Sunday, March 31, 2019
An Uncharacteristically Controversial Post From My More Reflective Side
This is going to be about a Benevolent God and Abortion, so stop reading now if you suspect your opinions differ from mine. I will not respond to hate. Just walk away. I have freedom of speech, and you have the freedom to not read what I write.
I've been knee deep in teaching Night by Elie Wiesel, and by extension the Holocaust for five weeks now.
I have no idea how a single Jewish person continues to have faith in a Benevolent God after those events. I have no idea how we as human beings have any faith in other human beings after that. We all have our arguments with God, we all struggle, but dude, that was uncalled for.
Abortion. This is my opinion, and where you should stop reading if you are pro life.
I believe, against all evidence to the contrary, in a Benevolent God. I believe that he gave us free will, which means free choice, and that was his mistake. We make terrible choices, but he gave us that freedom. I do not believe it is on other humans to judge the choices that other humans make, unless you are judging Hitler and the Nazis, and then I'm on board.
I believe that God, in his wisdom and power and sadness, knows who we are and what we are going to do. Therefore, he knows before we do when when are going to get pregnant, when we are going to miscarry, or abort, or give up for adoption or keep the baby. He knows before we do what kind of parent we will be, and he gave us a choice.
I believe it frustrates and angers me to see people with children who I believe have no business being parents. (Do you hear me judging when I say I shouldn't? See how we are?) I see the children with no hope for the future, no engagement or stability because mom is a drug dealer, dad bailed, someone is abusive, etc etc. I hate it and I hate humans, but that is a human choice. I hate that God allows it, but I also hate that he allowed the Holocaust and Milli Vanilli, so there you go.
I believe that God in his wisdom and power and sadness (I say sadness because he is a parent, and we kids make horrible choices sometimes) does not place the next Nobel Prize Winner in the womb of a terrified young woman whose birth control failed. I believe he knew ahead of time that she would choose abortion, and therefore the embryo placed does not have a soul yet. They're like, empty vessels, just being used to teach a lesson without causing more pain. Because he is a Benevolent God, and he would not place a Nobel Prize Winner in this situation, knowing they are going to be returned to heaven shortly.
I believe that God could have prevented that conception, and avoided causing such pain and angst in the life of that young lady. I believe he chose not to for reasons only He knows. That is His right. Freedom of choice goes both ways. I don't love it, but again: Holocaust.
I believe in God, not in Christianity. It's the Christian faith that wants to remove all of our freedom of choice, they've always been about control. The Crusades, anyone? I just want to love God and believe that I'm not going to agree with him, always, and that it's going to suck, sometimes, but that goes with the territory. Just believing doesn't mean my life is going to be without conflict and angst and I'm going to gush thanks to Him at the Academy Awards. It means understanding that there is a lesson, somewhere, or a reason, somehow, that is none of my business because I'm just a microscopic cog in a catastrophic plan...I don't really mean that, exactly, but I do love that lyric.
Somewhere there is a Hebrew saying that I am paraphrasing: The single fabric cannot see its part in the completed rug. Or something. You get me, you've heard it. I have no idea why, and I never will, but I can attest to the presence of God's greatness at many dark moments in my life when things sucked, but it could have been much worse.
So in conclusion, all in all, to sum up, Free will is a gift and a curse, and God is a disappointed father crossing his fingers that we figure it out before we destroy ourselves.
Scene.
Saturday, March 23, 2019
This Is Why I'm Like This: Dublin Moments: The Cliffs Of Moher
The Cliffs of Moher
According to google maps, which are clearly The Boss Of All Things Map Based, the cliffs are only three hours from Dublin. Our Paddywagon tour was for 12 hours, which was confusing at first. But once you're on the bus, you're stopping at the Barack Obama Station, Bunratty Castle, the cliffs, Galway,Doolin, Kinvara, the Atlantic coast and getting chatted up about castles, including an inexplicable "leprechaun castle", the Celts, bog people, the Normans, the British Overlords, Obama's visit, the stone walls that double as burial pyres for the victims of the famine and very corny jokes and jabs. It is no small job to drive this tour and chat for at least 10 of the 12 hours. He was delightful, positive and energetic. When we stopped, all the differnent tour drivers would wave and smoke and chat together like old pals. I wondered if there was a lot of movement between companies. If you're a tour driver, do you get bored with one company and switch to another?
Also those roads are narrow and insane. On two occasions I could have reached out of my window and touched the bus passing next to us.
The cliffs are 700 feet high and beautiful, rugged and unstable. You could not pay me enough to cross the short, stone wall border and stand on the edge of the cliff. It rains in Ireland all of the time,that ground is not reliable. The tour guide did say it can give out under your feet, unexpectedly, but he did not say "Don't go out there," which is what I think 95% of our moron population needs to hear. We are metaphorically challenged, says Joseph Campbell. Yes, we are, and that means we no longer know how to infer. "The ground is unstable," is what was said, so I heard "Don't go to there." I inferred his sub textual intention.The mouthy kid sitting behind me and several of the blonde twenty somethings all heard "He didn't say not go, c'mon I need a selfie."
While there is clearly some kind of nature maintenance crew looking after the cliffs, as I did not see any garbage, I still consider that I saw garbage at the cliffs. The garbage that disrupted my enjoyment of this natural wonder was the crappy behavior of the stupid girl hanging her feet off of the edge whilst her friend wielded the camera chanting "Oh My God, OHMYGOD!" Garbage behavior, ruined my enjoyment. Why? Because now, instead of enjoying the view and breathing the air, I am worried that you are going to die. Thanks for that.
