It's Beginning to Feel(?) a Lot Like Christmas...

I'm a bit of a Christmas person, I admit it. I love decorations and cold nights spent indoors by a fire with Christmas lights twinkling outside or inside on the tree. I like Christmas movies, songs and listening to 'The Nutcracker' in its entirety repeatedly throughout the season. I like the little white lights on all the trees that line the streets downtown and even the ones around the malls. I hate traffic, but I love Christmas sales. Oh yeah, and I like snow.

I struggled last year here in Ireland to decide if in fact it feels "Christmasy" here. First I thought, it's just not what I'm used to. The decorations are different. There are no little trees lining the streets to be strung with little white lights. Christmas carols are piped in on a constant drone in shops, but there's no threat of anyone Christmas caroling (I know there's little threat of it back in the states anymore, but I used to go caroling with friends when I was in school!). And there's no threat of any snow. In fact, there's little else going on in the weather than rain. And let's face it, is there anything worse than seeing rain beating down on Christmas lights?

I guess everyone has rather defined notions of what makes it feel like Christmas, largely based on the traditions and settings we grew up in. In Limerick, there's a great effort made in decorating the streets in the city centre. Santa and his reindeer, snow flakes, tree ornaments, etc. made out in lights are strung from one building to the next spanning the main streets of town. A large Christmas tree is set up (although it's lost most of its ornaments to some bored teenagers that thought it more fun to vandalize it). But something about it falls short for me.

Maybe it's seeing snowflake decorations when I know there's no chance of it snowing (LMB, I know this is normal to you, but it will never be normal to me - bring on the thundersnow!!). Maybe it's that there's no defined season for Christmas. In America, Thanksgiving gives us a safe boundary for the 'most wonderful time of the year' that can only last about 5 weeks. I realize that Target and Hallmark push this, but really nobody's shoving Christmas down anyone's throat until that Friday after T'giving. Here, there's no such boundary. The poor kids hardly had time to get their Halloween costumes on before people started stressing out about Christmas. One sugar high to the next in no time flat.

I've made up my mind that I'm going to get in to Christmas this year. See, it's my first time ever away from my family. I know that it'll be different. For one, instead of singing at as many Christmas Eve church services as I can book into, I'll probably be catching up with Tristan's family and friends that have traveled home for the holidays inside a pub. Huh. But T and I are going to go look for a real tree this weekend to put up. I've been accumulating decorations that I see and like over the last month or so and I actually have a Christmas party to go to for work this year. Plus, we have 2 nieces and 2 nephews under the age of 7 that'll make Christmas day as exciting and fun as I think we all remember it can be!

In fact, I'll post some pics of them from Halloween here for you to see and you'll know why we have something to look forward to on the 25th....

Meanwhile, Down at the Pub...

Everyone probably has mental images of a "traditional Irish pub." Well, in Ireland, the real thing is probably different than the re-creations dotted all over the globe. A real Irish pub has little pomp and circumstance. In most cases it could be said that the less there is, the more truly Irish it probably is. If it has a newly painted door and a big sign that boasts "Traditional Irish Pub!", it probably isn't. If it's an old plaster sign above the door with nothing but the proprietor's last name, it probably is.

The term "pub" is just short for "public house." This is the best description yet. The pubs in the village are just that - a public house or living room for people to have a pint and talk the night away about absolutely nothing. T and I like to walk down the road now and then to have a pint and see the local characters for a change of scenery. The topics of conversation are almost always funny to me. The same people take the same places at the bar most nights. Often, you can hear the voices grow louder the more rounds have been served. Most of the time, the voices are booming out rhetoric about absolutely nothing.

One night down at the pub, the TV channel landed on the Ultimate Fighting Championship. This wouldn't be my first choice of entertainment, of course, and I glanced over my shoulder and looked the other direction. That is, until I heard the booming voices start to take an interest in the fighters. That's right. One Ken Shamrock entered the ring, which was enough to capture the attentions of the characters that prop up the bar. I hadn't laughed that hard in quite a while, as I listened to the excitement over Ken Shamrock beating someone to a pulp in what seems to be a made-up form of sports entertainment. Of course, the men in the pub don't care about the Ultimate Fighting Championship, and they'd never heard of Ken Shamrock before. But, put a guy named Mr. Shamrock in a ring on TV at the pub, and all allegiences went to Ken. My entertainment was listening to the armchair (or shall I say pub stool) coaching and ref'ing going on, and no less, about something so silly and ridiculous I couldn't believe it actually warranted international TV time.

Then another night, not too long ago, T and I walked down the road to a different pub. This one is quieter and smaller. We were sitting at the bar chatting about work and the owner who was standing next to us nodded to a man across the room and leaned in to tell us to watch. Expecting to see someone who'd had a pint or three too many and was unable to walk or something, we turned around somewhat reluctantly. As it turned out, though, this man was coaxed into doing some magic tricks by his friends. So, he had a captive audience and performed a series of fun tricks that had us all ooh'ing and aaah'ing. It made for pub entertainment of a different sort altogether.

