And Then I Neglected to Update My Blog

So, overview of life between Scotland and now.

After Edinburgh, I got on a choo choo train and peaced out of Scotland to go to London. I disembarked at Kings Cross, because, I mean, Harry Potter. Went through Platform 9 3/4. It was pretty much the best. Then a taxi took me to my hostel. The hostel was pretty lame and had poor wifi.

Next day, I went and wandered around London. I saw some stuff. I was like, "Oh, hey, Big Ben. What's up?" Big Ben didn't reply, because it's a clock. Westminster Abbey was there, but I didn't go in. I wandered around until I found Buckingham Palace. There were a lot of people standing around. I didn't know why, but I had nothing better to do with my life, so I joined them. I think that it was for the changing of the guards. There were horses. And a marching band. That's all I know. The palace has nice gates.

OH OH OH. And then. And then, I found a park. And it was a lovely park. But it was even lovelier when I found the squirrels. I found them in the park, and they touched me. I was touched by two squirrels. I don't think you understand how the best thing in life is being touched by a squirrel. I mean, squirrels.

Then, I finally got to ride my ferris wheel. I've been trying all year to ride a ferris wheel. So, I paid nine million dollars to go up in the London Eye. On a scale of one to ten, it was mediocre.

I found an arcade and played some arcade games. I had no one with whom to play air hockey, so it was a sad day. And, of course, I found a phone booth in London and dialed 62442.

Then, on the next day, I got on a bus and went to Stonehenge. So, that happened. Then that tour bus took me to Bath, England, where I ate a croque madame. And it was faaaaaaaabulous. Oh, and there was a guy there painted like a statue. He had bird food, and all the pigeons were chilling with him. He handed me a handful of bird food, and I got to hold a one footed pigeon. It was pretty much my favorite part of life.

Oh! And the next day, I figured out how to work the London Underground. It goes directly to Heathrow Airport and is probably the most convenient public transportation system ever. So then I flew back to Dublin, hooray.

So, I went to Giant's Causeway in Northern Ireland. It was cold and windy, but I would rate the experience as worth it.

Then I went to Killarney on a choo choo train. I met up with my 'Mericans and we went to a wine and art festival. By "wine and art festival," I mean "pay 20 euro to drink all the wine and eat all the cheese festival." So, we did that. I ate a lot of cheese. Drank a lot of wine. Bought a painting. Drew a picture of a Christmas tree and won a basket of foodstuffs. AAAAAAAAAAWW YEAH.

And we also went on a hike in nature and found a castle. So, that was pretty cool.

Then it was the Christmas outing for the staff at my school. We went to some French restaurant. I still haven't decided if I liked it or not. The secretary kept trying to force me to drink wine the entire dinner. Then everyone was buying me drinks afterwards at the pub. Then they took me to a nightclub. I simultaneously enjoyed and hated it. There were too many people and they kept pushing. But there were some songs that you just haaaave to dance to, and I mean, you can't be hateful when you're dancing. I think that's a contradiction of terms. What I learned is that while in 'Merica, you could potentially be dismissed from a teaching job if news got around that you were being publicly intoxicated, in Ireland, you go out with the staff from your school to get publicly intoxicated.

Now, children, I'll be home in a hot second.

Once Upon a Time, It Was Midterm Break: Part Deux

So, then, this one time, I was walking through Edinburgh, and I saw this sign that said "Loch Ness Tours."

So I was like, "A'ight."

AND THEN I DID IT.

And, let me tell you: The Scottish highlands are Skyrim. Let me show you.

Every time I was near water, I was looking out for Mudcrabs. So, it's my newest theory that the Loch Ness monster is really a dragon. MAYBE NESSIE IS PAARTHURNAX.

Or, maybe Nessie is actually just some sort of waterfowl:

DO YOU SEE IT?

But I also did capture the traditional version of Nessie on camera:

Woah, look at that plesiosaur go.

On a scale of 1 to awesome, I would give the Scottish Highlands a rating of over 9000.

Once Upon a Time, It Was Midterm Break

And I did some stuff.

I started by getting on an airplane. And I was like, "Peace out, Ireland; I've got grown-up things to do."

(I don't know what exactly made the things I was doing grown-up, but that's what I told Ireland as I peaced out.)