There was also human beauty. A young man with two metal prosthetic legs climbed the stairs ahead of us, and was making his way back down without any issue. Our tour guide noted him when we returned from the bus "That bloke had to work really hard to do this. Wouldn't have been so long ago he'd be in a wheelchair and unable to climb."
There was a violin player on the lower level, and an old squeezebox player farther up. Both were just happily playing Irish tunes and lending a bit of authenticity to our climb. I gladly parted with a few euro for each of them, grateful for their time and talent.
Because we are the Martins---which you must sing to the tune of the Monkees theme song--we had to stage a Princess Bride moment at the Cliffs. Harper pointed to the cliffs and declared "Inconceivable", and I entered with "You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means. " It took three takes, and Harper had to switch roles because she couldn't get the words out, so she took the one line role.
The toilets ---they are "toilets" throughout Ireland, not restrooms or bathrooms---were my first adventure in unisex. Men and women were in the same bathroom and nobody---I mean nobody---cared. What rapture to just use a toilet and keep your agenda out of it. Of course, this is Ireland, unlike the US they were not founded by Puritans.
When we pulled into Dublin at the end of the day, the guide turned on the local radio. The 70's music was gone and the news was on. My jaw dropped as I listened to reports of the shooting in New Zealand. I really wanted him to turn it off, I was not prepared for any human garbage in that moment.
This Is Why I'm Like This: Ireland, A Briefing
I had thought about chunking this into smaller blogs, but I think it'll just be a big old rambly thing at first. I may go back and chunk out to repost specifics, as I'm having trouble getting photos to load and I don't wanna play any more.
Most of the missing photos are on my facebook wall, I cannot get them to re post. If you really need to see a photo, check the wall. I wish technology would work better for me but...well, it's me.
20 March 2019
I am back at school after eight days in Dublin. At 53, I finally have a passport, and that passport has two stamps on it.
I did not, at any point, either while achieving my passport, or standing in line waiting for customs, say "I have lived too much life to put up with this." Because it's not much to put up with when you look at it as continuing to live your life. That phrase doesn't apply when traveling. However, at two points I did say "I don't want to play any more" when it came to following signs or google maps.
Can We Just Get Out Of DIA?
Really, since this is our home airport, you would think there wouldn't be any issues.
And you would be wrong.
I'm the kid who lets anxiety drive the bus. Therefore the passports are safely tucked away, and I made Jim print the itinerary so I could memorize it. I made him check the hotel reservations, which were wrong (just saying) and we would not have known that until we got there had it not been for my need to obsessively check everything, all of the time.
Jim is the opposite. For example, he may grab an old bag that belonged to one of the girls at the last minute, to use for his laptop. Being Not kryssi, he did not clean out the bag. He just put his laptop in it and hopped into the truck.
Cue Security at DIA stopping him because there is something up with his bag. What could it be?
SCISSORS.
Not nose hair scissors, not tiny scissors, full kitchen SCISSORS. In his carry on.
So they stopped him.
They let him continue. I wish to reiterate, they did not confiscate the scissors. They let him keep them, and when we stopped at the gate he pulled out the scissors and a protractor.
This moment does two things: it explains our marriage complications, and it illustrates that DIA was not interested in profiling.
He pulled out the protractor and we all just stood staring at him. Blink, blink.
Let's go to Ireland! Nothing can go wrong.
Heathrow Is Not An Airport, It Is A Mall. That's all that needs to be said about that.
Passports and Customs and Plane Rides
It turns out that newbie travelers are a pain in the butt. We were that pain. Best story is of going through customs from Heathrow to Dublin. There are not people checking your passport once you've talked to a person. Why they check everything twice I have no idea. But you first go to the person, and say "vacation" and they squint at your photo, stamp your passport and send you on your way. This after you've cleared security. But then, before you embark on the plane, there is another check point. Another opportunity for something to go wrong. You've gone through security, you've said "vacation" to the person and received your passport stamp, and here you are cued at a kiosk. You must put your passport in the laser guide photo down, and it will read your photo to prove you are you. It's like a chute, with gates that open once the camera you're looking into recognizes you as the photo on your passport you have placed under the laser. Simultaneously, your feet should match the painted footprints on the ground and you must look at the camera. Nothing can possibly go wrong with this set up.
Clearly, it was Jim this happened to. He kept putting his passport in the laser and multitasking the camera and feet, only to have the doors not open. I reminded him to take off his glasses, as they had told us to do that previously. Which he did, and the camera took a photo of his hand in front of his face, removing his glasses. He just stood there vexed, and I had to tap the security person. "He's stuck, can you help?" Because he wasn't going to call attention to himself at all , he was just going to stay in that passport chute like a dog trapped in a crate and wait for someone to notice. He was following the signs as directed, and nothing was working.
Cabbies and Tour Guides
Our airport cabby was fabulous. He was friendly and he liked talking with us. He asked where we were from, and when he heard "Colorado", this happened:
"Colorado? Is it like in the movies with John Wayne? All rocks and mountains? Ah, Kansas, Utah, Nevada, Montana,you are near them, right? It sounds beautiful there."
One of our cabbies asked how our visit was going. We told him we liked The Barge, by the hotel. He said "Oh ya, that's a good place. They have waitresses there." Confused by this odd statement, he obliged us by continuing: "Most our pubs are carveries, you know. That's how I prefer it, I like to see my food. I don't know what they're doing back there in the kitchen. And I don't have time to wait for a waitress." I found this information kinda hilarious, because a "carvery" is like a buffet. It's not cooked in front of you, it came out of a kitchen, so there is still some mystery. Also, at lunch time, the carveries are busy and you still have to wait for your turn to have your meat carved. It is less about convenience, clearly, than it is about wanting things to Be The Way They Are Supposed To Be, and I respect that.