These little experiences, and they are only little, are what make the Irish pub. Even if you don't know the people around you, you may as well, or you might before the night is out. I don't know how to quantify this kind of experience that makes living in an Irish village what it is. Whether it's listening to others solve the problems of the world over a pint of Guinness, or a roaring sing-along breaking out at the end of the night, the Irish pub definitely has its own personality.

The cost of everything...

When Tristan and I were dating long distance and discussing the pros and cons of living in our respective countries, his three major gripes about Ireland were simply the cost of everything, the cost of everything and the cost of everything.

Visitors to the country would feel this most especially in restaurants. Eating out is an expensive affair. If you're going to bother, you may as well make it a nice one, because even something shabby is going to set you back quite a bit. (I once ordered some clam chowder and a soft drink and asked for a side of some carrots and potatoes and it set me back nearly 15 euros because the side of veggies was 6.50!)

On an everyday basis, I see it when I do my shopping. I sometimes take a step back and look at myself as I compare costs over stupid, miniscule things. Dishwashing liquid, hand soap and other cleaning products occupy way too many of my thoughts. By far the worst, though, are fruit and vegetables. As I'm typing this, I'm actually fuming at the thought. I have grumbled about the vast price difference to what I'm used to in Indiana for the better part of the past year. But the other day, in the grocery store, I'd seen it all:

Special!!! Watermelons only 10 Euros!!!

These weren't the elephant-sized watermelons we're accustomed to back in the Midwestern states, either. They were tiny. Flashes of the amazing veggie stand that sets up at an intersection just minutes away from my parents' house came to my mind.....ears of corn for nothing more than the leftover change in your wallet...fruit by the pound....tomatoes as big as grapefruit for pennies. And all of the aforementioned produce is top notch. Compare this to the two ears of corn on the cob I was delighted to see in the store this time last year. They were 3 euros for the two!! I took it in stride, though, just delighted to eat some corn on the cob in the summer. I was excited to sit down to my dinner after I prepared the corn that evening, only to discover that this had to have been the worst quality corn grown. It was mealy and mushy, and not because of the preparation. This was the kind of stuff we feed to pigs back home. With that experience under my belt, I scoffed at the watermelons and kept on walking.

Red, green or yellow pepper? 1 euro each. Strawberries? 2 euros for about 10 of them. Tomatoes? Don't even get me started. You're lucky to find any that are actually red, as opposed to pinkish and clear in the middle, let alone that have any kind of flavor at all. And they want you to pay for them!! While people in other parts of the world have big, sweet, juicy, red tomatoes that grow in their back yards like weeds and they have to give them away to avoid their house being completely taken over by tomato plants in the summer!!

Root vegetables are the major exception. As you'd expect, you can get a great variety of potatoes for very little money. Carrots grow at a mutant size, as do turnips (which taste much sweeter and less bitter here than what I was used to), and parsnips.

Now, I've never even pretended to have a green thumb or even feigned an interest in gardening, but if I could somehow have a big box of Indiana soil that would grow the kind of veggies I'm used to in the summer, I have a feeling I would have a new found hobby. And then I'd just laugh at the ludicrous prices of these things instead of tearing up!

Day at the Beach

Lahinch Beach

It's summer in Ireland, and every once in a while for a few days or a week at a time, it's actually kind of hot. The sun is shining, and it's expected to get up to 27 C today (that's about 81 F). I know it's no scorcher, but keep in mind nobody has air conditioning around here. I have the weekend off so a friend and I decided to go to the beach yesterday.

This is one of those great things about where I live that I don't think will ever cease to be a novelty to me. The beach is only an hour away. Nothing's ever too far away, really. The entire island could be driven in a day. So, with a day off and nothing scheduled, spontaneous car trips are easy.

We drove to Lahinch, County Clare. It is a long beach, with sand and lots of huge rocks. The sand, as you can imagine, is not like white, silky Florida beaches, but closer to that of a northern California beach. It's darker and more coarse. I even stuck my toes in the water expecting to be sent into hypothermia almost instantly, but was pleasantly surprised that it was warm enough to wade in, and if I were so inspired, I could've been swimming, too.

The whole area, especially in these summery, sunny spells, forces a double-take to make sure you're still in Ireland. I'm not sure where it reminded me of. Perhaps part northern Michigan, part Maryland - quaint shops and ice cream stops dotting the road to the beach, a couple of surf stands signing people up for lessons, and of course loads of people. We were lucky enough to find parking straight away, which made the day much easier than it might have been. The sand was somewhat wet no matter where you went, so we just found a spot away from where kids were digging sand castles with moats, and set up for the afternoon.