Then my airplane landed in a magical place called Edinburgh. I got off that airplane like the royalty I am, and I demanded that a bus take me to some bridge. Then the bus driver, who was a lovely, helpful, old man, gave me directions to my hostel. But I'm 'Merican. I don't need no stinking directions. (Or, rather, I'm really bad at following them. And maps are hard.) So instead of arriving at the hostel, which was a 5 minute walk away, I ended up walking around Edinburgh for an hour at 9 p.m. It was wet. My toes were soaked through. But, son, Edinburgh is beautiful, so I was a'ight with that. Then I found the hostel. And I demanded that they provide me with a bed. The poor hostel workers were powerless against my imperius curse and submitted to my demands. (Or I had already booked a bed, and I gave them some money. But this is my story.) So then I found my bed, and there were some 'Mericans in there. They were studying nursing or something somewhere in England. Whatever. The important thing is that they were able to direct me to a Subway (EAT FRESH) that was still open.

On my way to that Subway, I noticed a beautiful, red-fronted building. It wasn't beautiful because it was red. You know how I feel about the color red. It's stupid and angry and I don't want it polluting my life. But, nonetheless, it was beautiful. Why? Because of a sign displayed in the lower window. Folks, I had stumbled upon the Holy Grail. The place that brought meaning to my pathetic human existence. Because the building that I encountered was none other than The Elephant House - a cafe/restaurant in which the mighty one, J.K. Rowling, spent copious amounts of time penning the novel that started it all. Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone.

So, the next morning, when I awakened from my slumber, I put on my big girl pants (figuratively; er'body knows that I don't wear pants) and rolled down the street to The Elephant House. (I might have walked rather than rolled. But I think that you'll enjoy this story more if you imagine me rolling down the street in Edinburgh.) I walked in the door. And, ERMAHGERD I nearly cried. Because I was IN THE PLACE WHERE HARRY POTTER BEGAN. Then I ate banana, peanut butter, and honey on toast.

Upon leaving the sacred cafe, I found myself staring at Greyfriars Bobby's Bar. The name rang a bell in the back of my mind, so I examined it. And it detailed the story of the dog who stayed on his owner's grave for over a decade. Behind the bar, I discovered a cemetery (Greyfriars Kirkyard). And er'body knows how I like really old cemeteries. So I explored. This cemetery had headstones dating back to the 1600s that were still vaguely legible. I vaguely wondered if I might be able to find names connected to Harry Potter in that cemetery, so when I got back to the hostel, I asked my bff, Google, what cemetery had the Tom Riddle grave. Turns out I had been in the right place all along. So, I went back and wandered. While wandering, I noticed a few Americans who were also closely examining the ancient grave markers. One gasped, but then said, "It's not Potter related." These kindly ladies directed me to that which I was searching for, and I discovered the grave of Thomas Riddell.

Then I did some other stuff. It's not important. What is important is that I went on some ghostyghost tours. With one tour group, I went into the Edinburgh Vaults - the underground city of Edinburgh that laid largely forgotten for over a hundred years. I got to play with an EMF detector on that tour, and it went wild and craycray in Mr. Boots' room.

I did another tour with a different tour group that went to Greyfriars Kirkyard (the cemetery mentioned above). I actually went with them twice (one went into a different section of the vaults and then to the cemetery, the other was just the cemetery). In the cemetery, there's a section that is gated off. It's known as the Covenanters' Prison. I am not going to history lesson in my blog (mainly because I'm lazy), so if you're interested to know the atrocities that were committed there nine million years ago, let me acquaint you with my bff Google. The moral of the story is that it's locked off because of unexplained happenstances which center mainly on one tomb. People feel cold spots, pass out, and develop unexplained bruises and burn marks on their bodies. There is a story that goes behind it with the Mackenzie Poultergeist (again, you can google it). The moral of the story is that I took nine million pictures in there, and I caught a lot of dust or a lot of orbs on camera.

Oh, also there were kilts and bagpipes in Edinburgh. And everyone knows that my husband is a Scottish, bagpipe playing, kilt wearing, bearded marine biologist.

So, let me review Edinburgh for you. On a scale of 1 to awesome, I would say that it was Scottish. And if you've met me, you know how I feel about Scottish.

