Through the Looking Glass

Yesterday I went back to the Mahon Tribunal for another round of Bertiemania with Simon and Louise. This time around, while it certainly wasn't the most exciting two hours of my life, it was still remarkable to me that Ireland's No. 1 was sitting in plain view not fifty yards away.

This session of Bertie's testimony had to do almost entirely with exchanging money from Irish pounds into either sterling or dollars. The implications are a little lost on me, whether he was dealing in dollars or sterling (he vehemently denies ever using the former), but this much was clear: there sat in the witness box a man trying to hide something. It was the only explanation for the amount of nothingness coming out of his mouth, all just sheer obfuscation. Ahern's lawyer was no better, frequently objecting that Ahern was not on trial any time his client was asked a question. It certainly must have been trying for prosecutor Des O'Neill, who whenever asking a new question, reiterated it six different ways, so that Ahern may know exactly what was being asked and so (in theory) could give a straightforward answer (which he never did).

Ahern's credibility is withering, and everyone knows it. But there is no drama in this "scandal". It's nowhere near "sexy" enough; frankly, it's boring. As a result, no one is demanding Bertie's head on a platter, and the man himself is so entrenched that he's only leaving when he wants to.

How he still masses so much support from the Irish public, despite the gawkish transparency of his game, is what baffles me. To me, he represents the worst kind of politician: the 19th-century Teapot Dome political machine kind, totally uninterested in improving or even changing anything with the powers of his office. Ahern sees his position as a way to help out his buddies, make a little cash on the side, and satisfy his own dreams of importance. He's not a tyrant, so he's not easily identifiable as malicious; given a cursory glance, at the worst he seems incompetent. Yet Ahern knows exactly what he's doing, even if he's laughably poor at hiding it. The charm just doesn't reach me, a charm that seems at odds with the very nature of a culture that has little use for pretense.

Or maybe the public has just passively accepted that he's a crook, but a rather benign one, as long as he's just serving himself. It's a conclusion that dismisses a lot, but as Kevin Rafter of the Sunday Tribune said last Sunday:

...the public may simply be weary of revelations about another senior politician with unexplainable financial affairs. After over a decade of tribunal investigations the public have come to expect little better from their political leaders. Ahern's evasiveness is probably hurting the perception of politics more than it is damaging his own reputation.

On Ahern's future, he continues:

There will be no move against Ahern in the short term. The negative mutterings in the parliamentary party for now remain private. [...] But the longer the tribunal appearances go on the more Ahern will become a nuisance if not a liability for Fianna Fáil politicians who have to fight the next general election.

It's much harder to argue for the preservation of political faith than it is to cry out for blood. The latter is premature, so the former prevails, and everyone goes home happy: Fianna Fáil gets to keep their "embattled" leader, and the opposition gets to claim it objected all along to these shenanigans.

Read All About It

As I've mentioned before, Ireland's news coverage is primarily just siphoned from the British media. And if you didn't know, the British media has a reputation for being ridiculously sensational, a reputation that is well-deserved. It differs from American media sensationalism, however, first in that there are less flashy graphics and theme music flourishes for each story, and second in that the media's coverage and comment is explicit in what the viewer should feel—it is readily apparent how you are expected to react. While I'm not calling American news more objective—it's not—the news in the States lends more of an air of impartiality by the way it is presented (always harping about "balance", which, for example, will lead to covering 12 pro-war protesters at a 100,000-strong anti-war rally). Surprisingly to me, presenting a story as a series of facts and withholding judgment for the viewer turns out to be a strictly American fetish*. So the Irish media borrows more from the British than from the US, owing to greater proximity and to the simple fact that most tabloids here are just British ones with an "Irish" prefix tacked onto the name (the Sun, the Star, the Mirror, the Irish Daily Mail). To its credit, however, Ireland has been named number one in the world in terms of freedom of the press.