Although otherwise very comfortable, I could've done with a cushion to lean against to facilitate proper people watching for the day. It was a feast for anyone who is easily entertained by the antics of others, like me. I was discouraged to see that the Speedo is still popular with men - and let's face it, it's never Olympic divers that favor this look on the beach, rather old men who wear black socks with their sandals. I would definitely say that there were more Speedos there than one would see at an American beach - one European stereotype that lives on. Other than that, it was the typical sites - kids screaming when they were told it was time to leave, couples cuddling on the beach that will end up with some very peculiar tan lines due to the positions they were taking up, and an impromptu beach soccer game with lines drawn in the sand for goals (it was like a twist on beach volleyball to me). I also had to dodge the jellyfish when I went up to the water for a bit of a walk, which was another good reason not to go for much of a swim.

The weather is perfect. It's a dry, sunny 80 degrees with just a light breeze by the beach from the sea. You could stay out there all day, which is why I ironically have a bit of a tan for about the first time in my life. Who would've thought Ireland would be the place I'd get a tan??? Well, with summers like this - as I mentioned in an earlier post, very much like an extended springtime - it's hard not to spend some time outside.

My new job

Well, I've already told many of you that since Easter, I've been working full time at Bunratty Castle. The castle puts on banquets, which are similar to madrigal dinners, so I perform at the banquets. I know how it sounds - it's nearly cliche to say that I moved to Ireland, live in a village and work singing in a castle down the road. But, that's the truth.

See, I hadn't written about it before now because I wanted some time to formulate opinions about it, get used to it and try to approach broadcasting my perspective with the necessary delicacy one should have when writing about their job online. (See many others who have used their blogs as a forum to air their honesty about their job and have since found themselves unemployed.)

Overall, I love my job. I was working in an office in Limerick before, which had me commuting 40 minutes each way in rush hour traffic. Now, I make the same money without the commute and with much less stress than an office job. Really, it's the kind of job that makes me feel like I'm on summer break and I'm going to have to go back to work sometime soon. But I am at work! And they actually pay me to do this! Who can pass it up?

The one hesitancy I ever had about auditioning for the job is my accent. Probably the majority of the audience from evening to the next is Americans, so I felt like a bit of a fraud, inviting my fellow countrymen in for an evening in an Irish castle only to be greeted by a fellow American. The funny thing is, not that many Americans either notice or say anything about my accent. Every once in a while someone picks up on it, but it's not nearly as often as you'd think. I chalk that up to having just the slightest twinge of an Irish accent now in me that comes out more when I'm more or less 'acting' for the role of my job (I mean, how American is anyone going to sound when they're dressed up in a big velvet dress and calling people 'My Lord' and 'My Lady'?). I always feel like my story is a good one; I'm not here for school or for some year off to travel Europe, rather I met an Irishman and he 'imported' me! It is rather amusing, though, when American guests ask me what part of Ireland I'm from originally, and I answer 'Indianapolis.'

The banquets are silly and amusing. We do them twice a night and they're on every night of the week during the peak tourism season (April-October). It takes surprisingly little motivation to repeat the same program each night, mostly because the crowd is always different. Unlike other more traditional performing experiences, the crowd's involvement is important to the flow of the evening, and since the audience is different each time, it keeps it interesting.

I'm sure I'll have more to say over the coming months about this position. I get to see people from all over the world coming in and out of the castle, and sometimes the cultural observations are surprising. But I'll leave it at that so I don't open up a diplomacy can of worms.

Driver's Ed

No, I'm not 15 all over again. I'm in Ireland. This means that the American driver's license that I've had since I was 16 means nothing. Ireland recognizes only EU countries' licenses and those of other left-hand driving countries (i.e. UK, Australia, New Zealand). So, for starters, I had to obtain a provisional license. This is essentially a much more flexible form of the learner's permit that we have in America. Unlike the permit, which basically allows unlicensed drivers the chance to get behind of the wheel for the purposes of learning only, many drive around on provisional licenses for quite a while, with little thought to it. However, as you can imagine, the cost of insurance for a provisional license is quite a bit more than that of a full license, so I was anxious to get the show on the road - no pun intended.

To get one's provisional driving license, you first have to take and pass a relatively simple written exam. Of course, you must wait for an available test time first, which can be up to a few weeks. After you have your provisional license, you may then apply to take your driving test for your full license. In the meantime, provisional drivers can take to the roads, and although they are supposed to be accompanied by a fully licensed driver aren't take to task over this. The other requirement, and much more painful in my eyes, is that they are to display what are known as 'L' plates. A red 'L', indicating a learner driver, must be displayed in both the front and back windshields. This was a humiliation I could not bear. This was reason enough in my mind to get this test out of the way.