When in Ireland

Some of you might be thinking, "I'd like to be an awesome world traveler like you! You're so awesome."

And, yes, I am awesome.

But you're probably also thinking, "Man, I am too American to travel to non-English speaking countries. Learning languages takes too much work, and I'd like to pretend that I can't do it because I'm a grown up. I think I'll meander to Ireland!"

Well, American, you're in luck. The primary spoken language in Ireland is good ol' English.

But if you choose to meander to Ireland, there are some critical differences in the language.

Imagine for a moment that you are wandering the streets of Dublin/Cork/Limerick/Ireland. You meet a stranger and begin to talk. Your conversation goes like this:

• You: "Words words words, ramble ramble ramble, words words words, I'm American!"
• Irish person: "Words in an Irish accent!"
• You: "I'm looking for something to do, good sir. What can you recommend?"
• Irish person: "You can go to the place over yonder for some good crack."

PAUSE.

At this point, you're probably thinking, "Did this Irish man-woman just suggest that I go get some crack-cocaine?"

The answer is no. Well, probably not, anyway.

The Irish man-woman-child was most likely just letting you know that the place over yonder is good craic. Craic, while pronounced "crack," is the Irish word for "fun." So, in Ireland, the craic is safe. Though you might still want to avoid the crack.

PLAY.

• You: "Oh, that's just awesome. I am always looking for some good craic."
• Irish person: "I saw a film the other day that was good craic. It had your man, what's his name, in it."

PAUSE.

You might be confused about who your man is. Don't worry; the Irish man-woman-child-cat was not suggesting that you are in a homosexual/heterosexual/bisexual/multisexual/velociraptorsexual relationship with "your man."

"Your man" is simply the equivalent of the American phrase, "that guy."

Another thing that you might notice during your sojourn to Ireland is the use of the word "like."

"Like" is a word that is frequently abused in all varieties of the English language as far as I can tell. Americans, like, use, like, the word "like" as, like, a filler, and like, um, an adjective, and like, they just like to, like, abuse the word "like."

The Irish use the word "like" at the end of sentences like. And it might confuse Americans into thinking that there's more to the sentence than there is. BUT THERE'S NOT.

Because your man is good craic like.

The Day the Pumpkin Died

Let me tell you.

I am not one for homesickness. In fact, I don't think I've ever been homesick in my life. Peace out; I'm off adventuring.

But there are some things that just make me shed a little tear. (Figuratively, not literally. I've cried while I was here, but that was only because I was reading Deathly Hallows, and if you can get through that book without crying, then you're probably Voldemort. In which case stop reading my blog. No evil wizards allowed.)

Sure, the stores close ridiculously early. The pharmacies that are advertised as "late night" close at 9 on weekdays and 6 on weekends. They clearly missed the memo defining the term "late." But, whatever, I tend to peace out of town by 6 p.m. anyway since 6 is when my dinner is served. And I'm not going out after I eat. Because I stare at the internet for hours upon end after I eat. That's just how the world works.

(For the record, I do more than just stare at the internet while I'm in Ireland. Sometimes I go sit by the seafront and read. Sometimes I sit on the pier and read. Sometimes I sit in People's Park and read. Sometimes it rains and I choose to take pictures of pigeons because that's what normal people do when it rains. Don't judge me. You don't know me.)

(For the other record, I also do things other than read in various locations. On the weekends, I go frolicking about the country. I've been to the National Museum of Archaeology, the National Museum of Natural History, the Sea Life aquarium place, Dublinia which is a museum about Viking and medieval Dublin, the Listowel horse races, Cork, and Kinsale. And maybe other places. It's not my job to remember things.)

And, yeah, all my frands are at home. But they're part of the internet, and since I neglect them while I'm at home in favor of the internet, whatever. And at any rate, the large amount of time I spend alone helps me to not hate people for being people.

And my Big Black Dog is not in Ireland. And he is a handsome man. But, srsly, for the past x number of years, I haven't lived with him. So. Yeah. And sometimes when I'm chilling at the park, dogs walk up to me. They're like, "Hey bro, I'm a dog. Just chillin'. You wanna pet me?" And I'm like, "Totally." Then we pet. It's good times.