It is not, however, without its sensationalist streak. Right now, gripping the country for the fifth straight month is the case of a missing four-year-old British girl named Madeleine McCann. "Maddie"'s parents brought her and her infant twin brothers to a resort in Portugal last May, then left their children completely alone in their unlocked hotel room one night while they had dinner. When they returned, Madeleine was gone, and the McCanns have traversed the whole of Europe raising publicity, hoping for someone to recognize her and return her to her totally undeserving parents. The hook is that both daughter and parents are handsome and snowy white, the latter being rich doctors to boot. At first, a media firestorm the likes of which haven't been seen since Diana's death gripped the UK: a photograph of the child hung in every shop window there (and even a good many here), the story received attention every night on Sky News at first, then eventually every night and day, each detail breathlessly advanced to a hungry public. This process was somewhat slowed by the Portuguese police, who by law declined to release any information pertaining to an open case (this earned the particular ire of the tabloids, who thus portrayed the police as incompetent). Apparently members of British Parliament were even wearing yellow armbands in solidarity.

Eventually the inevitable sunk in, and the world came to its senses and began to move on, much to the consternation of the McCanns, who continued to demand media attention and heaps of sympathy for their misfortune prompted solely by their fatally negligent parenting. The public, however, was weary of a missing child case going nowhere, and by the end of the summer it looked like the child would never be found and the McCanns would earn their place in infamy and eventually (if not so quietly) recede into obscurity.

A backlash began as people finally started wondering: who leaves their children alone and unprotected in a strange place while they go have drinks with friends? Others found it odd that the McCanns would go through such superhuman effort and such extravagant expense to draw attention to their self-induced plight, when it all could have been prevented with a turn of a deadbolt. Still others pointed out that all the while this was happening, other children, not as pretty, not as rich, not as white, go missing every day. Where was their media frenzy?

But such pertinent questions were suddenly put on hold a week or so ago when the sensational side of this case struck back with a vengeance. Portuguese police announced that mother Kate McCann was now a suspect in her daughter's disappearance. It came out that the McCann's car in Portugal had blood matching Madeleine's in the trunk, blood that indicated its owner had taken a large dose of sleeping medication. While the McCanns were permitted to finally return home to England by the police, they may be called back at any time. As it stands now, every little detail is once again front-page news, and talk of "Maddie" is still on everyone's lips. This time, however, there is no sympathy for the two parents, and the two have "fought back" to the press, professing their unbesmirched innocence.

If anything is fascinating about this whole affair (and very little is), it's the dynamic relationship between the media coverage of the case and its audience. At the beginning, to even suggest that the McCanns were unwise to abandon their children to the wolves while they wined and dined was to invite a vile sort of contempt, and revealed the unbeliever as lacking any soul to speak of. Now, the same tabloids that elevated the McCanns to such great heights hurl some pretty strong invective at them—not because anyone feels "fooled", oddly, and not because everyone has suddenly realized that the parents doomed their own daughter, but simply because they are suspects. It's eerie how easily led the general public is on this case, shifting it as it goes on from irrelevant to to irritating to unsettling.

And of course, eventually came the coverage of the coverage, of the media phenomenon that is the Madeleine McCann story; apparently outlets like Sky News and the Daily Mail feel no shame in recursively reporting on themselves, instead acutely aware that anything mentioning Madeleine at all is guaranteed to sell. It all goes to prove that the British media has perfected the transformation of human misery to light entertainment. This is the real primetime; they were just cutting their teeth with Lady Di. Utterly forgotten is that a child has been lost, that children continue to be lost; instead Madeleine and her parents have been propelled to a sick celebrity status to sate a very credulous public. They have become these vague symbols of a "glad-it-wasn't-us" mentality, a dark spot that refuses to wash away, no matter how much feigned sympathy is poured on. The public at large doesn't follow the Madeleine case because they feel sorry for the missing girl; they follow it to get a cheap thrill, in the hopes that a symbolic evil figure will be punished for a symbolic wrongdoing. Then, whatever the outcome, they can move on, their vicarious bloodthirst satisfied; the McCanns can tack on "famous" (or "infamous") to their list of self-description, aware that they will always be able to bask in some of the limelight which they so clearly enjoy; and the tabloids can run off with that much more money, encouraged to do the same all over again with whatever story happens to bite, whatever torment gives people such pleasure in watching while completely removed from its consequences.