A few things to know about the Irish driving test. First of all, it's hard. Only about 50% pass. Most people in Ireland aren't rushing out to take their test and get behind the wheel. In fact, most Irish wait to learn how to drive until they actually have a car of their own. This can be much later than the gaggles of 16 year olds taking to the roads in the states. For one, the process is more involved, and it just isn't a part of regular rites of passage to take Driver's Ed as soon as you turn 15, preparing you for the test that you can take as soon as you turn 16 + one month (as it is in Indiana). As it is, you can't get a provisional license until your 17 anyway. Most people learn how to drive from a family member, and then when they get closer to taking their test, take private driving lessons from an instructor who will teach the finer points of driving in preparation for the test.

Another thing about the driving test/licensing in Ireland: red tape. I applied to take my test last September and got an appointment for today - June 19th. That's over 9 months that I waited for this coveted appointment. You can't just call up a test center a week before you think you're prepared to take the test and get an appointment. You're much more at the mercy of the bureaucracy.

Back to it being difficult. If I remember correctly from my own first driving test in America, they are testing you on the traffic laws and how well you abide by them. In Ireland, they are much more particular about your driving technique as well and the finer points of the road rules are emphasized much more. There's quite a laundry list of potential failure points the tester is armed with, which makes seeing any sight of his pen at work nerve-wracking. I know you're all thinking that 'They drive on the other side of the road over there, of course it's difficult and different.' That's not the tricky part. Trust me, if the steering wheel in your car all of sudden showed up on the other side of your car, it would only make sense to drive on the other side of the road. It's that the roads over here are narrow, winding, hilly, poor quality, etc. that give plenty of challenge on an everyday basis that you don't particularly need someone next to you ticking off boxes if you leave your foot on the clutch too long when downshifting just before a roundabout. I mean, which is more important, how long it takes me to shift into second gear, or assessing whether the 20 foot truck coming through the roundabout is going to mow over my little car when I get there?

Due to some family car problems, I ended up taking my test in Tristan's car - a 1993 Toyota hatchback with a permanent layer of sawdust (carpenter mobile) both inside and out and no power steering. It was not the most ideal of situations, but it was a necessity. So, I booked a few lessons with an instructor to get the jist of the testing route and all of its intricacies. After my first lesson, I was in tears. I was so frustrated and had flashbacks to the driver's ed car when I was 15 and the instructor slammed on the brakes because he was certain I didn't see the red light up ahead (I did, by the way...). Everything about it was humiliating, even though I knew it was helpful at the same time. Big red 'L's in the windshields as a reminder of my status didn't help much.

With such little time to prepare, and the odds not stacked up well in my favor (I think those just learning to drive are at a bit of an advantage over those of us with 15 years of bad habits stacked up), I was not optimistic. But heck, I already had the coveted appointment, so it would be good practice, if nothing else.

While sitting in the waiting room, I saw one driver returning from his test that failed and another that passed. Hmm...not the best odds. I immediately felt nervous - unreasonably so for my liking. The tester called me in, sat me down and asked me a few rules of the road. I was so tongue-tied I gave him dissertation-length answers which I think amused him more than anything else. I thought this would be the easy part, but by this point I was actually looking forward to getting in the car. And sure enough, once I did, I was fine. In fact, he didn't even keep me out there for the full 30-40 minutes. I think I was back and finished with the whole ordeal in less than 25 minutes. He smiled at me when we got back into the office, and just told me to relax, that I had passed and that clearly I had been driving for quite a while. There was something in that statement that gave me the biggest sigh of relief - like a validation of my previous experience that had, until now, been discounted by my move here by all governing bodies and more importantly, the insurance companies.

The funny thing was, afterward, I actually wanted to show people my scoresheet - just like a little kid that aced a test. I had fewer 'ticks' on my scoresheet than Tristan (only 2 overall), and you better believe I used that as bragging collateral!! And I tore down those 'L' plates with great satisfaction.

Soundtrack for a walk in County Clare

As a person who likes her music, I have my favorite tunes that I associate with memories and specific times in my life when they were new or popular. I don't tend to latch on to new popular artists quickly, rather I hold onto my old faves, many of whom were popular well before I was ever born. So, armed with my iPod, I set out for a walk today on one of the first decent days we've had in nearly a month. The sun is out, the air is dry and there is a light breeze - it's a beautiful spring day.

My walk goes behind our house on the 'back road' (seriously, that's what it's referred to for lack of street names and signage) toward the area of Rossmanagher. First, I dodge the orange cones of progress and development that are commonplace in Sixmilebridge these days, but not much further do I have to walk to be surrounded by fields dotted with cows and horses. To my right, it's grassy fields as far as you can see and the cows eye me suspiciously. On the left, the fields lie at the bottom of the great rolling landscape, which is so green it's almost cliche. More horses on this side, including some new ponies!

The soundtrack:
1. I'm Just a Girl, No Doubt
2. The Promise, Tracy Chapman
3. Everybody's Changing, Keane
4. Father and Daughter, Paul Simon
5. Small Town, John Mellencamp
6. Laura, Scissor Sisters
7. Landslide, Dixie Chicks
8. Pig, Dave Matthews Band
9. Clocks, Coldplay (for about 20 seconds)
10. If I Had a Million Dollars, Barenaked Ladies

By the time 'Father and Daughter' kicks in, I've passed through this lovely shady grove the stretches about a tenth of a mile and am right under the sun. (You have to pick up the pace under those trees because the evidence of tons of birds living in the branches above is all over the road!) This is a great song with the perfect beat for walking at a happy pace. The lyrics are sweet and the melody upbeat.

