Dublin, the abolition of Belgium and bastard pancakes

A few days ago, I slept with 13 people in Dublin. I had taken the train down to sort out my Brazilian visa, and decided that since I was there, I should check out the city. The cheapest room in my hostel of choice housed 14 people, and thus, there I stayed. I was really looking forward to making friends at the hostel, since I haven’t gone out of my way to meet too many people my age in Galway. I was, however, sorely disappointed. My fellow hostel-dwellers were all really young, really old, or really uncomfortable. The last two groups had a good deal of overlap. I did meet a few German kids who thought my mandolin was the cutest little guitar they had ever seen, but that was about it.

In Dublin, I saw the National Gallery, St. Stephen’s Green, and a lot of restaurants denoted as “Budget” by my guidebook. I also learned that sightseeing is something best done with others. Don’t get me wrong— I’m really enjoying living on my own, being able to do whatever I please, whenever I please. Since Ronan and Nora, my two housemates, both have real jobs, I spend the hours between 9 and 5 strutting around the house in some state of undress, learning phrases in Portuguese and belting Irish songs at the top of my lungs. I lead a glorious life. Being in Dublin and living out of a suitcase, though, was something I would have enjoyed far more with a companion. But, as my father often tells me, every molehill has a silver lining. Staying in Dublin for just a few days made me incredibly glad that I’m living in Galway. Galway is a neat, manageable city with a great deal of both Irish charm and traditional music within a concentrated area. Dublin is a sprawling metropolis, with what seemed like more tourists than native Irish. The few pubs I had heard were good for traditional music were few and far between, and were usually a good walk from the heart of the city.

When I got back to my room, I informed my mother that it felt good “to get back home.” Strange as it seems, I have grown pretty comfortable with my life here. After being in Ireland for more than six weeks, I am now accustomed to wearing my waterproof boots everywhere, even to the bathroom. I do yoga every morning, and feel empty if I go to bed without having played the mandolin for at least an hour on my own. My idea of a good night is biking down to the pub and playing Irish tunes with old dudes armed with tin whistles, accordions and banjos. A really good night is when I get fed multiple (2) pints of Guinness, and then subsequently inhale an order of curry chips to soak up the alcohol. Curry chips, for the uninformed, are freedom fries generously slathered with curry sauce, and are the standard late-night fare this side of the pond.

I also have started reading The Economist. I say this primarily to impress you all with my newfound pretension and intellectualness, but must admit that I read the magazine with a thesaurus in hand. I would use a dictionary, but we don’t have one at the house. I don’t think I’m allowed to buy one, either, since dictionaries are academic in nature, and that kind of thing is looked down upon by the folks at Watson headquarters. A few days ago, I looked up the word “mooted” in my thesaurus. They only had it in noun form, which is the only way I had heard of the word. I’m pretty sure that “to moot” isn’t actually a verb, but The Economist does what it wants. They recently ran an article on why Belgium should be abolished. One would think that a serious newspaper would devote at least a few pages to a discussion as weighty as the existence of a nation. Not The Economist. They ran a half page article, and included the key point that while the Belgians do produce a lot of chocolate, they don’t need Belgium to do so. Word. It was one of the cockiest things I have ever read.

The Economist also runs a good number of articles on the effects of globalization. While many of the articles look interesting, they often get far too academic for my tastes, at which point I skip back and re-read the Belgium article. Having lived outside the U.S. for the past while, I have become all too familiar with the effects of globalization. Last week was Galway’s Americana festival, where they invited a number of bluegrass and American country artists to play in the city. I had never listened to much bluegrass before getting to Ireland, but my recent obsession with the banjo drove me to purchase tickets to a number of the shows in the festival, leading me to discover that I really like country music. Who would have thought that a kid who grew up in Kansas would discover bluegrass in western Ireland?

A far more disturbing result of globalization stared up at me from my plate at Lemon, a pancake bar in Dublin. I walked in expecting to buy a crepe for dinner— something sticky, sweet, and filled with Nutella. I scanned the menu and was about to order when, all of a sudden, I noticed the last item on the menu: Chicken Tikka Masala Crepe with Tomato. I had to order it. Never before had I seen the bastardization of one culture’s cuisine literally wrapped inside another. Globalization can be a messy affair. Someone should email this post to The Economist.

Much love, I’m missing you all,

Auyon