* Though, copying-and-pasting from White House press releases and giving a voice to people completely removed from reality is another.

Famous Faces

I woke early Friday to get to the immigration bureau and re-register for my studies, a tedious and painful task but one that has to be done. So I was up at 7:00, almost unheard of for me on a day off. Kelly was up just after, since he had work, so we took a shuttle to the Luas, then the Luas into town. Usually when I take the Luas, it's nearly deserted; just two hours later, there wasn't enough room to look out the window unblocked.

Dublin (or really any Irish town) when it is waking up is a great sight: the shops and pubs have box trucks right out front, loading stock and big steel kegs of beer and Guinness, the park gates are swung open, the very haunting, very sad atmosphere that exists around 5 AM, when no one is out, not even the holdouts from clubs and parties. So for once it was refreshing to see the city as it sprang to life.

As we passed the HMV music store on Grafton Street, a man ran up to us and asked us if we could go inside and grab a wristband for his friend for some event tonight, since he had already gotten one himself. We obliged, but when we saw the name on the wristband—"Quentin Tarantino"—we realized he was coming tonight for a signing session, and the pleasure of seeing him far outstripped the pleasure of helping out an anonymous stranger. We tracked down another man to grab another wristband, however.

I've seen very few celebrities and met even less, which is actually strange, considering I've lived in the West Village of New York City. I guess I'm just not very observant, as I don't notice other people on the street too much, or at least scrutinize them enough to pick out famous faces. All I can claim as my own are Michael Myers (ugh), Billy Zane (yawn), Cindy Crawford (yay!), and Scarlett Johansson (emphatic yay!). I've met some political people, and, um, Buzz Aldrin. My share is very small, you may say. Tarantino was so unexpected to add to the list, however, and so sudden. Kelly and I made plans to meet up for the signing, then parted.

Leaving him, I headed to the Garda National Immigration Bureau, otherwise known as Where Satan Fell to Earth. For whatever reason, Immigration requires that students come no earlier than 9:30 in the morning, an hour and a half after the place opens, and thus guaranteeing that any student will be waiting for an extra two hours, at least. Discovering that it was indeed 9:30 and no earlier, I walked around Temple Bar, got some coffee, drank it at Trinity's Front Square, and generally rambled around. Even this late, none of the shops were open yet.

Back at the GNIB, I stood in line for a ticket; you have to first pass one gatekeeper who makes sure you have all the necessary documents, just to make sure you don't waste their precious time. As soon as I stood in line, I realized my fatal mistake: I had forgotten my old GNIB card from when I registered last year. Well, it shouldn't matter, I thought, since it's expired anyways. But it did, and I was promptly Bounced. At 8:00, when the office opens, it would have been possible to run back home and get the card and arrive back in time to get one of the last tickets of the day (they always run out before noon). But 9:30 was just too late, so it'll wait until next week.

With absolutely nothing else to do, I took a stroll around town, and ended up at the St. Stephen's Green Shopping Centre, picking up a pair of earphones and a kettle at Argos. As I left, considering going home and writing instead of wasting my time wandering aimlessly around town, Simon called.

We met up and walked to Dublin Castle. A little confused, I asked him why we were here, and he reminded me that he was looking for the Mahon Tribunal—the commission set up to determine if Bertie Ahern took any bribes or distributed any graft while he was Minister for Finance during the 1990's. Bertie was testifying today, at long last, after having dodged it for nearly a year. Predictably so, because very few believe his lawyers' acrobatic interpretations of his bank statements and exchanges in cash, and the speculation for a while is anything but a straightforward and honest presentation from the Taoiseach (admittedly impossible) that completely clears him of wrongdoing will cripple him politically, maybe even forcing his resignation and a new election. In a perfect world, anyways.

