I’ll be alright, Grandmommy.

This morning, I walked across the street to my Grandmommy’s house, bare feet crunching on the dead summer grass, then softening as they warmed on the sun-heated road. I realized that I recognized the whole smell of the day and time, and do every day, because it’s summer and I’ve grown up smelling this street in the summer for 22 years. I  think smell is the sense most humbling, because it places us in any moment of time without struggle. Today, smelling the dry grass, and baked dirt, and breeze coming down from the mountain behind me, I was 22 years old going for lunch, and 10 years old going to watch cartoons, and 14 going to play kickball at the park, walking across the street as I always have in summer.

I realized a few months ago that I walk back home from Grandmommy’s house the same way each time. She watches out the front door as I walk down her steps, jog to the curb and check for cars before running across the street and up the grassy rise beside the concrete steps that come up from the road to jump up our steps onto the porch – right foot on the middle stair, left foot up onto the chipped blue boards at the top. The screen door’s spring stretches as I pull it open, keeping it open with my foot as I turn the knob of the main door to walk inside, then turn, wave to let Grandmommy know I’ve made it again, safe. She already knows, but she’ll watch me the whole way to make sure every time. When I was little, her farewell warning “I’ll stand out here and watch you across the street to make sure no boogers get you” (“boogers” being anything scary and bad) made me run faster, barely pausing to stop to look both ways before lightfooting it across the street and up into the safety of our porch light. She says the same thing still. I think that fear of ‘boogers’ is what keeps me running the route each time, even now. The warning scared me enough to run, scared me enough to be careful. It scared me enough to feel loved.

That’s what I think about whenever I miss home: that crossing, the smell of it in every season. It’s what keeps me coming back – so I can do it over and over again –  but it’s also what keeps me okay when I’m away. Each day is just another crossing of that dark street, but I make it, because there will always be a warm light and someone I love on each side.

Well, I’m going back.

I guess it had to happen sometime – the 20-something move from home to a different city – I just never predicted it would be in a different country as well, less than a year after I left it.

Alright, stop laughing, that is obviously an inaccurate statement, but long story short, I’m moving back to Belfast in a couple weeks to finish my last semester of college. (I’ll be updating this blog regularly again, so keep an eye on it.) I’ll be working on my Departmental Honors Project, and two other projects related to Ireland/Belfast. The first is a study on the relation between art and conflict in Belfast, focusing specifically on the murals scattered around the city neighborhoods. The second is essentially just an appreciation of Irish music (it’s fun, and pretty, and fills up pubs) which I’ll work on in Galway. UHON is pretty great at letting students exercise their wanderlust and get school work done, just fyi.

 

I’m excited about going, but am also getting a few of the jitters that come with knowing I won’t see my family and friends here for another 3 months. But hey, I’d be in the same boat were I going off to grad school right now. I’m excited, relieved, nervous, and a little overwhelmed all at the same time. I feel good that I’m getting out of Tennessee at Chattanooga for a while though; this will always be my home, but right now it makes me itch. At some point, this hillbilly’s gotta get out of the hills.

This song by the Head and the Heart sums all that up pretty well: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ero6mzzovl4

Everything in Belfast is ‘wee’

…except the craic; the craic is great.

 

Right, so every Northern Ireland native says ‘wee’ (meaning ‘small’) all the time, even when talking about things that aren’t small. For example, ‘How do you get to the [insert whatever here]?’ ‘Well yoos could take a wee bus, or take a wee walk down towards City Hall in the City Centre there.’ (Oh, yoos = y’all…I often forget to make this switch). Craic (pronounced ‘crack’), means ‘fun’ and is almost always great. If something is ‘great craic’, then it’s a lot of fun. People can be great craic. Unfortunately, people can also be no craic, which is no fun, and nobody likes that.

 

I’m picking up an interesting mix of slang, mainly from hanging around with the girls on my football (soccer) team, who are, for the most part, Northern Irish, with a couple English girls thrown in as well (Eilish and Alice). For example, say Trish, our goalkeeper, were to make fun of me, that’s referred to as ‘slagging somebody off’. Sharpie, you slag me off all the time. Eilish, on the other hand, would probably say that she was ‘taking the piss out of me’ or just ‘taking the piss’ which means the same thing. To sum up: to make fun of = to slag off = to take the piss out of. Yeehaw.

 

I’m having a great time and staying quite busy as my disappearance from the blogosphere suggests. Football practice on Monday and Wednesday evenings, football matches (Go Queen’s!), hanging out with friends, homework, etc. It’s really great craic! I can’t believe that I have a month left in Belfast. I miss everyone back home, but I’m really sad to leave here. No offence home, but I know you’ll always be there; who knows if I’ll ever see all the great friends I’ve made here ever again? Yikes, that’s depressing. I’m losing craic points. Of course I’ll see everyone again! If there’s one thing I enjoy in life, it’s coming to Europe, so chances will arise. Mk and Nicholas, we’re just going have to make some cross country trips to see each other…or Nick and I will move to New Orleans.