The one thing that could force one into homesickness is the lamentable lack of pumpkin products that plagues Ireland.

Has no one thought to can pumpkin here?

This is October. In 'MERICA, one should eat nothing but pumpkin product starting in September and going until at least mid-November.

It's a sad day, really. You say "pumpkin pie," and people are like, "Wait wait wait. You put pumpkin in a pie? That sounds ridiculous."

No, Irish people. Pumpkin belongs in everything.

The only salvation is Starbucks, which, bless its American heart, has that delightful beverage known as the Pumpkin Spice Latte. Pure bliss in a cup.

Oh, and I did find a street vendor selling "pumpkin bread," but I don't think there was any pumpkin in it.

Expectations vs. Reality

So, before you travel abroad, everybody and everybody's mom are like, "THIS IS HOW YOUR LIFE WILL BE BECAUSE THIS IS WHAT EVERYONE EXPERIENCES."

And I'm like, "lol, you forgot to take into consideration how I tend to be the exception to your silly rules of society."

And that's how it went down.

Everybody says that you'll cry at the airport when you leave your family. Not my style, bro. Peace out, I'll be back in four months. This trip has a set limit of time. I have no reservations about being here. I, quite frankly, do not care that I've left my family and friends. (Not that I don't love you all. I do. Here, I got you a less than three: <3.) It would be a different situation if I had come here with no defined end date. Then I might be a bit upset about saying goodbye to everyone. But I have very clear plans of returning home in December. So, excepting the end of the world or death, I'll see everyone next year.

Then everyone says that you'll experience culture shock, even if your host culture is similar to that of your home culture. And I'm like, "lol, culture shock?" Seriously, did I even leave the USA? The most shocking thing thus far has been determining where the road signs are. Really, where are they? Half the time I still can't find them. They're always posted on a fence or a wall or not at all. I suppose I kind of had the honeymooning phase of culture shock, but that was really more of, "DUDE THERE'S A SEA RIGHT HERE I CAN GO LOOK AT THE SEA LOOK IT'S A SEA LET'S LOOK AT IT WATER." Because, you know how I roll: I really like water. It's kind of my jam. But, really, I kind of feel like I've lived here forever. There is no adjustment to this.

The biggest adjustment is my lack of car. And I figured out how to work public transportation after about three seconds. But, still, my car. Public transportation means that I have to plan in advance. That is just far too much work. I don't like having to think ahead. I am impulsive. I like to do things whenever I think of them. But with these buses and trains and what have you, I have to actually think about how I'm going to get to my intended destination. Then I have to follow the public transportation schedule which is a giant bummer.

Oh, and they neglect to tell you that a child will bite your bum while you're teaching. What?

Things I Miss, Part 2

I also miss Nashleton the Lion who is a very handsome man.

Happy, Margaret?

Things I Miss

Here is a list of things I miss (in no specific order).

• Theodore Bear
• My Big Black Dog and his stupid dog face and how he's stupid and dumb and a dog. And the way that his ears go forward when you taunt him with a treat. And when he decides that he should sit on my lap, and I know I shouldn't let him, but I do anyway. And playing the game where I only move when he's not looking. And the game where I spin a towel around his head and he gets really excited.
• Mad dance parties (specifically going to see Sneaky Gene shows)
• Skyrim
• My job
• Pumpkin deliciousness in or around my mouth
• Polar Bear and Agnetha from work and all of the other animals
• Bruno, who was this dog that we saw the other weekend in Listowel. He was a good man.
• 90 degree weather
• My hula hoop
• Stores that stay open past 6 p.m.
• My tie-dye skirt. And the dress, too. Oh, and my brown hoodie.
• My car that I can drive whenever I choose and I don't have to wait for a bus

Ireland doesn't have those things. Well, except for the dog that was in Listowel. And there are some stores that are open past 6, but they're not readily accessible.

Man, my blog posts are really deteriorating.

Fáilte

Let me teach you Irish.

Mna = women. Pretend that you're going to sing the song about manamana do do do do do, but stop at "mana." BAM. You've just said women.

Fir = men. In Dublinland, they say it like "fur," but I've been told that it can be more like "fear" elsewhere.

Amach = out. Don't uh-mock me.