Our tour guide on the "Paddywagon" asked where we were all from. When he received no answers of "Great Britain", he felt free to hate Cromwell and refer to the British as the "Overlords".
The young man giving the Trinity College tour was an alumni and delightful, I was hoping he would be my son in law. Alas, neither of my children would speak to him, so I had to be content with awkwardly tipping him at the end of the tour. He told a great story of a much hated professor that was "murdered" in the faculty housing by students. They threw rocks at his window, he got a gun, then they got guns, it was a gunfight. "Murdered" is not the term I would use so much, but maybe it's a cultural thing. I enjoyed the idea that someone shot at students who were harassing them.
Uber exists in Dublin, but I have no idea how it works. We ended up trying to download "MyTaxi", which the hotel recommended, but five people is a rough number and a minimal number of cabs are minivans. There are taxi stands, like bus stops, but you still have to flag a cab. Unlike a bus stop, just standing there looking like you need a ride does not work. At least with a cabby there is a person you can talk to. The tram relies on your ability to read a clearly marked map. And you rely on the doors to open at your stop...that may not have happened and we had to ride one stop down, disembark, cross the tracks and get on the other train. I will say this, it's easy to switch directions.
Dublin Is Divided by a River
Dublin is divided by north and south by the river Liffy. However, there are no mountains, so determining which side of the river you are on is a crap shoot. A guide tried to tell us about the moss growing on one side, and I started having Houston flashbacks. The map is unhelpful as you cannot see the river. I'm pretty sure we had an "ish" idea at the end of the fourth or fifth day, but we were cabbing outside of our comfort zone. The Jameson distillery is not in a great neighborhood, and I had no interest in being there after dark, walking the alleyways, hoping I had turned the proper direction toward the tram. Our Trinity college tour guide was from the South Side but assured us that did not mean he was rich. So I guess South is rich? Whichever side Jameson is on is the side I vote for "Not Rich".
The Hilton Charlemont and Bar
Usually, I am a snob about hotel bars. I don't like them. But this place came to the rescue our second night when we were in need of food after 10 pm, and discovered The Barge only served until 10. The Hilton bar served until 10.30. They were nice, the French waiter was cute and by the time we left six days later, we had spent enough money in that bar alone to support a family. When we surveyed the totals at check out, Jim said "They're going to have to let a waiter go now that we're leaving."
PUBS
The Barge 42 Sraid Charlemont, Saint Kevin's, Dublin 2
Lucky for us, there was a very "American" pub, with food menus and wait staff next to the hotel called The Barge. Now, just because it was next to the hotel-literally across the street at an intersection- don't go thinking it was an easy walk. Jim was almost killed twice by bicyclists, because in Dublin bicyclists have their own lanes and signals. And just because your little walking man signal says "Walk", that does not mean their bicycle man signal says "Stop". They both say "Go" at the same time, and it's on you to look right for traffic and left and right for bikes. This trip was full of adventures because Jim followed the signs. The sign said "Walk" so he did, without looking for a bicycle. When he as almost smashed, I said "You have to look," and he said "The sign said I could walk." This was not the first time we had these issues with signs in Dublin.We should have known, based on his face not matching his passport, that there would be issues. So,you cannot walk across the street, that's jaywalking. You must walk to the corner. I can see the bar on the other side of the street but I cannot walk to there. I must turn left, walk across that street, turn right, walk across that street, turn right again and cross that street. Three light stops to cross a street, three separate lights: one for people, one for bikes and one for cars. Keep in mind none of these cars are driving on the proper side of the road, either, and the bikes can come from either direction.
v
v
>>>here
Immediately we loved it. Three stories, stone, bars on ground, second landing and upstairs. Clearly wait staff and a kitchen for those of us who are used to such things. We found a table upstairs and parked ourselves. This is where we discovered Appleman's Cider. It followed us throughout Dublin.
This photo is from the canal side, facing away from the hotel. It's on a corner. The hotel is on the opposite corner. Clearly they painted it after the top photo, as it was black and white when we visited.
Weary travelers grateful we were not killed by cars or bikes crossing the street for a pint.
Appleman's Cider!
Leave it to us to find a pub just like home. We arrived early for our Haunted Walking Tour, and stumbled into the nearest pub: Brogan's Bar, 75 Dame ST, Temple Bar, Dublin.
Everyone here is old like us. The art on the walls are old Guinness cartoons reminding us that "Guinness is Strength". Our first venture out from the hotel and we were told "This is the Temple Bar District". Yet, a few days later, on the other side of the river, we walked a cobble stone street with pubs on both sides. One of them the famous "Temple Bar". So....not sure which was real, but we were at both.
Everyone here was our age, friendly and comfortable. We did not have a lot of time, so only one pint before the tour. There was no sign of any food, ever. If this place had a carvery they packed it all up after lunch. We texted our Iron Works friends, laughing at our ability to find The Same Bar We Have At Home in Dublin. Of course we did.
King St S, Dublin, Ireland
Sinnotts Our landmarks were the Molly Malone statue, and the tram drop off at St. Stephen's Green. This pub was by the tram station. We happened in on the day of the Wales/Ireland rugby match. We were there about noon and it was already filling up a few hours before the game. Turns out we had chosen a Wales pub, so everyone was decked out in Wales red (Ireland was green). They were all loud and happily shouting at one another, the complete opposite of any sports bar I've seen in the US. The TV's were blaring and we only stayed for two drinks. A nice young man at the table next to us offered to take our photo. When we left, we gave him our table and he thanked us, saying "It's fine, we're here for the next twelve hours." Dude, that's commitment.