'Small Town' is one of those songs that will always remind me of home. I didn't think that I could ever associate it with anything other than Indiana, from Mellencamp's Seymour and Bloomington, IN roots to its significance to my former boss, the late Governor O'Bannon (he had it as his very fitting campaign theme song). Even though I wasn't actually born in a small town, rather a mid-size metropolitan area (slightly less poetic of course), I've always felt like this song means home. And today walking through my new home, it seemed very appropriate, too. It seems just right for reminding you not to take for granted the simple amenities that are right under your nose. And being able to make it part of my 'soundtrack' here in Ireland, kept me from choking up about missing Indiana.

Moving, on I made it up to the top of this road, where my father in law's family home is and where Tristan's uncle lives today. Another uncle of his lives next door and my brother in law lives in a new house across the street. I decided to turn around here, when the Scissor Sisters' song 'Laura' comes on. Nice and quirky with just the right tempo to keep me going and continue the necessary variety for me to forget I'm actually doing a physical activity.

After that, it's the Dixie Chicks' revision of Fleetwood Mac's 'Landslide'. I know what you're thinking, opera girl here likes the Dixie Chicks??? Not especially, but this song has a great earthy feel that I really like and as country goes, it's definitely not too twangy. At this point I'm back by the cows and horses again - what could be more appropriate?

After the Dixie Chicks, some Dave Matthews and then I decide to skip over Coldplay so that my happy walk isn't ruined by a fit of depression and I finish out with the Barenaked Ladies classic 'If I had a Million Dollars.' This band and this song in particular put a smile on my face no matter how many times I hear it. It reminds me especially of my senior year in college, which was so light-hearted and fun, which is exactly how the band is. Silly and full of life. That's the mood my walk put me in....and if these walks can help burn off some of the Kerry Gold, too, I'll be even happier!!!

Random tidbits

Just a collection of thoughts and observations...

Ah, the glory of Kerry Gold!
Kerry Gold is a brand of pure Irish butter. It is important to distinguish that it is Irish butter, because after you've had proper Irish butter, there's no way you'll go back to Land O' Lakes. Seriously. The character Amy in 'Little Women' said at their Christmas feast 'Isn't butter divinity?' I can only add an editorial comment that Irish butter is divinity. And Irish butter is pure sin, too. It is creamy, flavorful and makes toast one of the best meals you can possibly imagine. Before I moved here, one of the things I sincerely looked forward to about visiting was toast with butter. Sad? Not if you've had Irish butter. You can get Kerry Gold in the States. In Indy, O'Malia's carries it. If you're looking to really increase your fat intake in a satisfying way, you can't beat Kerry Gold.

I want a lamb
I technically live in rural Ireland. If I were in America, it would be considered the suburbs, but over here, it's a village in its own right and thus part of the rural Irish countryside. One cool thing about that is that there are still farms in the area, people can have animals without zoning restrictions and kids ride their horses on the village roads nearly every day. So, as this spring has unfolded and I've been essentially able to watch the grass in the back yard grow under my eyes, I've been inspired for an environmentally friendly alternative to the lawn mower: a sheep. Sheep populate the Irish landscape like dandelions. Granted this investment would be for when we have our own house, but I'm actually liking the idea of it more and more. At first it was a joke because I've found myself fawning over the cute lambs that have made an appearance over the past couple months. But the prospect is actually a realistic one. So, who knows, in a few years' time when you come visit us, you may have to 'beware of the sheep!'

Country store
As I live in the aforementioned Irish countryside, I hear more about locally grown products and organic farming, etc. Europe in general is increasingly concerned with healthier and more sustainable methods than our globalized, mass-produced ways have influenced over recent decades, so greater attention is being paid to local area growers and farmers. Lucky for me because I recently learned of a country store and cafe that pays particular attention to the quality and origin of the products it sells. It looked really cute and lovely on TV, so I grabbed a few friends and we drove to the Tipperary town of Nenagh (pronounced 'Nina') for lunch. This place is special. Not because of the decor or the service or any other reason other than what it offers: a variety of beautiful cheeses, chutneys and jams and preserves, sweets, bread, wine and a lovely cafe to sit down for lunch. We all enjoyed a wonderful lunch and bought bread and cheese to take home with us. From our 'ooh'ing' and 'ah'ing', you'd think we were in a museum. I suppose we were, in a way. But I think this will become more of the norm and less of a rarity. Let's hope so! http://www.countrychoice.ie (There are even some recipes on the site if you feel so inspired!)

