PHD in Ireland, always putting my academic career first and figuring the rest would just somehow sort itself out. I have spent years flip-flopping on the idea of marriage, usually flopping, thinking I am not that kind of girl, viewing it more as a financial/friendship thing than anything else, not even really sure about the whole Scandinavian idea of partnership forever. Call it the cynic in me. It isn't that I didn't like the idea of love and real partnership, I just am not all that sure I believed in it. I mean after all, look at the types of men I tended to fall for (when I actually liked someone rather than just feeling bored). Guys as emotionally unavailable and commitment phobic as I am. I mean these guys were safe. I never really had to let my guard down and worry about getting hurt. In many of them I saw kindred spirits and it was an easy(ish) way to go through life. Never really open yourself up, never really get hurt. God, how sad.

Anyway fast forward to these last few months. Instead of feeling the amazing liberation I normally feel at being able to pack my life up and move to where ever it is I am moving this year, I had been feeling this strange sort of emptiness, like something is missing from my life. At first I thought it might be a dog. I mean after all I am totally obsessed with little white fluffy dogs and haven't really gotten to spend any real canine time in a while. Then I went to St. Malo. Walking on the beach late at night always tends to clear my head. Then again, so does encountering someone who makes my soul shake. There I got both. It isn't like I hadn't felt stomach churning, heart pounding lust here. I mean I had, pretty much every time I go out I see that special Gillian type of guy. This was different. This was that thing I have only felt twice before. That strange sensation when you feel like someone, whom you have never met before, truly sees you, not just the physical aspects of you, but looks in your eyes, and sees you, the real you and still finds you desirable. It is always a scary and intense moment, whether it is real or not, whether anything comes of that moment or not (in this case it didn't). And that is when it hit me. I am tired of walking this world alone. I am tired of being strong and capable. I want to be vulnerable. I want to take care of and be taken care of by someone. I want to be a partner. I want to share my life and build a life with someone. For the first time in my life, I actually want to fall in love. (Needless to say, sharing these insights with my mother, was an experience. I wish I had captured on film. It was the most priceless look ever).

Fast forward again to Dublin. I think when I wrote the above piece I was sure those feelings would go away, like somehow being here, this magical place I have dreamed about for so long would wipe the desires stated above from my mind and soul. Yeah.... that hasn't happened. It is almost the reverse. It is almost as if being in a place which feels like home has intensified it. Not that I am going to settle for the first guy that comes along. I have done that for too much of my life. But I am not going to shut myself off anymore either. I have a feeling this is going to be a process. I mean you can't unlearn 35 years of behavior in a few months.

Just wandering and babbling today

I think Halloween may be the end of tourist season here, or the rainy weather kept them all inside. The streets were delightfully empty today as I ran a few errands down in the Grafton street/Temple Bar area earlier and enjoyed the Irish weather. I swear rain here is different than anywhere else in the world. It is soft, like a dense fog, which leaves you damp more than wet. And while this dampening kept those on holiday either in their native countries or safe inside their hotle rooms, the locals seemed to take this reprieve to take to the streets and get stuff done with out having to stop every four seconds for people taking photos or listening to the buskers. It was perfectly efficient.

It is little strange for me to be in a place which doesn't have Thanksgiving to break up things between the end of October and the holiday season (not that there is much of a break in America either). The lights have gone up on Grafton street and almost every store I went into today had the smell of Christmas, that spicey heaviness floating everywhere. I love it. I am looking forward to watching the holiday season unfold over the next month before I head back to the States for a visit.

I am still in complete wonder everytime I walk around here. I always seem to find something wonderful down a street I never knew existed. Today it was an amazing indoor market place and a great little baking supply shop just off the Grafton insanity. A few days ago it was a brilliant farmers market just off Henry street. Who knows what it will be tomorrow. I am looking forward to finding out... that is if this cold I feel coming doesn't kick my ass first. Oh well. Maybe I'll just head down to the National Library and listen to Yeats' fairy tales being read out loud. Maybe there will be tea there too. I like tea.

Oh yeah.... get those creative impulses flowing

For years I have joked about having the worst personallity for a writer of all time, as I cannot write when drunk or depressed. Really, it's true. When in either, or both, of those states of being I stare at my computer, or pad of paper blankly, willing the words to come. They never do. This frustrates me and often times leads to a deeper depression and the vicious circle continues. (Thankfully though, if trying to write when drrunk, I sober up and am off like a firecracker.)

Then I moved to Ireland. I swear to what ever deity you believe in I can't stop the words from coming. It is like being here kicked my creative whatever in to mad overdrive. In the past few weeks I have started three essays, two short stories and a one act play. That is more than I have done in the last year and a half. It is insane.

Now I am sure you all are thinking to yourselves, "Well of course you are in frenzy of productivity. You are in your happy place" and yes I am sure that has something to do with it, but I have also been a little glum reccently. Life has been a little interesting since I arrived in this magical land of banter, beer, and bullshit. Nothing anyone needs to worry about, but still.... anywhere else and I would have been blocked for months. Here and I am writing up a storm. It is almost as if the 8 million year long love affair between the Irish and words has effected me too, like now that I am here, all of the words and ideas which have been lying dormant in my brain for years feel the need to come bursting forth. It is heavenly, if not a bit exhausting.