The Tribunal room was not difficult to find, and we strolled in through the foyer, completely absent of security, and into the chamber, where Bertie himself sat in the witness box, sullen and hunched over and contrarian with the prosecutor. We watched him squirm, and I contemplated just how little security surrounded him: all of two Garda were in the room, back by the entrance, commiserating with each other. It's a testament to how safe Ireland is, I suppose, a suggestion which made Simon chuckle, however much it rings true with me. No bouncer has ever patted me down before I enter a club or concert in Dublin; I have never felt any sort of imminent danger on the Luas or avoid it at certain times of night when alone; bad neighborhoods exist but nothing even approaching places like in West Philadelphia. That the most important person in the country can stroll in and out of a publicly trafficked building with just two policemen is a great thing, I think.

After a recess and some more Bertie-flopping about a "personal contribution" of £8,000 sterling, we left and split up back in town. I took the Luas home and did some creative writing, something that I've been able to keep up for the past few days and which excites me, the rise in quality and quantity. I'm considering trying National Novel Writing Month, which seems like a pie-in-the-sky dream, but the potential satisfaction of writing a book-length story before I turn twenty-one is enticing, so much so that I might be willing to sacrifice an entire month's worth of free time to the endeavor. So these writing sessions are good practice. I have a month and a half before it begins, so I may just cheat and begin beforehand, just so I'm not writing 1700 words a day (roughly four hours of work a day). What I'm thinking of is making a detailed outline, very detailed, and then just filling it out, much like I'll write an essay or blog entry, since that seems to work. Only on a massive scale. The point of "NaNoWriMo" is volume, only volume, so I'm not expecting a masterpiece, but it'll be something to tinker with, and it'll give me experience. Since the idea has stayed with me for about three weeks now, it might actually happen.

In the late afternoon I came back into town to pick up something for Mr. Tarantino to sign—unfortunately the DVD of True Romance I picked up isn't worth much to me, since I don't have a Region 2 DVD player at the moment. I met Simon again, and he stood with Kelly and I outside of the HMV as we waited to go in, then, losing interest, headed off himself. Kelly and I waited, thick with anticipation, for an hour, passing through line after line both downstairs and up. Tarantino sat at the back of the store, characteristically enthusiastic and peppy, wearing some hideous '70s shirt and saddle shoes. Kelly went first, and I snapped a picture of him grinning wide with a thumbs-up while Tarantino signed his copy of Pulp Fiction (with a grin of his own). I guess I choked, because I briefly thanked him, then said nothing else, and forgot to turn to the man behind me so he could take a picture of the two of us (and so I have a wonderful picture of Quentin Tarantino with my right hand as I pull away from the table). It was a minor celebrity encounter, despite the massive presence of bouncers and handlers (much more than what Bertie had earlier in the day, come to think of it), and the great amount of anticipation.

Still high on our elation at meeting a modern cinematic genius (except, honestly, for the last few things he's put out...yikes), we decided to stay out and get some food at Wagamama, a Japanese restaurant on South King Street. Wagamama is set up such as you are sharing a long table with several other diners, and we ended up sitting next to two American girls from California, just on a trip to visit a mutual friend. We regaled them with our account of a utopian Ireland (in that we obviously highlighted only the good parts), and they took in our story very willingly. They lingered long after they were finished their meal, like they were waiting for something, but the obligation was on them to invite us out, so we said goodbye and they melted away into the many hydra heads of the tourist trade.

Finally, Kelly and I headed to the Duke off Grafton Street for a drink. A game from the Rugby World Cup played on a large-screen TV near the bar, neither team from Ireland, but the rapt bar-goers whooped and yelled out and spilled their drinks anyways. We took the Luas home and shuffled off to bed before midnight.

Theme Song

Here's a song to cheer up Bertie after he's been on the stand for the past two days.

Happy Mahon Tribunal, Bertie!