Sports, Euro-style

Greetings sports fans from the seat of soccer addiction, rugby fanatics and Gaelic sports groupies (more on Gaelic sports later).

One of the first things I noticed about my move last summer was that cricket was on all the time. No really, I mean all the time. It resembles baseball, except there isn't as much running and the players wear pith helmet-like hats and cable-knit sweater vests and white pants. I can already see you thinking the same thing I was - no way is this a sport if its players are wearing white sweaters!! But much like baseball, its supporters are devout and the games last forever and clog the airwaves all summer long.

So I was thrilled in late August for cricket to wind down...until the soccer strong-hold took over. Soccer is like religion to the men of Ireland, Europe and of course its reach extends further still. Tristan is a fervent Liverpool supporter and has been since he was a little kid. He would pretend to tell you that he isn't obsessed with soccer, but truly, he is. He'll watch any game that's on at any time and justify its importance. He can rattle off some long-retired player's stats and recount their goals and the exact time they occurred, dating back to the 80's.

In order to see my husband, I have been known to watch a soccer match now and then, too. Being a basketball fan first and foremost, I found it excruciating that several games can go scoreless. I mean, we're talking 90 minutes of kicking a ball back and forth to no avail. What's exciting about that?? I have to say that I admire the athleticism of soccer players. They are smart, quick and in excellent shape. But even with an entire season of soccer watching now under my belt, I still wish more happened (and by more, I mean scoring). The final regular season soccer matches are winding down this week and making way for a month long bonanza of soccer during the World Cup in June. Disappointingly, Ireland did not qualify, so that's a little less soccer watching I'll have to do. I think I'll throw myself whole-heartedly behind the American team. Heck, when you can't beat 'em, join 'em, right?

Rugby is one game I've learned to enjoy and wish there was more of it. Rugby is fast paced - so much so that it makes American football looke like a chess match. It's similar, but instead of a play stopping once someone is tackled, it keeps going, with the players hovering around to extract the ball from the grounded player and continue this blood battle until they score. There's also the whole thing about how they dont' wear any padding, either. Right now, the Munster team (the Irish province where we live) is headed to the European final next week to face Biarritz (France) in Cardiff. I'm actually rather disappointed that I have to work that evening, so I'll only be able to watch part of it before I go in. It'll be a very exciting game, guaranteed.

Finally, Gaelic games, which is made up of Gaelic Football and Hurling, the two Irish sports. Hurling resembles a combination of field hockey and rugby (they have sticks called hurleys that they use to pass a baseball like ball and of course beat the tar out of each other with, too). It's very fast-paced and very physical. It's exciting to watch as the teams that play are those representing their home counties and are not paid. Its traditions are rooted in county-level play all the way down to individual village teams. It's not hard to get into hurling very quickly. Gaelic football is similar, but they play without the hurley and use a ball that's closer to a soccer ball.

So wish me luck as we begin to embark on the World Cup madness. I am going to take advantage of the next few weeks to try and commandeer the remote control whenever possible since I know I won't ever see it during the month of June. Thank goodness it's only every 4 years!!

Cyril, ex-patriate cat

Some of you may recognize this guy - but not outdoors! Yes, Cyril has taken his curiosity outdoors in his new home - supervised of course, since he has no claws.

Cyril made the journey over to Ireland with me at Christmas. I'll spare everyone the details of this long, drawn-out process, but I will let you know that it is much easier to move a person than a cat to another country. Fortunately, Ireland has relaxed the former quarantine laws that used to exist for animals coming in from outside the country (they used to be subject to 6 months in quarantine). Now, you can go through a long arduous process with vets and paper work at home before moving the cat. So, the process began in March of 2005 and Cyril officially joined me in Ireland in December.

First, he endured a number of vet visits, blood draws and vaccinations before riding in the car up to Chicago O'Hare Airport to depart for Ireland. At O'Hare, he sat patiently while I argued with the cargo department about his booking (another long story that I'll spare everyone, but essentially I had to sweet talk them into letting Cyril on board, which involved several Chicago-Dublin phone calls). He then boarded a plane for Dublin, endured a 7 hour flight, a trip to a vet in Dublin and a 2.5 hour car ride back to Sixmilebridge to his new home. He meowed lots, but survived like a champ and crawled up with me for a nice long jet lag nap when we got home.

I know anyone who doesn't know me very well who's reading this is probably thinking I'm nuts for going to such lengths to reunite with my cat. But Tristan probably said it best when he was trying to figure it out himself and told me that he figured it was because Cyril is a part of home that I could have here with me. And that's the truth. My cat is as loyal as the most loyal of dogs - he runs to the door to greet me when I get home and curls up on my lap whether I want him there or not!

Now he's settling in an enjoying his new home. He's always been an indoor cat, but loves watching the outdoors from the windows and back door, and sometimes has even braved a lap or two around the back yard, as pictured above. Spring has definitely sprung here, which has brought him much to look after and observe. He's very busy watching birds and the cows in the field next door and relaxes with a nice sunbath in the afternoons....