20 Lower Bridge Street, Dublin 8, Co
The Brazen Head, Established 1198. The oldest pub in Dublin. The entrance is like an open air pub that feels like the Renaissance fair, but as you walk back there are these windowless rooms, some with bars, all with heavy wooden tables. Our room was like a library, there were book shelves with both books and the requisite displays of Guinness and Jameson bottles. But the walls were all covered in patches. Again, I was impressed by the commitment of these people.
Harp with a Harp. Harp had never had a Harp.
Trying to get photos to save on my phone. Is that what I look like? Man, I am 80 years old and blind. My Constant State.
Harper had fish n chips, she was the self assigned fish n chips connoisseur on the trip. Karie and I split a wedge of friend brie with a side of cranberry sauce that was freaking to die for. I have no idea how they fried this thing, but it was light and crispy and thick and magnificent.
A Brief Interlude Regarding Bathroom Etiquette: Wash Your Hands When You're Done. Eww.
Haunted Walking Tour Dublin and Landmarks
I was hesitant about this. We did a "Haunted Walking Tour" of St. Augustine that was less haunted than history and way too much walking. But hell, you gotta book something. We left Brogan's and crossed the street (which means walked a block to a light, crossed, walked back a block to the meeting place). We met a couple who had arrived at the same time that we did, from Arkansas. Also, two guys from LA, and three women from...not sure I caught it. All Americans. We bonded, got the 411 on other tours. The women told us the Cliffs of Moher were a must, but the wind was so strong they said they could jump and were lifted off of the ground. "And we are not small people," she exclaimed with delight.
So the tour was....just like St. Augustine. Less haunted than history and a lot of walking. We started in one place and ended in another two hours later, which is unnerving when you have no idea which side of the river you are on where is our hotel where is west?
But, stories of the ghost of Johnathan Swift giving coins to the poor and Darky Kelly's murder and the discovery of bodies under her floorboards notwithstanding, we got to see our first castle. Dublin Castle. Just right there, in the middle of town. Because they don't knock these things down to build parking lots and malls, they leave them. Castles are everywhere in this country.
Dublin Castle. In the city. And heads on spikes stories, always a great feature.
Dublin Castle spikes. Heads on Spikes is always a great story for a Haunted Tour. According to the guide, the floating heads are only visible to those from Great Britain, due to their guilt.
We passed the Smock Alley (photo won't load) where Genoa performed in 2016, and found out that the roof had collapsed in 1700 something. Roofs collapse a lot here. The Irish fire architects or don't pay them pretty regularly, so.... the theatre collapse was during a rehearsal, so it was fine, only actors were killed. The place is haunted by "a boy dressed as a girl". They were rehearsing Shakespeare when the roof collapsed.
Along the tour and the story of Johnathan Swift giving coins to the poor in this alley (in which you will receive coins upon waking should you pass out in the same alley), a young man lurched past the tour and yelled "Bullshit! It's all Bullshit" at the poor guide, who was just doing his job. He laughed and said "Yep, it is," and kept going. I would encounter this same young man later on the Paddywagon tour. He sat behind me and critiqued the driver all day. Twelve hours listening to him convinced me it was the same kid.
Many of the tours meet at the Molly Malone statue by the St. Andrews Church Tourist Center. The first thing you notice about Molly are her boobs. They're everywhere. The song says she was the prettiest fishseller on Fishy Fishy Way...well, Fishamble Street. She "may" have been a prostitute as well, we're told. If she was not, then why is her statue mostly breasts? I'd say ya, that rack suggests she was for hire. She became our landmark, from which we would meet and navigate, and as such we walked past her several times. Every time there was a tour group, I would watch them grope her grapes. I started to wonder if the tour guides were telling tourists that rubbing her rutabagas was good luck. How else do you explain a group of school aged children all delightfully touching her ta-tas? And the brass on her bosoms is definitely more worn, so this is a time honored tradition?
Darky Kelly's Pub (photo google)
Our less haunted more historic tour guide gave us a long tale of Darky Kelly. Darky was a prostitute who collected taxes on Fishamble way, and was quite dishonest about it. She led a sketchy prostitute/tax collector/madame life until she made enough to retire and get a residence to herself. At that point, she embarked on an affair with an affluent local, who may have been the sheriff or constable or such, and got pregnant. Following all scripts, legends and romance novels of the 18th century of rich men and low women, he of course turned on her, accused her of witchcraft and she was, according to legend, then burned at the stake at St. Audoen's church. Now, according to Wikipedia, she was hanged for murder and the baby was used by the affluent father in a satanic ritual. Neither story is nice. Both stories do involve a nice reversal ending worthy of Stephen King; when they searched her residence after her death, they found dead guys under the floorboards. Seems like Darky was a bit of a serial murderer.
In the end, Molly got a statue on main street near the tourists. Darky got a pub on Fishamble street. History has judged them and chosen who they are.
St. Audoen's Church High St, The Liberties, Dublin 8, Ireland
These are the gates of the church, where Darky Kelly was allegedly burned at the stake. It is also where desperate mothers left their infants for the monks to find homes, and where the lepers were kept for mass. Neat.
A Hell Fire Club exists in the woods outside of Dublin. It was a place for a group of well to do young men to worship Satan and perform witchcrafty sacrificey things. Our Tour Guide said Ghost Hunters or some such outfit investigated it. This was the first we heard of it, and they do tours, but only on Fridays and we wouldn't be back from the Cliffs of Moher in time to make it. Next time, though...