Working for the Weekend

Like a hand slipping into a glove, I think I've settled pretty easily into being back. My routine hasn't changed, and won't for about a month, when classes begin. All the same, I was eager to go out on the first weekend back, mostly to see people but also to enjoy the simple pleasure of having a drink in a bar without looking over my shoulder wondering if the cops are after me. The concept of my being underage was so foreign when I returned home that thwarting the standard barriers they set up to prevent the little children of America from drinking wasn't exciting, it wasn't challenging, it was frustrating and tedious. Especially when it didn't succeed. All of my high school chums are over 21, some well past it, so I became a liability, never a good feeling. It didn't interfere too much, my age, but I consider it sweet justice that in three months my birthday will come and pass and no overhyped reward of mature legal status will be bestowed upon me - Ireland is sensible enough to recognize that no magical switch gets thrown on your 21st birthday that makes you a responsible drinker.

It was just irritating, that's all.

So Friday and Saturday I went out, despite having work all weekend, because it felt important to get back in touch with people (even if they barely registered that I was gone), and try to meet some new folks, if possible. After work on Friday, Simon, Louise and I had a few at O'Donoghue's across the street from work. We sat next to a group of American business types explaining the aftermath of 9/11 to some Irish people. Myself, I explained the aftermath of the Larry Craig gay Senator scandal to Simon and Louise.

Afterwards I met up with Kelly and we saw the Bourne Ultimatum. I avoided the first movie for so long because it seemed to occupy the same category as 70% of movies: the ones that come and go, designed solely to draw people in on a rainy day, to occupy, to titilate, to mention the next day with the follow-up: "Um, it was good." Finally it found me; actually it really impressed me. An action movie with a real agenda. While the third was just as action-packed as the first two, it didn't have the same desperate feel: it's never really in doubt that Bourne is going to succeed and the CIA goons will get their comeuppance, but then again it's never really a mystery of who he is at this point: we already know he's a CIA agent who assassinated people. Discovering his real name isn't too explosive. A fine wrap-up, anyways. Please don't make another one.

Saturday, Simon had a DJ set and Queen Kong had a gig at McGruder's, a pub/venue in that hazy space between the Liberties and Kilmainham. The event organizers are notorious for terrible organization, which was really the only black spot on the night: the bands were entertaining and the crowd was good, but there would be points where no one was playing, not in any of the three spaces set up for them, so the crowd would dwindle away and the energy would leave with them. It seems a shame. Tons of people were there from NCAD, Dublin's resident art school, easily spotted by their do-it-yourself haircuts and vague expressions of superiority. Didn't stick around for Queen Kong; they were still waiting to go on when I left (apparently they ended up playing in a hallway, which seems pretty cruel to subject a band to).

At least the desire to meet new people is with me, even if it wasn't exercised that night. I was alone for most of the night, and it seems nearly impossible to approach anyone while alone and not come off as desperate or weird. As with a few other things, the meeting-people thing will improve when Trinity starts.

One thing which I definitely hope will change with school's beginning is the feeling, however absurd, that I'm getting stupider. I know it's a totally ridiculous thought, but maybe I've been away from real intellectual activity for so long that the feeling is natural. I don't feel sharp-witted anymore, or not as much anyways...I read much less this last summer than the one previous, and read almost nothing academic at all (except for the insufferable How Mumbo-Jumbo Conquered the World by Franics Wheen, all about how just within the past 20 years people have started doing irrational, aggressively stupid things...somehow the brilliant answer is good old fashioned elbow grease and traditionalist conservative thinking). I must avoid the TV as much as possible. I must challenge myself. No more Dog the Bounty Hunter as a substitute for real entertainment. If I'm not actually getting stupider, an intellectual workout will at least banish the feeling.

Sikh and Ye Shall Find

Recently the Garda Síochána (the police) attracted some controversy for disallowing a Sikh applicant to the force from wearing his turban while on duty. Garda Commissioner Noel Conroy has stated that the Garda uniform is standard for everybody, despite, as one article said, "asking a Sikh to take off his turban is like asking him to take off his head." Which is a strange thing to say. But however one words it, the strict adherence to the Garda's uniform code effectively prohibits any Sikhs from joining up, because their own religion prohibits them from removing the turban. Elsewhere, the Minister for Integration, Conor Lenihan, has himself drawn fire for publicly supporting Conroy's decision.