Are Americans too polite?

Yes, you read correctly. I didn't know about this either until after moving. Apparently, Americans' expressions of politeness are downright sickening to our overseas English-speaking friends.

Scenario in America:
You enter a store. You are greeted shortly by a staff member who asks if you need help finding anything. You say 'no, just browsing.' The person leaves you to your devices and you find what you're looking for. You go to pay and the person at the register asks if you found everything okay. You say 'yes.' You pay, thank the person, the person thanks you and wishes you a nice day. You leave.

Scenario in Ireland:
You enter a store. Security guard either sitting next to the door or within two feet of it. You browse for what you're looking for. You can't find it, but figure it must be there somewhere, so you look for a helpful staff member. You see three girls with store nametags on ranting in a corner by the cash register, pretending not to see you. You interrupt them, they point in the direction of where you're supposed to find the item and go back to their chat. You decide to buy something and go up to the register. You pay for the item, at which point it is customary for you to say 'thank you' while handing over your hard-earned cash. The cashier hands you any change, says 'thanks' and that's it.

Analysis
So, apparently people not used to the American ethic of customer service find it overbearing to have someone greet you and offer their help. Americans are also teased endlessly for the expression 'have a nice day,' with accusations of gross insincerity. I can see this to a point. I mean, we've all been in stores ready to shoot the sunny-faced people who nearly stalk you while you browse. This always seems to be the case, too, when you're only killing time somewhere. But what happens when you DO need someone? Assistance is rarely found during a shopping trip over here. The ironic thing is that wages for working in a shop are higher here than in America. In fact, minimum wage here is right around 8 euro/hour. Perhaps retail workers here don't have those pesky sales goals, coupled with silly incentive games for motivating employees like they do in America.

Now to the 'have a nice day' issue. Anyone in Britain or Ireland wishing to poke fun at Americans will quickly make reference to this phrase as if it were a national flaw in character. I've caught myself at times telling clerks in shops to have a nice day as I'm leaving after buying something. You can only imagine the strange looks I get. Yes, truly, this is an Americanism. But I honestly had no idea. I mean, how criminal can it be to wish someone a nice day? Apparently as American stereotypes go, this is right up there, fitting the loud and cheesy personality profile that Americans are so famous for. But I challenge that this perceived insincerity is unique to Americans. To me, a parallel is the phrase 'thanks a million.' This phrase is uttered in any and all situations over here - from anything as mundane as buying chewing gum to more deserving scenarios like borrowing large sums of money. I don't really thank these people 'a million' any more than they think I hope they have a nice day.

Did you ever think that politeness was an American downfall? Too bad this sugary sweet side of American culture doesn't trickle into more dramatic examples of foreign policy, but I digress....

Irish Target?

I've had more than one conversation with people who have experienced life on both sides of the Atlantic and one of the prevailing topics is the options people have in America. I'm not talking about life choices here, I'm talking about what you can buy and where you can go.

In the land of Super Target (a personal fave of mine), WalMart, Meijer, etc., seeking out just what you're looking for at a decent price isn't a difficult task in the States. Over here, the options are just fewer, though not necessarily worse. In America, we have grocery stores that rival the size of entire small towns. In Ireland, we have the corner shop. In America, we have an entire aisle in said grocery store dedicated to bread and bread alone. In Ireland we have a shelf or two and it consists of about 3 different kinds.

More recently, this American style of more, more, more! has made it's way over here. The closest comparison to Super Target here is the Irish Dunnes Stores. Dunnes has a grocery store, clothing department and small housewares section. More and more Dunnes are popping up in bigger and more dramatic fashion around the country. And more and more of them are 24 hour establishments - bucking the whole 9am-6pm business hours tradition. I was actually excited to walk into Limerick's newest Dunnes - boasted as the biggest Dunnes outside of Dublin! I was hoping to find a little more to choose from as I still crave certain creature comforts from the homeland. At first glance, the new Dunnes is certainly the size and shape of a Super Target. It could swallow a small Irish village whole. When I approached the aisles, ready to feast my eyes on the myriad of options, I found loads and loads of the same 3 kinds of bread. No, there aren't more options, just more of it!

From reading this, you may think I'm complaining about the reduction in options I encountered with my move, and truly I'm not. There's something comforting about having one or two types of bread that you know you like and you know will always be there. Now if they could just expand the pasta sauce options....

Some pictures from the wedding....a little late, I know!

The big entrance!

Outside the reception hall, which is next to King John's Castle, Limerick.

My parents, the happy couple, Tristan's parents.

Ah, the weather

When you live in a place like Ireland, you don't expect much from the weather. You never hear anyone raving about Irish weather in all of the attraction to visit the country. However, you will never hear anyone more apologetic about the weather than the Irish. I've found this since the first time I visited the country to today.

