"Irish Girl"

It was a quiet Saturday night at the B&B.  After Katarina went to bed early, I held down the fort and waited to show one more guest to his room.  I did so with my feet propped in front of the fire, eating chocolates and reading a book. What a job.


There's a big film festival in town, well, big for a town of 700.  A film festival in a town without a cinema.  The main street has yellow and blue streamers hanging across it and shops have been turned into screening venues.  I saw one film, "Runway," which was filmed here in Schull.  Locals had been extras so at the viewing everyone was anxious to pick out familiar faces.

The film festival is bringing in lots of people.  Last night I served dinner to a group of big movie directors/producers.  The conversation snippets I caught were about casting and talent and Glenn Close... The only uncertain moment I've had waiting tables was opening a bottle of wine for them. My on-the-ground French education included bottle-opening: I can do it; but opening one with an unfamiliar opener in front of these worldly people while trying to look experienced in a candle-lit restaurant...a different matter.  But I got 'er done, although I'm no sommelier.

By the fire, I also chatted with a guest, an Irish woman just slightly older than me.  We talked about Italy, Obama, tech jobs, and this charming house and at the end she asked my name again. "Oh my gosh, that's the perfect name!" was her shrill reply.  It's true.  Everyone is delighted when they learn of my Irish name.  It's never fit so well as it does here. If only I could mask my accent, I'd have them all fooled.

For You, Dad

I've been asked to elaborate a bit on my time in Italy and since things are tranquil here in Schull, I can certainly do that.

I could recognize Florence's skyline, even before seeing it, because of Brunelleschi's dome on the Duomo:

 

But it didn't prepare me for viewing the Duomo from the ground.  It is massive and as it's surrounded by other buildings you can never get a full view of it.  The exterior is entirely decorated with white, green, and pink marble, which I found really impressive every time I passed it.

I studied up on Michelangelo a bit since he's a superstar in Renaissance history and Florence was his home.  I saw David and other sculptures and had podcasts to give me context.  Michelangelo, at 26, sculpted the original David out of a "flawed" chunk of marble rejected by other sculptors.  And if you've ever thought that David's head is slightly too large, that's intentional: he was commissioned to stand on top of the Duomo so Michelangelo created him to look proportional from the street.  There are your two hsitory tidbits for the day.

Michelangelo was also a common thread from Florence to Rome- there I saw Moses (in the same church as the chains which are said to have bound Peter) and I capped it off with the Sistine Chapel.  In the Vatican Museum all visitors flow in the same direction and at times we felt like cattle getting slowly herded into a corral.  "Thank goodness we're not here in July," we repeated.  Not only would summer see three times as many tourists, but it would be sweltering!  Even in May, I was in a sundress and sunhat... I always envisioned Rome as hot and dusty, though.. the Romans having to wash the dust off their sandaled feet...  Anyway, the Sistine Chapel:  thankfully I had a podcast explaining it because Michelangelo's ceiling is overwhelming.  Thirty minutes looking up and listening and some order was wrought out of the initial chaos. There was also The Last Judgment frescoe.  Epic.

That was the most we saw of the Vatican.  The Pope didn't grace us with his presence although pictures of him holding a baby were everywhere: signs for his beatification (apparently he's one miracle away from becoming a saint). We went to St. Peter's Square, but didn't go inside the Basilica because it would probably look like just another cathedral, plus we didn't want to wait in this line:

Old Dogs Can't Jump

On my first venture outside the House into surrounding Ireland,  I brought two of the labs with me on a run.  We followed a seaside path, through a field near a crumbling chapel and a graveyard full of Celtic crosses:

Soon the trail plummeted onto an enclosed rocky beach.  The dogs rooted around and went swimming.  As we tried to leave, we found that the trail we had descended was steep rock up to my shoulders--easy enough to go down and easy for me to climb up, but the doggies... The puppy got a running start and scrambled up, but the old mama dog couldn't do it.  She gave a distressed little "don't leave me here."  The puppy came back down to show her how to do it; I tried in vain to lift her.  We searched for an alternative way out: the cove was surrounded by waist high brambles and jagged rocks jutting into the bay.  I eventually found an accessible way onto the rocks via the water; I apologized to all of the barnacles and microscopic beings I was probably killing, and the dogs followed me out.  Good thing I didn't have to go back on my second day and tell her I'd gotten her old dog stranded!

Imagine a Bed & Breakfast in Ireland....

 ..and you probably have a pretty accurate picture of where I am: a big stone house with ivy covering the front, wood floors and candles on the tables, blue and white teapots... The view out the front is of sailboats, a ferry dock, and rocky hills.