Some Other Church---churches are like castles in this country--there was a monk who ran an after hours type rave arrangement in the catacombs. Again, 1700 ish. I feel like Dublin history arrested in 1700 ish and the music arrested in 1978. Anywhoo, he only ran the after hours gig during the summer, and locked up for the winter. One season, he locked up and when he returned to open the following spring, he was met by a distinctly deathly stench. Turns out, a police officer who had been reported missing the previous season, had gotten so drunk he'd passed out behind a piece of furniture. The monk missed him when he locked up so...the rats had a winter feast! Ya, he haunts the place, clearly.
YET ANOTHER CHURCH the stonemason discovered he wasn't being paid what he was told, or he was fired, half way through the build. So he went to the woods and liberated stones from the Hell Fire Club and worked them into the church walls. After he was finished--why did he finish if he was not being paid or had been fired? Anyway, he finished and then told them what he'd done. I like this guy. To this day there are priests who will not enter the church grounds.
MUSIC
No matter the bar, pub, tour bus or cab or market place,all the music was either 1978 third string disco, or Cat Stevens and Bob Dylan. In the cab returning from The Brazen Head I listened to "9 to 5" on the radio.We did love the duo at the hotel bar, who mixed in Irish songs and added "Country Roads" to their repertoire. Everyone in the bar, local staff and visitors from all over the world, sang along. Because John Denver is universal. I had no idea.
Their TV stations have the same disease, all the American shows are Murder She Wrote and Columbo, although we did discover Everybody Loves Raymond.
Trinity College Book of Kells Architecture in General
So the Irish have endeared themselves to me in many ways, and one is their blatant disregard for safety.
The Trinity College cafeteria building has collapsed twice. Twice. Because nobody hired a real architect and /or paid an architect until after the second collapse. The buildings in the quad don't match, because the architect built three of them, they fired him, and someone else finished.
I thought the Book of Kells was going to be the New Testament behind glass. Yawn. Turns out it's art. Well worth it. And the Trinity library...holy crap. Church like, beautiful, stunning, awe inspiring. (aaaannnnd the photos won't load) The books are not sorted by title or author, but by size due to the arches of the library. Fascinating. Poor architecture design?
THE CLIFFS OF INSANITY
I chose a bus tour online. I do not regret it, I just wish I would have known more about Dublin. We took a Paddywagon tour to the Cliffs of Moher. When I booked it, Jim and I started joking about the Princess Bride. I looked it up for fun, and it turns out we were right. It's where they filmed the Cliffs of Insanity
.
So en route, the bus stops at a few small villages. The first stop: The Barack Obama Station. Apparently, Obama visited Limerick, where his great grandfather lived, and he stopped at this place for a pint. He drank it at ten a.m., much to the delight of the locals, who then enshrined the empty pint in a museum upstairs at the Barack Obama Station. I thought it would be like a Colorado rest area, but in fact it was a Circle K. HILARIOUS. It's just been renamed "Barack Obama Station", and there is a photo of Obama and the locals with a photo of his great grandfather. And I loved hearing the name "Barack" with the accent, he could have said it all day.
Bunratty Castle
THE CLIFFS OF MOHER
"Many people a year die here," said the guide. With all of the rain, the cliff edges---clearly marked with a stone wall--are unstable. Yet people die getting selfies when the ground gives way under them while trying for that "perfect selfie". Tragic, he said. Natural selection, I said.
We stopped in town called Doolin after the cliffs, and experienced another carvery and pint. These tours are a nice idea, but when you've got buses, plural, pulling into these villages you need to allow more than 45 minutes for lunch. We spent twenty of it in line, awaiting our carvery roast beef and potatoes or Guinness beef stew. It was good, but frankly Jim's Guinness beef stew is much better. First off, he's not making a batch big enough to feed a thousand tourists. I loved the scenery, the views of the Atlantic, the quiet pace. There were several B&B's along the way and I wondered about doing that. It would mean I'd have to drive. Never mind.
The town I loved the most was Kinvara. They were hiring to work at the local castle Dunguaire, I thought about staying.
If you wish to see photos, you'll have to facebook stalk me. They're labeled, but won't transfer here. True Bummer.
SHOPPING ish
Across from the Dr. Marten store on Grafton, is the Bailey Bar. It looks like a lovely, quiet coffee cafe, but inside is yet another attempt at a 50's diner, which everyone apparently thinks we want. But the difference is that there is rugby on the giant TV's and they serve beer. Specifically Appleman's cider, my new favorite. We enjoyed the time there, deciding our next move. After lunch, it was determined that we needed to go see the Bog People- our tour guide had mentioned them the day before. Apparently. the Celts around 300 BC would preserve their cheese in the bogs. When they were excavated, how ever many years later, bodies were also discovered with the cheese. At first they thought maybe it was a graveyard, but all the Bog Dudes were murdered. They are almost perfectly preserved, hair and fingernails. Some were bound, all were bludgeoned with an axe or some other object. They were all also from the upper class, due to the hair gel---right? Can you even believe that was preserved? These were not peasants, they were landowners. Maybe they were sacrifices? But who sacrifices the nobles? Fascinating.
Anyway, we decided to separate so Karie and the girls could head toward the Bog Dudes while we paid the bill. Genoa sent an address for the Irish Museum Archaeology to Jim's phone and it was a six minute walk. Jim looked down at his phone and started walking. This was a trait throughout our trip, he was led by google maps and is very obedient to signs. See above "Almost killed by a bicyclist because the sign said he could walk."