Isteach = in. This one is said kind of like iss-jock. But the "j" is more /tch/-y and less /j/-y. A mixture of the two.

Suas = up. Like Dr. Seuss, only with more "us" at the end. Only a little bit more, though. Not quite "sue us." Because, please, do not sue us. Just Seuss with a bit more.

Síos = down. She-us. But again, only a little bit of "us." We're not close enough to have too much "us."

Fáilte = welcome. Fall tchuh.

Bainne = milk. Pretend that you're a snooty rich person or that you speak with some accent that pronounces all "a"s like the a in "father." Then go tell a cow, "I'm gonna ban ya from this field." You kind of just told the cow that you're going to milk it from the field... Of course, I think that there might be a different word for the verb form of milk.... (bahn-yuh)

Now go welcome some women to sit down and drink milk in the men's room before going out.

Because that's what you can do with that list of words I've given you.

Horsestickball

Four year olds are crazy around the world. The week began with the cries of, "I w-w-want my my my mooooommyyyyy," and ended with, "Fuck off, ma!" (Yes, one of the children said that to his mother. Then a child approached me and said, "What the hell is this?")

They've only had three hour school days so far. Come in, play, "tidy up," sit down, have snack/lunch, play in the school yard, have an activity or read a story, go home. Everyone forgets that they miss their m-m-mommy by snack time.

I went to the zoo yesterday. It's in a giant park in Dublin. Like, this park is huge. I got lost trying to find the zoo. It was a nice walk, though. The zoo itself would have been great had it been only open to people who are me. Seriously, who decided that it was ok to let other people into the zoo? They were all standing in front of the exhibit signs and getting their grubby hand prints on the exhibit glass and letting their children run amok. (On a side note, I just googled "amok" to make sure it was the word I wanted to use, and while it is, the true meaning involves a killing spree. The more you know.)

BUT. I saw sea lions, and everybody knows how I feel about pinnipeds. And these sea lions got called into their pins by the zoo keepers. The zoo keepers had the gates open, but the sea lions were not going to have that. They closed those gates. They were like, "I don't want all these crazy people staring at me, this door needs to be shut." Man, I wish I was a sea lion.

Also I saw gibbons. And they were pre-cious. So were the gorillas. Oh, and the golden lion tamarins which my dad really likes. Sorry dad, I didn't see a llama.

There was also some kind of heron type bird. It wasn't part of an exhibit, but it landed on a fence outside of the zoo restaurant. I've nicknamed it "Josh" after my bff Josh because of its mannerisms. Josh the bird was standing on a fence modeling while about five or six people walked up to him to take his picture. Then he decided to terrorize a little girl and keep running towards her.

And I also saw what I have since learned is the game of polo (better known as horsestickball).

Then today I went to the National Archaeology Museum. It was only open for three hours, so I'll need to go back again. I loved seeing the stone molds they used in nine million years ago to cast metal into knives and swords and what have you. My absolute favorite thing over which I got extremely excited was a large stone with Ogham writing. And that's simply because I adore the author Madeleine L'Engle, and Ogham stones come up in at least one of her books.

Ride the Bus LIKE A BOSS

That's right; I can ride the bus LIKE A BOSS.

I know which lines will take me to the places I want to go. From where I'm living*, I can take the 7, 45a, or 111 down to Dun Laoghaire town center, and from there I can easily walk to the pier or the seafront. Of course, I prefer walking in that direction. Then I catch one of the aforementioned buses back to my accommodation.

* I am currently living with one of the teachers' assistants from the school I'm at. For a mere 170 euros/week, I have a room, no bills, and three meals a day. I don't have to clean or anything. I was hesitant, because, have you met me? I don't want to have to eat when I'm told, and I would much prefer to do my own laundry. But it turns out that if I don't want to eat at 6 p.m., I can just let Betty know, and she'll save my dinner for whenever I get back. And her meals are, in Irish terms, rather lovely. So I'll likely stay here. And I have someone with whom to walk on my way to school so I don't get lost. It's easy to get into Dun Laoghaire town center from the school, and I can catch a bus back when I'm ready. And in the case of poor weather, I have a ride into school.