The house serves as a restaurant in the evenings and on special occasions.  My first day here was one such occasion, lunch for a party of 20.  I spent all morning peeling potatoes and chopping vegetables, all afternoon aiding in the kitchen, and in the evening, I waitressed  (tips!).  I'm really quite good at this sort of work and it feels good to do it.  I've been idle for too long.  And if providing charming hospitality isn't enough, I work with lovely people. Katarina--the owner, chef, maid, piano teacher, bookkeeper-- is my main company, but friends drop into her kitchen frequently and everyone has been wonderful. 

I serve breakfast, I serve tea, I weed in the garden, I garnish plates, etc., as Katarina continually pleases the guests with her meals.  "Lovely, just lovely" is the Irish compliment for delicious... The kitchen is a good place to be as it's the warmest part of the house.  The mornings have been downright chilly and even though the sun shines during the day, the wind has been howling around the house.  Perhaps that's why the Irish drink so much tea. :)

My morning jog

Getting There

A lot has changed since I wrote last!  At Easter, my job ended and I said good-bye to my students... That seems so long ago now... I then spent a short week in western France exploring the Atlantic-coast cities and hiking in the Pyrenees.  I stayed with Francoise and Lucien, the French couple that befriended me upon my arrival in France, and theirs was probably my most heartfelt good-bye.  No time for tears, however.  The next day I hitch-hiked to Nice with Katie and that's where my three-week trip began.

If I recount for you all the cool stories from my trip to Rome and back, we'll never catch up, so I'll limit it to one sentence per place:  My favorite spot in Nice was a monastery with a magnificent rose garden and a panoramic view of the city and sea. In Monaco, I walked past million-dollar yachts and saw the preparations for the Grand Prix.  I decided to stay two extra nights in Cinque Terre, Italy because hiking on the cliffs and swimming off the rocks was soul-cleansing.  The best pizza I had in Italy was in Pisa: a HUGE dinner with other hostel-goers. Florence was a trip down memory lane to World History class (the birthplace of the Renaissance) and also my first taste of Italian cities: mopeds everywhere.  I met Erin in Rome and we did a killer job seeing the sights without waiting in a single line. After hot and sunny Rome, the Alps were literally a breath of fresh air and I had a glorious day of hiking on Mont Blanc... Et voila! Three weeks of travel and I'm sure you feel as if you were there....

I'm in Ireland now, in case that's news to you. But let me tell you how I got here.  After a final, lovely day in Toulouse, I touched down in Dublin and that's where it started: immigration.  Handing the man my passport, he asked: "so how long are you here for?" I could've lied and said seven days and skipped along, but the time for quick thinking passed and I answered "two months."  Wrong answer. Americans are allowed to visit for up to 3 months without a Visa, but what I'm doing is apparently a "working holiday"- a whole different ballgame.  Do you have a letter of reference? No. Is someone picking you up from the airport? No.  Do you have your host's phone number? No.  Do you have a return ticket home? No. Do you have proof of medical insurance? No... the list goes on. This ordeal caught me totally unawares; my heart was pumping like mad throughout. I felt very foolish and calmly began to imagine who I would call if they sent me back to France... But this immigration guy, although he was very stern, gave me the benefit of the doubt.  I walked away slightly rattled and sorry I had made a bad impression on the first Irishman I came across.

The day didn't get any worse, but I can't say it got much better. The most painful part was spending three times more money getting from Dublin to western Ireland than I did on my flight from France.  There was also one dreadful moment when I went to pay for a bus ticket and couldn't find my wallet-- I broke into a sweat rifling through my bags, realizing I no longer had emergency cash stashed elsewhere. I was screwed in Cork (pun?).

Alas, my wallet was there, fallen into a hidden compartment. I paid for the bus, the bus that unexpectedly didn't go the full distance to my destination.  It deserted me in Skibereen, 15 miles from Schull.  So close and yet so far away.  It was 8:30pm by this time and I vowed to be happy as long as I arrived before dark (thankfully the days here are long).  I went into the nearest pub (ignoring the half dozen heads that turn as I entered with backpack and luggage) and asked after a cab.  Within minutes the whole bar was for my cause: the lady bartender knew all the cab drivers firsthand and tried to get me a deal; another woman called every friend in her phone seeing if they'd help a stranded girl; the old men swore they'd drive me there themselves if they weren't intoxicated.  Despite this wellspring of Irish generosity, I took a cab in the end: the last, painful extraction from my wallet (if I lived through this one, I'd surely survive).

I arrived before dark, 14 hours after setting out, but not as ragged as you might expect.  Yet I'll be happy if I don't see another plane, train, or bus again for months.