The first time I came to Ireland was at the end of January. I was sure to allow about 5 hours in between my flight to Chicago from Indy and departure from Chicago to Ireland because of the inevitable Midwestern winter flight delays. They were de-icing the planes and snow was piling up on my car when I left. When I got over here, it was hardly tropical, mind you, but there was no ice or snow on the ground. Still, everywhere I went people were apologizing for the cold and the wind. Little did they know I had 4 inches of snow on my car to scrape off when I got home!

Even to this day, we're experiencing a bit of a cold snap over here. So, it's a bit chilly for late March. But what do you expect from an island in the north Atlantic? People are just sure that where I came from, the weather must be much warmer (despite all assurances since November that that's not the case). After a quick look at the Star online the other day, I was able to report, no once again, as they have 3.5 inches of snow back in my hometown. Granted, I know everyone back in Indy is grumbling and moaning about the late snow fall because if you're anything like me, I think snow should be illegal after March 15th. But, the windy chill in the air over here feels much easier without the added pain of scraping my car in the morning.

No, the Irish need not be so apologetic about the weather. The daffodils are blooming like crazy all over the place and before long, it'll be what they call summer - which resembles much more of an extended spring time to those of us used to weather in the 90s with swamp-like humidity during the summer months.

So, I might have my jacket out a little longer that I was used to, but I've happily left my car scraper behind!

St. Patrick's Day in Ireland

I know what you're thinking - St. Patrick's Day in the land of the green must be the real thing! You'd be surprised, though. St. Patrick's Day is a holiday. Everyone has the day off. There are parades in the bigger towns and of course most people are at the pub. But without the novelty of it being a day for the Irish - because when you're in Ireland, every day is the day of the Irish! - it's a bit lackluster. The biggest excitement is focused on the horse races in Cheltenham which means that tons of people pack themselves into the bookies' to place bets and crowd around the TVs in the pubs to watch their horses either win or lose it all for them. By 6:00, we were pretty tired of watching horses, and we didn't go out until 4:30.

In Indianapolis, there is a community of people who look forward to St. Patrick's Day every year. And even though it's annual, it's a novelty. We go to the parade, take the second half of the day off work (which is a novelty in and of itself) and head to the regular St. Patrick's Day haunts. We don't even have to make plans with friends of where to meet up and when because it's a foregone conclusion that we'll eventually see each other at one of the three or four places where we'd be likely to visit. We don our green, or in my case in the years since I met Tristan, my County Clare hurling jersey for true Irish authenticity. The excitement of seeing another friend of mine who nearly owns a jersey for each county and which one he will wear that particular year, and even having someone stop me because they recognize the Clare colors and strike up conversation are much more satisfying than watching a horse race.

Ironically, I think in future years, we may be looking to travel back to visit Indy for the Irish national holiday. It just means more.

Me in Ireland

Hello blog friends!

As most anyone who is reading this probably knows, I relocated to Co. Clare Ireland from my native Indianapolis where I live with my Irish husband, Tristan. I've been in Ireland since 30 June, 2005, so I'm still relatively new, although I'm settling in quite well here.

I often have observations about the differences between my new home and old home, which I'll air here on my blog. I'm not promising you'll find it terribly interesting all the time. Often I find the most profound differences are in the smaller details.

I'll talk accents and language for today. As everyone knows, the Irish have a way with words and an unforgettable accent. It can be very contagious, especially when you live with an Irishman. There are some words and phrases that I thought would never become part of my personal vernacular even though they are uttered every day by people here. One is 'grand.' Everything in Ireland is grand. If it's good, or even just okay, it's likely to be 'grand.' Another is 'lads.' One can refer to more than one person, regardless of gender as 'lads.'

Yesterday, I did the unthinkable. I uttered both of these words. I think it went something like this:
Coworker: "Would you like a cup of tea?"
Me: "No, I'm grand. Are the lads ready for our meeting yet?"

Swear to God. While I'm here, every bit of any Midwestern American draw drains out of my speech and is replaced with this rather lilting, light language. Get me on the phone with someone back in the states, and I'm a Hoosier again! Back to drawn out "r's" and swallowed "l's" and saying things like "you guys" rather than "lads."

It's still shocking to me. I didn't understand half of what my father in law said through his accent until pretty recently. And even some of the songs are making more sense. (As a kid, I used to think 'Whiskey in the Jar' was a more literal reference to someone keeping whiskey in the type of jar you might use to preserve fruit in, as opposed to a slang term for a drinking glass!)

I know everyone thinks that moving to another English speaking country is easier because you don't have the language barrier. I, too, am guilty of this assumption. While the learning curve might not be that of learning a whole new language, learning to re-interpret the one you know is a different story.

More later...

My first post

Hello! This is my first post on a blog. I always thought this was perhaps a tad bit cliche, but heck, I have family across the ocean who might want to hear from me and see pictures all in one go!

More to come. (I'll spare all the boring background details on my life!)