I am currently in the Junior Infants classroom. That means 4 and 5 year olds... Though, I don't think any of the children in the classroom have yet had their fifth birthday. Currently the school day for them is running from 8:55 a.m. until noon. In two weeks, they'll switch to their full schedule which is 8:55 until 1:30. There are 22 children in the class. Since this is a disadvantaged school, the maximum number in the classroom for Junior infants is supposed to be 20, but since when do things operate according to ideals? In non-disadvantaged schools, they can have up to 35 children in a Junior Infants class. 35 four year olds - with only one teacher! That's mad.

Outside of school, I'm heavily contemplating a scuba class which would cost more money than I care to spend, butImean, water. Everyone knows I was supposed to be born a fish, walrus, or mermaid. It was only by fluke of heritage that I'm a human at all.

I now have a new most-valued possession, second only to Theodore Bear: Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone. This most coveted Bloomsbury version of the first book of Harry Potter is now mine. It's mine, and if anyone steals it or befouls it in anyway, well, I just don't think that anyone would care to deal with the consequences of that. I also have ordered Deathly Hallows as I've nearly finished Half Blood Prince for the 90th time, and I left my copy of book 7 at home. (Ok, I might have left that book at home specifically so I had a reason to by the Bloomsbury version of it while in Europe.) It won't be in for a week, so I hope that I can wait that long.

Crocodile Dung and the Woes of Dun Laoghaire

I'm not entirely sure how this whole "having-a-place-to-live-thing" is going to work out.

I'm at the hostel right now. It's not bad, but the bathroom smells like crocodile dung. Not that I know what crocodile dung smells like. But it smells awful.

There are three other people allegedly staying in the same room as I am. There's Burcu (pronounced Bur-ju, but the ju is more of a French sounding zhu) who's from Turkey. At first I didn't think she spoke English, but she's just not very comfortable with the language. She stays in the bunk under mine. She's in Dun Laoghaire studying English. Deborah is a student from the United States. She's here completing an MBA program. She also hate pants and speaks French. Though she speaks French more fluently than do I, so I'm jealous. And then there's Eliana or something like that from Spain. She has her luggage in here and pops in every so often, but she hasn't put a sheet in her bed or slept there. So, I don't know what's going on there.

I like meeting all these foreign people, but socializing is a lot of work. I need at least 800 hours/day to myself, so this is difficult. The problem is that once you've met people, they want you to do things with them. And that cuts into my not-doing-things-with-people time.

I've stayed mainly to my room or out in the town where I'm not expected to socialize.

But when I did go downstairs to the lounge/kitchen, I met John, who is native to Ireland, but he's been traveling around the world. Then there's Diego from Brazil. He speaks very little English, but Google Translate is a marvelous tool. I hablo'd un poco de espanol to some girl from Spain, though I don't know her name.

But I'll be moving out soon.

By "soon," I mean "tomorrow."

Of course, I have no solid plan for moving out tomorrow, but when do I ever have a solid plan?

I've looked at a few rooms for rent. Everything here is over 9000 dollars. That might be a bit of an exaggeration; it's closer to 500 euros/month to rent a room. That doesn't include bills or food.

So, as disagreeable as it sounds to me, I'll probably stay with one of the teachers from the school. It's farther from the town center and the harbor than I'd like it to be, but what's an hour walk to the sea? The cost would be about 680 euros/month which includes three meals/day. The main problem I have is that she would deny me access to the kitchen, and she would do my laundry for me. I don't particularly like to waste my time cooking when I can pay someone else to do it for me, but the idea of having what I eat and when I eat dictated to me is unnerving. I haven't had to follow someone else's eating schedule since I was like... 6. And what if she likes to put ketchup on everything? That simply would not work. Ew, or what if it's a lot  of cabbage? And then I'd much prefer to do my own laundry. I've done my own laundry since I was 10.

However, since I wouldn't be buying my own food, this arrangement would probably be cheapest, and therefore would leave me with plenty of money for traveling about and out of the country.

Decisions, decisions.

Over it.

Ok. I'm over Ireland.

Everything closes by 6 p.m.

I mean, even in the middle of nowhere in the States, things are open 'til 8 or 10 or even open all night. So why is it that I'm in a city environment and I can't eat or shop after 6?

Over it.

Jet Lag Is for the Weak

Psh, I don't believe that jet lag is real.