Critics claim that forcing a certain group to abandon their cultural practices to conform to Irish standards is hardly "integration." And it certainly seems unfair to mark a man as ineligible to serve in the police because of a piece of cloth wrapped around his head. But the Garda is a state body, not a cultural potluck. The uniform is standard because the people that wear it are supposed to serve everyone; the Garda can't really be for or against religion, it cannot be of religion at all.

That's why the cries of 'discrimination' are a little hard to take seriously. What's really threatening to the pious objectors may be the assertion that there are places where religion doesn't apply. People like Southern Baptists freak out when it is suggested to them that the Ten Commandments cannot be displayed in secular institutions, because to them there is no concept of 'secular': God, after all, is everywhere, and so religion may straddle any barrier and invade any space. It's the same thinking at work here. It's also a great racket, something religious leaders must really be quietly praising: they can comment on anything, scrutinize any human action, sit back and judge it all with free license, simply because they've convinced everyone else that their imaginary friend really talks to them.

Really, taken in any other context than religion, the things it makes people do and say and wear would be immediately pointed out as ridiculous, irrational, even dangerous. I remember reading a letter in the Evening Herald that voiced its approval of the ban...because the letter-writer was Muslim and claimed that the Sikh religion was originally created to wipe out all Muslims. Total nonsense.

I mean...for a while I've balked at the idea of criticizing someone's religious belief. But maybe Richard Dawkins and Christopher Hitchens and that crowd had convinced me otherwise. There really is a massive taboo in place on pointing out just how goofy religion is and how destructive it can be, without a convincing reason as to why that taboo exists. Not even belief in magic and ghosts gets the same protection. Well, let's face it, believing in horoscopes or palm reading and believing in religion produce the same ends: a lot of wasted energy on the demonstration of some bizarre thoughts. What's positive about communities coming together in churches or temples has nothing to do with religion at all: people tend to gather together pretty much anywhere they are, and it's generally accepted that people should act good towards their fellow man. No authority need tell you that. The belief that Mary conceived while still a virgin does nothing to help you out. Your life is improved by a factor of zero when you learn that Samson killed an entire army platoon with the jawbone of an ass. Devoting your life to Jesus forces you to turn your back on the real live people on this planet that exist in the present and might need some help of their own.

So anyways.

All-in-all, the issue comes off just like the question of flag burning in the States: it induces a lot of passion; despite this, it's largely irrelevant in its own right; it is, however, demonstrative of bigger problems. As Martina Devlin in the Irish Independent said (in an editorial a lot more coherent than I could hope to write):

What this free-for-all about turbans on the beat does illustrate is our lack of a coherent policy. The question should have been addressed back at the start, before the reserve was selected and trained, instead of turning him into a test case now. Our society is in a state of flux and we need to draw up policies in a coherent fashion -- not on an individual basis.

Yes, it appears silly to be so obstinately against something so inconsequential. There are, after all, a grand total of 1,200 Sikhs in Ireland, and I'm sure there are other things they are doing besides applying to be part of the Garda. However, standards must be set when it comes to immigrants and their relationship with their host country. Going at it case-by-case, circumstantially, isn't fair, and it isn't democratic.

Ireland is running a narrow gauntlet at present when it comes to its new immigrant population. If it fails to integrate these folks, it risks becoming either like Britain, with a ton of foreign communities that have almost nothing to do with the society at large, or like France, where an open animus exists and occasional race riots are a given. But Ireland seems to be learning from others' mistakes well, and there's actually a chance that things might work out fine. That would be wonderful.

Even Blogs Have Sequels

Hello.

My old blog has sputtered out and pretty much died, and besides I’ve noticed myself avoiding it, crossing the street when I see it coming the other way, pretending not to hear the phone when it calls, just hoping that by ignoring it that it will eventually go away. But there it sits, waiting for me to write.*

So here’s what’s happened in the meantime.