So look for some interesting things to come.... I may actually let people read some of them. HOLY SHIT!!!!! Wonders never cease.

Finally some good old fashionned Irish weather

It was hot earlier this month..... not Sacramento in the summer hot, but hot enough to make me believe the mythic weather of rainy damp Ireland was much like the constantly sunny California, a fabracation to sell movies. And then Monday of this week hit and I couldn't be happier.

It has been cold, finally. That kinda cold where the first few breaths outside hurt a little and your cheeks actually burn from the touch of it. The cold which makes walking feel invigorating and people hurry a little more to get from point a to point b. The type of cold where you need gloves in case you shatter you hands. I have loved it.

Now believe it or not kids there are two types of cold, much the same way there are two types of hot..... and strangely, they are the same for both, dry and damp and there is a similar effect... sort of. Dry cold is much easier deal with, put on a long sleaved shirt, a sweater, a coat and you're good to go. You can stay warmish.... a damp cold, like the one by any huge body of water, is a totally different. It pierces the skin, goes straight to the bone and if you aren't prepared for it before it happens, I am convinced it will steal your warmth and maybe your soul. This is the cold I like. This extreme cold. I don't know why. Perhaps I am mad? But I love it.

So as I lay in my room, watching the wind and the rain play outside, it is taking all of myself control to not go out and join them. Instead I am listening to them banter with each other as I, rather impatiently I might add, wait for their friend snow to show up.

Epic night of drinking song and dance

Last night I had one of those nights you only see in movies about Ireland. I mean seriously. Random impromptu band playing traditional Irish music, little old ladies singing and handing out sandwhiches, everyone in love with the cheeky American girl. It was amazing

Tired of sitting home alone, I decided to head to one of the pubs down the way. I started at the meatmarket place, never a good idea. After an hour of sitting alone, no one really talking to me, I decided to head to the old man pub closer to my house. BEST IDEA EVER!!!!!! When I walked in I was greeted by the sounds of traditonal Irish music being played by a lovely, yet motely, group of musicians. It took all of about four seconds for the little old Irish men at the table right by the door to start flirting with me, offering their seats for me, and buying my cider for the rest of the night. Everyone was warm and genuine, laughing, having a great time, waltzing and doing the two step and periodically bursting into song when the band decided it was time to stop for a drink or four. There was even the tiniest little old Irish Mammy I have ever seen, carrying around a tray of sandwhiches making sure everyone ate periodically whose only response to me when I told her I wanted to be her when I grew up was "Ah bless, but you are full of it." As the night progressed and the beer flowed freer the party just got better until I finally couldn't dance, sing or drink anymore and headed home.

Needless to say.... I am going back next Friday. 

Theatre review of Drunkard at the Bus stop

The Irish are known for great theatre... from Synge, to O'Casey, to Beckett, to Friel... whatever you are in the mood for they've got it. From world famous theatres, like the Abbey, to small independent run ones there is something for every person on every budget. Today was free comedy day at UC Dublin's 17 bus stop.

I arrived a little late to the production.... there was a line at the WC,  so I missed the beginning, thankfully the author of the play made it easy to catch up. The cast consisted of two drunk men, ages early to mid 20's, three sober co-eds early 20's and finally an annoyed American, who bore a striking resemblence to myself. The main character, the Drunkard Paul, had most of the dialogue consisting of three or four lines "Money doesn't buy you everything" "Did your daddy buy you that scarf" "Why won't you shake my hand?" and "Why are you such a group of stuck up bitches?", repeted to any of the three young women who stuck his fancy at that particular moment, spewed in random order and sometimes the same line repeted three or eight million times in a row. Sometimes the actor would feel the need to ad-lib a few lines in order to liven up his performance... but these were often mumbled and damn near impossible to understand. Periodically he would hold his hand out to the young lady who seemed to be the main object of his desire for her to either shake or fist bump.

The three co-eds were brilliant in their portrayal of annoyed intellectuals, desperate for the bus to arrive. The object of attraction would periodically roll her eyes and tell the drunkard Paul to "Fuck off" in the most convincing tone I have ever seen on the stage. You could really feel her disgust and growing aggitation at the unwanted attention of the male lead. Randomly to add to the comedic value of the action unfolding on stage, Drunkard Paul's friend would say his name and attempt to pull Paul off stage..... but to no avail.

After a good ten minutes of this inccohertent brilliance on the part of the playwrite and millionth plea for a fist bump on the part of Drunkard Paul, the American piped in with "She isn't going to touch you, fist bump you, talk to you or anything else. She has told you to fuck off at least twice and now I am too. SO FUCK OFF!!!!!" At which time the stage direction apparently called for Drunkard Paul to hit the bus stop, turn his attentions to the American who, in a stroke of genius direction, looked as cold and calm as any ice statue and ignored him until he exited stage right and the curtain closed.

It is a shame if you missed it, as it was only running for one performance. Each of the actors seemed to really understand their characters and I have rarely seen such amazingly convincing performances from an amature company. I look forward to more from this writer.