Ten minutes later, I say "This is wrong. There is no way this is the right direction." He insists that the map is pointing this way, but we're in a residential area. I'm done playing with google at this point so I ask a cabbie. I like to talk to people, I trust people, not machines. The cabbie indicated that we were, in fact, pretty lost. I said "We're done, let's take a cab." During all of this, Karie and the girls were at the museum looking at the Bog Dudes and resending the address, trying to understand how the hell we got lost when they walked right up to it with the same directions. When we arrived at the museum, I looked at the entrance and said "Jim, we walked right past it. Google didn't tell you that we were in front of it?"
Lesson here, kids. Look up.
300 BC and his Conan O'Brien hair is intact!
St Patrick's Day Parade
Only a few photos and none of the video would load. Those are on Facebook.
The morning of the parade, the only coffee shop open was Starbucks. We'd managed to avoid it for five days, but had no choice. The food was better than the American Starbucks, which was a nice surprise as I had heartburn the entire visit due to the boiling of meats and potatoes and consumption of Appleman's daily. They asked Harper how to spell her name after she repeated it twice, and wrote on her cup "Arbru". That's not English or Gaelic. We looked it up.
We openly acknowledged we came on this weekend to people watch, not to indulge. But one thing we did want to do was at least glimpse the second largest parade in the world. We then stood on the street for two hours waiting for the parade.
It was worth it.
This was not corporations with trucks filled with employees pulling a paper mache beer behind them. This was art. These were moving sculptures, puppets, bagpipes and bands, all without corporate sponsorship or an agenda. They were simply celebrating their Celtic heritage.
Wow.
We left the parade and went back to The Barge for lunch, as there was no way we were getting a table anywhere on Grafton street. The tram was only running between Charlemont and St. Stephens Green, all trams were abbreviated for the holiday,and we didn't want to schlep to the other side of Dublin. It was nice, kinda quiet for St. Patrick's, largely because our hotel was on the "wrong" side of Dublin. We got some lunch and decided to go to St. Stephens Green. What a gorgeous park, with beautiful and historically important statues.
The Fates
The park was teeming with tourists. We learned early on that most Dubliners flee during St. Patrick's day. But there was a group of about eight boys and one girl, clearly local, traveling in a pack around the park. Eating snacks, drinking sodas, spreading out and calling names, you know:teenagers. Somehow we ended up at their pace and got trapped, it was uncomfortable for a moment. Then the Garda appeared. "Hey, Lads, come here." The replies from the pack were low level "F-yous", and the Garda didn't blink an eye. He stood, waited for them to walk to him and then said "Let's go. You're leaving." Just like that. The Garda had authority and the kids obeyed. I've never seen anything like it.
I learned things! I learned that the Irish took in thousands of German orphans after WWII, and for that, Germany gave them a statue. A Haunted As Hell Statue I would wish to be nowhere near after dark, but a beautiful statue. "The Fates", it's gorgeous but really sad. I wondered about the artist, if he was a German who had lost children during the war, or if he himself was one of those transported to the Emerald Isle after the war. Something. There is something truly devastatingly sad about that statue.
Howth
When Genoa traveled to Dublin in 2016 to perform at the Smock Alley theatre, she took a side trip to the village of Howth. She sent me pictures, and I said I wanted to live there. So, clearly, we had to go.
It is a seaside village that reminded us of Amity in Jaws. I said "Amity, as you know, means friendship." The moment I said those words, we saw a restaurant with a shark over the entrance.
We visited the market right off for food, and discovered quesadillas, cupcakes and noodles. Noodles were the choice, and they were the best noodles I have ever had. I wished we had tried the quesadillas. Our experiences had taught us that there isn't really any Mexican food in Dublin. We're not sure what the guacamole was, but it wasn't guacamole, and the sour cream was yogurt.
Genoa said there was a cute trail behind the market, so we headed up. As I had been shocked by the amount of garbage on the streets of Dublin, I was mortified by the garbage on this trail. Literally, a kitchen sink and a TV were chucked into a small stream between the trail and the golf course. I'm from Colorado, this is not how we treat nature. Is no one looking after this place? Are there no maintenance crews? This is local behavior, not tourists, clearly.
There is a neighborhood on one side and a golf course on the other. Neither seems to be responsible for the walking path and small stream that runs between them.
After Howth, we packed and headed to The Barge for a so long meal and pints. I didn't want to leave. I know it's going to change dramatically, they have a lot of tech coming in and the building boom looks like Denver's a few years ago. Dublin, beware! Do not let commerce or progress bully you out of your culture. Keep those carveries, don't let them go. So much of who Dublin is and how they survive is rooted in tourism, but that will change if more foreigners move in and start dictating the culture. These people are ornery and know who they are, hold on. They've been through much worse, and I'm sure they'll be fine, but at a Coloradan I cringed looking at the crane in the city, watching the progress. They have all kinds of restrictions in place regarding sky scrapers, which is great, but they are clearly building, clearly growing and clearly, growth brings change. Hang on to your carveries, Dublin, your hatred of Cromwell and your decidedly Irish demeanor. And when you decide to clean up your garbage, give me a call.
Sunday, March 3, 2019
This Is Why I'm Like This: Second Period
8 am on an even day. Pretty much any even day. The only variable is the detail of which unit is being planned or graded.
We have a block schedule, so I have odd days and even days. Second period is a planning period, and my room is used by a Special Ed teacher during second, so I must adjourn to my cubicle.