After a lengthy and harrowing process, I’ve since transferred to Trinity College from NYU. The original plan was to pack up and leave on August 17, find accommodation in New York and complete my last year of college there. As I approached that date, however, it became clearer and clearer that this course seemed so ill-advised and so repellent to me that I had to see if I could stay in Ireland. I don’t, however, really want to discuss the transfer process. It’s a story that, because it consists entirely of bureaucratic wrangling and intense personal meditation on my future, just isn’t very interesting and was frankly an embarrassing time for me: I flopped around like a fish out of water for an entire month as I first had to get all the application materials in, then wrestled with accepting Trinity’s offer. The offer essentially puts me back a year in my studies: I’ll be entering the third year of a four-year degree this year, rather than finishing up as I would have at NYU. Living in Ireland and Dublin, however, is so rewarding for me, so much better for my spirit, and simply so far off the beaten path, that the usual panic and waves of regret I get when making an important life decision never came when I said “yes”.

So I finished out the feeling of summer with two weeks at home in Philadelphia. Once there, I did…nothing. I went to the beach at Atlantic City. I went to night clubs and bars in Philly. I saw Modest Mouse at Festival Pier and Man Man at Rittenhouse Square. I did my awful Irish accent at every opportunity. I saw my family and my friends. I went deep-sea fishing with my dad off the Jersey shore. I had lunch at Steak and Hoagie factory and breakfast at Eagle Diner. I got some CDs at Siren Records in Doylestown and stocked up on Tastykake and junk food at K-Mart. I watched the Phillies kill the Mets, over and over, blocks away from the Wachovia Center in South Philly. I read the Philadelphia Weekly in the Last Drop on Pine Street and rode the R2 Warminster local, making all stops, Market East and Convention Center next. For nearly the entire trip I kept an itinerary of what I was doing, except it tapers off at the end – because I realized it consisted of family stuff in the morning and afternoon, and drinks with friends in the evenings, over and over, for two weeks straight. For me, there is no greater therapy.

The time came, however, to take the trip back and begin my second year in Ireland. I left laden with a suitcase of junk food (including some Twinkies and white gravy mix for Kelly) and a duffel bag of clothes resurrected from the mothballed pile, and a computer saddled with about six hundred new songs, pillaged from my parents’ CD collection. It was difficult to leave, difficult to part with my friends, with my mom and dad, basically my entire core of emotional support, and haul off again, and though it was very painful at the time, even as soon as a day afterwards, it looks like it’ll be worth it.

The flight out of Newark was relatively painless; I know the airport routine at this point, it’s just a matter of bringing enough stuff to occupy yourself and organizing everything so getting through security is as swift as possible. By a strange twist, I ended up sleeping for most of the flight (through the dinner and through Talladega Nights too), so I wasn’t a total zombie upon arrival. I expected some trouble at customs, thinking it might look suspicious that I was coming back so soon after my student visa had expired, but I had my letter from Trinity in hand and was essentially waved through, with a month’s time allotted to re-register at the GNIB. Easy peasy.

I wasn’t gone from Dublin for very long, only two weeks, but it was a crucial time: the summer has now ended (though in person I would whisper under my breath that the equinox isn’t until September 23rd, thank you very much), fall weather is creeping in, the Dáil will be reconvening soon, and the time to get serious is now upon me. Of course, nothing physically has changed, not like at home, where things are subtly different each time I come back, but that feeling hit me when I was taking the bus back to Sandyford: that weird feeling, nameless, that Kelly and I have discussed and which is almost impossible to describe—I guess it’s the feeling of moving from one culture to another, but not for tourism or pleasure. The feeling of settling into a large commitment, one of my first large commitments.

In time, my Irish cadence in speaking, wiped away completely back home, will come back, and I’ll settle into the routine of going to Dunnes for my dinner and taking the Luas and all that. I must make a conscious effort, however, not to hold back this year. I deferred on a lot of things last year, or didn’t put in as much effort as I thought I would, simply because I thought I’d be leaving shortly anyways. Well, I’ll be around for a while. So now is the time to make things happen. I have a new list of short-term goals and long-term goals, and I intend to get them done. It’s an exciting feeling, considering I’m in a position to really do some creative work, really participate and engage with people.

* Anyone who feels like doing some rummaging around can find the old blog here.