I mean, I believe that being really tired from being awake and traveling for twenty-four hours exists, but jet lag is for whiny people and stuff. Though I am having trouble knowing what day it is... but when do I know what day it is anyway?

The hostel I'm in is a-dor-a-ble. The room I'm in has a slanting blue wall surrounded by white walls. There's one long window on the slanted wall which overlooks a row of houses with gardens. I'm not sure that the girl I've met who is staying in the same room as me really speaks English. I asked her name, and she said something that sounded like "Bonjour," but she doesn't speak French. She's Turkish. I asked if there was someone else staying in the room, and she pointed to the other occupied bed and said "USA."

I spent the day wandering around Dun Laoghaire. I walked near the sea. And there was this great, black bird standing out on a rock in the sea (similar to lions who stand on chairs in the middle of the ocean) with its wings spread at either side. Weird bird. It's this creature. I found out because there was a sign indicating the flora and fauna of the marine area. It also said there were grey seals and porpoises, so with luck, I'll see some marine mammals. And you all know how much I adore marine mammals. If only we could coax a walrus into an Irish field trip.

The down-town area of Dun Laoghaire is not far away. I bought an Irish prepay cell phone so that I'll have access to emergency services if I need them. I asked what the emergency number was when I bought the phone; I guess you can use 911, 999, or 112. Then I had some mushroom soup and jasmine tea at a little yellow cafe. And at the cafes here, they give you a big pot of tea. Not just a little cup of hot water with a tea bag.

I spent some time in the lounge of the hostel. There seem to be several people here from Brazil. One of them doesn't speak English too well, though he was trying, so we played Google Translate. And who doesn't love Google Translate?

It can teach you that no comida para tu perro despues la medianoche antes cirugia.

True story.

Airplane Delirium/Reflections without Sleep

Things that I’ve learned:

• Clouds are the weirdest things ever. They look so fluffy. I just want to snuggle into them. But then there are the clouds that look like giant snow-covered sleddin’ hills. I’m not sure if looking down on clouds or looking up at them is better.
• If I were a giant, I would eat cloud and ocean soup every day. I’d just take my giant wooden spoon and stir the clouds into the water.
• I may be a moth; I’m mesmerized by lights.
• British children are good at being adorable. Seen at the airport: a little girl said to her mother, “Mummy, can we cheers with our plates?” And then they bumped their plates together.
• Immigration offices are like the DMV. Since I’ll be here for more than three months, I had to go to the immigration office to get a passport stamp. The process includes taking a ticket and waiting for 40 other people’s ticket numbers to be called before yours. And it takes over 9000 years for that to happen. Then they take a picture of you, take your passport, and make you pay €150. Then you have to wait another 20 minutes while they create a you-can-stay-in-the-country “Certificate of Registration.” It’s one of those fancy-pants cards, too. It’s hard plastic like a credit card or a driver’s license. It has one of those chips on it. And your picture. And your picture is going to be awful because you’ve been awake for an unknown number of hours, you haven’t showered since you left America, and they didn’t tell you why they were taking your picture. But, hey, now I have an Irish ID.
• I need American toilets back in my life. These European ones freak me out. The flushy hole is larger than that to which I am accustomed, and the width of the flushy hole makes me think that the chances of a rat coming out of the toilet to eat me, which is one of my most legitimate fears, increases tenfold.
• My rainboots are called “Wellies” here. I think I already knew that since I was able to recall that it’s short for Wellingtons (unless I made that up), but I was reminded of it. I spent my two million year long lay-over talking to an Illinoisan who was born and raised in Ireland.
• The tomato soup in Ireland is delicious.
• Where am I supposed to store all these one and two euro coins?
• Walking around Dublin for five hours will lead to the worst foot cramp you’ve ever experienced.
• This is going to be one of those places where I need a coat when I’m doing very light activity,  but I’ll burn if I do anything but walk for three seconds.
• I don’t fancy going into that bathroom to have a shower due to my fear of rats popping out of the drains, but I am a severely smelly American.
• I haven’t the slightest idea of how to work the shower in my room. Seriously. How does this work? I don’t understand what I’m supposed to do. Are all showers in Ireland like this? There are two separate knobs for a bath. Then there’s some thingy on the wall beneath the shower head. It’s kind of like a light dimmer or a kitchen timer. Do I turn the bath water on and then turn that thingy? I do not understand, sir. I need the googles, but the internet is all the way downstairs.
• I figured it out. You turn the big knob to the left to turn on the water, then you turn the little kitchen-timer thingy to adjust the temperature. So now I’m clean.
• When I planned this trip, I neglected to consider the fact that I’m mildly crazy and tend to think I’m being attacked by ghosts or ax murders whenever I hear any noise.
• I love how tea is everywhere. What with it being my favorite thing.