It's not bad here. Stuff that didn't make it into the classroom lingers here: A photo from my cast of Danny and the Deep Blue Sea, a sign that says "KIDS ARE OUR FUTURE, NOT YOUR KIDS, BETTER ONES" given to me by a student. Metal roses from The Importance of Being Earnest. Tape roses from kids' props projects in intro. A pottery "pea" a kid made for his fairy tale prop, it is perfect in size and the texture calms me. This cubicle was previously occupied by the former theatre teacher, who I replaced. He moved to lang arts his last few years. His move was voluntary, unlike mine, yet we seem to be following a similar path. I recently cut my hair so as to not resemble him any further (he's an old hippie with long gray hair). There are still random books he left behind on the shelf, and a DVD of Spaceballs. You can't recycle books because of the glue in the binding, and I hate filling up landfills, and the ARC likely does not want a copy of the International Motion Picture Almanac from 2004. So there they rest, on the shelf. I have a BIG CHIEF tablet that I do not remember purchasing, but I keep because it reminds me of K. Starkey and high school.
My file cabinet has a small, stuffed lion on it that I did not purchase, and my computer hard drive has a plastic giraffe, purple maned Little Pony and a clay figure that is meant to represent me, gifted by an 8th grader last year in intro. Yes, I teach in a high school but we have eighth graders. Maybe you can explain it to me one day. Gary Oldman watches over me next to a quote from To Kill A Mockingbird
" Real courage is when you know you're licked before you begin, but you begin anyway and see it through no matter what."
I had a poster from Steal Magnolias, the last show I did, but it has disappeared, somehow, somewhere. It is not on the ground, some weirdo has absconded with it.
There is a button with Einstein "The important thing is not to stop questioning", an 18-19 school calendar, sticky love note from a former student and a note to anyone who wanders into this cubicle: "You've reached the cubicle of kryssi martin. I am not here. Please leave a message on a sticky note." Which a colleague did when he had to borrow my computer. Not that I would have known. Now my sign has a sticky note that says "Thanks for the use of your computer."
I sit down and breathe. I look at my list. I sit in my classroom from 6.45 am-8 am puttering and thinking about the list. I make it so I can take what I need to the cubicle and not disturb my colleague. First on the list: Enter grades.
I don't wanna do that.
My next door cubicle colleague who teaches math asks me if I'll teach her class. She volunteers to teach poetry. She does this about once a week, she finds it amusing. She teaches trig. I tell her I'm happy to switch as long as the kids are OK writing monologues about math. She laughs and starts a conversation with my other cubicle neighbor, who is across from me and the daughter of my cubicle's previous resident. We don't really get each other, but they try. I appreciate the camaraderie of cubicle life, and since I'm only here twice a week, three times if Wednesday is an even day, it's fine. I couldn't be here all the time. I have colleagues who, like me, just live in their rooms. If it wasn't for this one period where I am displaced, I'd use this thing for storage. Cubicles are gross. How do people live in these as careers, on a daily basis?
It is only myself and another math teacher in the offices during this period. Occasionally he'll shuffle over and embark on a Netflix series conversation. It is the only thing we have remotely in common, and I'm pretending because I don't watch Netflix series' much at all. But he's a really nice guy and I truly appreciate the effort. In my year down here, I have discovered what it means to have "colleagues". I was just that "loose cannon" down there in theatre rattling around next to the beloved music department. This is very different, and I am determined to accept any offering of conversation or acquaintanceship whilst in the building. I still refuse to attend any social events, though. I'm not that accommodating.
Check email. I don't want to do this, as I know there is a barrage of behavior reports I need to fill out for the IEP/504 kids in my classes. UGH. There are 9 in a single class of 25. That seems high to me. Which is why I have a co teacher who is special ed, but the kids aren't supposed to know that's why I have a co teacher, they're supposed to believe this is a regular class. Don't get me started...
Check phone and text family. I like doing this more than grades and behavior reports.
Turn on computer.
Say "Ugh" out loud as 30 google doc sonnets from poetry class emerge. Crap, I need to grade those, don't I? Imagine how horrible it would be if everybody in class actually turned theirs in on time. I'd have twice as many.
Remember I have handwritten sonnets on my clip board to grade. Say "UGH" out loud again.
Math colleague in the neighboring next door cubicle asks what's up. I answer "Sonnets". She says "I'll trade you, you teach trig and I'll grade the sonnets." It is like we didn't just have this conversation. It's fine. She never wants to teach her classes. My other cubicle neighbor, across from me is my co department chair as well as the daughter of the former theatre teacher. She's nice. She likes Jane Austen a lot. Sometimes we say words to each other. I asked for her to order the play Black Elk Speaks for my class, and she ordered the full biography. 30 copies. I have one on my desk, laboring under the delusion that I should at least read it at some point.
The bell rings and I am alone. Well...there is the math teacher with this off period who will stop by occasionally to discuss Netflix shows he enjoys. He teaches stats. When I pass by his cubicle he's reading news articles on his desk top. He is twitchy and I enjoy him. He also teaches swimming, so I feel a camaraderie as I am a theatre kid teaching lang arts, and he is math teaching swimming.
I look down at the clipboard. The first "sonnet" is a handwritten dictation of "Imagine" by John Lennon. This is an ESL kid from China. While I love this song by John Lennon, it is not a sonnet.
Log into IC, look up this student's counselor and send a note. I don't think he's going to do well in poetry.
I hate doing that, it feels racist. Last semester a girl from China self selected out of poetry on the second day, she couldn't comprehend pastiche-ing Langston Hughes. She would have been fine if it was a class of reading poetry only, perhaps. But I make them write.