I'm Leaving on a Jet Plane

Don't know when I'll be back again.

... Ok, I'll be back December 27th or something like that.

If delays are kept to a minimum, I'll be in Dublin in roughly 24 hours. I think. I haven't really sat down and done the time zone conversion math, but I think it's about 24 hours. I should be there at 9:30 Dublin time, so... I dunno.

Oh, and I decided that I simply cannot (walk into Mordor?) bring the final two Harry Potter books with me. They're too heavy. So I'm just bringing HBP, and I'll have to buy the Bloomsbury version of DH while I'm over there. How terribly dreadful?

Salvador Dali

Let's warp reality like Mr. Dali. Spindly legged elephants, melting clocks, and moving to Ireland in five days.

The bizarrity of the situation obscures the excitement thereof. I'll begin my travel in roughly four days and six hours.

And it's only a weird dream so far.

Everybody and everybody's mom seems concerned that I haven't a place to live yet. Bah to them. I'm not to that point yet. I'll figure it out when I get there.

After all, making plans is the primary cause of failed plans.

In the words of my favorite local-ish band, Sneaky Gene, "Let the road take us wherever it's going instead of wasting time deciding which way to go." I'm not entirely sure that neglecting to plan for an adventure across the world was what they had in mind while writing the song, but that's the beauty and downfall of language, isn't it? Words can be twisted and warped to meet the needs of any situation.

If only I had an advance guard coming to escort me to Ireland; then Nymphadora Tonks could magic everything I need to pack into my bags.

But I never did get my Hogwarts acceptance letter, so I guess I'll have to pack the old fashioned way: wait until the last minute and then throw everything I can grab into a bag.

Procrastination, bro.

How do buses work?

Seriously.

How does one operate a bus?

I peace out of the USA to Dublin in 11 days, and my primary concern is that I have no idea how to navigate public transportation. I come from a cornfield. We do not have buses in my cornfield. We do not have trains in my cornfield. We have good, old-fashioned American cars. And we have to walk 10 miles, up-hill (both ways), in the snow, barefoot, to get to the nearest store.

My second concern is not a normal-person concern. I have never been away from my teddy bear, Theodore Bear, for more than one month. And I'm going to be away from him for four months. That is a long time to be away from a teddy bear. What if he gets lonely? Who is going to protect me from ax murderers? Everyone knows that teddy bears defend against all kinds of monsters and mayhem-makers during the night. I can't bring him with me, because he's much too large to pack. He would take up at least a quarter (maybe half) of my packing space. I don't want to have him sent through the mail, because he will surely get lost in the mail and I'll never see him again and my life will be over and I'll be eaten by banshees during the night. And I'm gonna be at least 98723974294802 kilometers (whatever that means in American) from Theodore Bear for four whole months. I'm definitely going to die in my sleep.

And the metric system.

I am American. I do not know how to metric. I mean, I know how to work within the metric system. I can do metric system math and science. But I have no metric reference points. I don't know how far 20 km is. I have no idea how much 35 kg is. And then the difference in temperature scales. Celsius is dumb and I hate it and I demand that everyone in the world recognize that Fahrenheit is superior to Celsius. Sure, Celsius might make more sense mathematically, but I hate it. It should be hit by one of those buses I don't know how to work. Why? Because I don't have reference points in Celsius.

As far as teaching goes, my primary concern is the difference in spelling between American English and the-rest-of-the-world-English. When do I insert a "u?" When do I replace "z" with "s?" These children are all gonna be like, "YOU MISSPELLED THAT WORD." No I didn't. You just don't speak Americanese.

Oh, and I suppose I should probably start packing or something sometime soon...