Math Colleague shuffles over, tells me about a Netflix (or maybe it's Amazon) show that is a documentary about a murder that a guy did not commit, his wife was actually killed by an owl. But nobody knew, or investigated the actual evidence, but a neighbor knew and didn't say anything, well he said things but nobody listened.... I nod. He enjoyed the show and is enjoying retelling me. I see my colleagues chatting with one another about common hobbies and am always left out. I have no hobbies. It didn't seem weird when I was teaching theatre, doing theatre, theatre was job and hobby. Now it's like...I just receive what others say in an effort to create relationships, but I can't contribute. I don't have any hobbies, I don't watch Netflix shows or go to live concerts. Somehow I suspect this makes me less than human...
Math Colleague picks up his copies from the printer that lives in the weird room that used to have desktops in it,and shuffles back to his own cubicle,where I suspect he is watching Netflix shows.
OK. Sonnets. On the clipboard. Go.
Mark the scansion.
Mark the rhyme scheme.
Write supportive comments in the margins
Lather, rinse repeat.
Return to IC to enter those grades. I did not put the loose papers in order by class period. Why would I do that?
Put papers in order by class period.
Enter grades.
Sigh.
Ugh.
OK....google doc sonnets. Begin.
Check scansion.
Check rhyme scheme.
Type supportive comments in the margins.
Google doesn't sort by class period, so I checked them off on the paper roster as I went.
Enter grades.
OK, what am I doing in LA 9 today?
Open a google doc and try to remember what I did last time I saw this class.
AH! Speeches. It's a work day. Sweet. All I have to do is print speech outlines and rubrics.
Answer text from daughter in Durango.
Write bossy text to daughter and husband here in town.
Open email. Lengthy email from Other Gig. Scan it quickly and write a reply that sounds like I read the whole thing. I will discover at rehearsal that I did not read it correctly and my answer confused the producer. This happens consistently enough that I question why they continue to email me. Clearly it's not working out.
Say out loud "Can we please smoke? Can the adults please smoke?" Nobody is around to hear me, so I'm not in danger of nobody getting me. But I can guarantee that if someone did overhear, they would not understand. I'm in a language arts and math office cubicle, not a theatre. Theatre people get it.
Stand up to go make copies. Walk to the end of the row, realize I don't have my badge to use the copier. Go back to cubicle and retrieve badge.
On way to copy room, encounter Yet Another Math Colleague, this one who used to teach science. He knows about my need to dress like a looney in my search for a Section 8, and calls me "Klinger". He fist bumps me and notes today's get up, which includes mismatched socks and a Dollar Store orange scarf. I look like Mr. Furley from Three's Company. He always has a cup of coffee, always looks like he's had it with everyone, and is expecting his first grandchild. I smile and say "Morning Grandpa" at the fist bump, which elicits a spark and smile from him. He pulls up his sleeve to reveal his latest tattoo, which I marvel at. He is in his fifties, and has recently decided he needs tattoos. I am delighted. I enjoy my exchanges with him. I wish he would retire he has clearly had it with the kids' behavior, which has exponentially become insurmountable in the last five years. Nobody listens to anything, nobody cares, nobody's respectful yet they think they deserve an A for showing up. I can't imagine how much worse it is in math, since everybody has to take it and nobody likes it. At least in lang arts we can diversify with films or group presentations. Math. Gross. Why would anybody want to be a math teacher? Well, he didn't, he switched from science a few years ago, not my business why, but I think he liked science better. The kids like him, the ones who want to learn find him to be kind and patient. The others are just...rude, disrespectful, entitled, disruptive. That's his co taught class, he has one too. He's never had to tell me, I read it on his face.
Copy room. There are two copiers for the entire staff.
One has a handwritten sad face taped to it.
The other is in use, and there are two teachers in line.
I hover a moment. My printer in my classroom is not working, but the printer in the LA/Math office is working. Maybe I'll just print to that, I only need 30 copies.
Ya, Immma do that.
Stop at the bathroom on the way back to the office. It's not that I have to go, but fifteen years of this has trained my bladder. We have 90 minute blocks with five minute passing periods, and on even days I have 4, lunch and then 6,8 back to back. It's like when the girls were toddlers,I would make them try to go every time we passed a bathroom, because you never know when you're going to encounter another bathroom.
I head back to my cubicle, noting the time. I have ten minutes to print what I need and get to class.
I sit down at my desk, bring up the google doc and hit "print LA/MATH" and cross my fingers.
I walk to the printer. There is a stack of some sort of math with lines and letters that I have to move to get to my pages. I do so using the very tips of my fingers and edge of the paper as if it's diseased. It's bad enough I have to share a printer with math, don't make me touch it.
Stack the pages, return to cubicle. Load clip board with phone, keys and badge. Stand a moment staring at the desk, sure that I'm forgetting something. Determine that staring at my desk as if I'm trying to remember where I parked my car at the mall is not going to help me remember whatever it is I think I've forgotten. Look at my phone instead. Reply to bossy text from massage therapist daughter suggests I should stop telling her what to do. Since I have to go to class, I reply with a thumbs up emoticon and a black heart and janus masks.
The bell rings. I open the office door and make my way through the throng. These people have no concept of spatial awareness, polite behavior or traffic flow. They stop in the middle of the hall,they reverse direction suddenly, hurl greetings and vulgarities across the hall at one another. I fix my gaze in far focus and walk a steady pace to my door, looking at no one.
A kid hops into my focus, smiling his head off. It is my beloved Green Crocs. Today he's wearing his grandmother's dress. I gratefully receive the smile and return one, nodding my approval at his dress. He dances down the hall and I return to my cold focus and metered pace. Almost to the classroom.
Arrive. Exhale. Enter.
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