 

Belfast is setting up for Christmas. The Christmas Market opened this evening, and you can all be sure that I’m going to scour that place for some good Christmas gifts asap. Of course, there’s always a chance that I’ll spend my money on nutella crepes, and you won’t get anything, but I’ll do my best to stay on the bandwagon. The rumours are true! It rains ALL THE TIME in this country. I’ve never been so damp for such a prolonged period of time in my entire life. That being said, it’s not true that being out in the rain will give you a cold; we practice football in it every Monday night for an hour. Not to mention that I lost my coat and had to walk around Belfast without one for a few weeks, and didn’t get sick. Luckily, Dad made an awesome move and sent me a great, warm, fuzzy, water and wind -proof coat last week! It’s amazing. I’m so warm now.

 

Living in a city has been really awesome. There are things going on here all the time, and this isn’t even that big a city… (it’s a wee one, for sure!)This past week there’s been the Queer Outburst Film Festival, where I got to see ‘Howl’ 4 months before its official release date; the Christmas Market opened; I’m going to see a rugby match on Dec. 6; Lady Gaga performed here 2 nights…. Oh, and there’s a giant Topshop (a clothing store that sucks money from my bank account faster than the bank itself tries to). No to mention the loads of other things going on all the time.

 

This week I’m going to start work on my final, summative essays for class, cook Thanksgiving dinner with ‘the other Americans’ Nick and MK, then get dressed up and go out to the Harry Potter ‘fancy dress’ (aka costume) party that the Student’s Union is hosting on Thursday!

 

Belfast is great craic, and I’m getting really sad about leaving. But, I’m also getting excited about seeing my friends and family again too. Prepare for conflict, emotions.

 

 

 

It’s a situation here!

In the sleeping schedule I, for some reason, keep most naturally, waking up any time before 11 am is early and usually painful. At 7:45 Tuesday morning, my alarm clock went off in the form of a very drunk French guy, puke splashed down the front of his shirt, ringing the doorbell and then trying to force his way into my house (apparently the two actions are not mutually exclusive).

 

That day, I was expecting the delivery of a package from home that contains my soccer cleats, indoor soccer trainers, and my favorite Gap v-necks (I’ve mentioned my love of Gap v-necks on this blog before, you’ll remember), so I’m pretty excited about it. But, unless I’m at home to sign for it, the postman won’t leave the box outside our house and I’ll have to walk the long way down to the post office in the city centre to retrieve it. You also might remember that it rains here. A lot. Walks into the city aren’t always fun, and walks back with a large package to carry would be less so. I don’t feel like paying the bus fare either. So, my plan was to wait here all day doing my homework (shocker) so that I could answer the door when the post came. This must have been lingering somewhere in my subconscious because somehow, from the top floor of our house, I was the only one who woke up when the doorbell rang at 7:45 in morning.

 

Out of a dead sleep, I woke up and went tearing out of my room down 2 flights of stairs, stumbling and almost falling twice, in a rush to get to the door before the postman gave up and left with my package in tow. I flung open the door without even checking to see who it was, only to find a strange man standing on our doorstep in a fake leather jacket and skinny jeans… I thought for a moment that perhaps he was friends with one of my housemates, and was here to meet up with him or her, until he took advantage of my surprise and promptly stepped inside the open door into our foyer area. At this point, I realized that he reeked of alcohol and had puke down the front of his shirt, and definitely did not belong in my house. We have a two-door system in the front entrance to our house. To get in, you have to open the front door, then you step inside to a little room/entrance area about 6 by 6 ft square, then you open another door to actually get inside the house. I had propped the second door open because I didn’t have my keys, but was standing in front of it, so the guy couldn’t get past me inside. He tried to move past me, saying that he lived here, at which point I realized that he was French and spoke very little English. Here’s a little sample of the general course of our ‘conversation’ (the guy was almost belligerent about wanting to get inside the house):

 

French guy: Escuse me! I need to get inside. Dees is my house.

Me: Uh, no it’s not your house.

FG: Yes! (all while looking furtively out the open front door like he was hiding from someone)

Me: No, you probably live next door (lots of french people do). You need to get out and go over there.

FG: My girlfriend lives here!

Me: Oh yeah? What’s her name?

FG: * mumbles something incoherent *

Me: Nope! She doesn’t live here, now get the hell out of my house and go next-door.

FG: …. nononononono

Me: Yesyesyesyesyesyes

FG: You speak French?

Me: Obviously not.

FG: * curses the english or something *

Me: Dumbass, you’re in IRELAND! Go outside!

FG: Look at zat! * points to bottle on the ground * (I suppose trying to trick me into looking away so he could sneak in…)

Me: YOU DON’T LIVE HERE NOW GET OUT OF MY HOUSE

FG: * sighs of disgust * nononono! (he did this a lot)

 

All this time I kept my right arm covering on the door frame as I stood in front of it, but now I took it off and (one handed, that’s right) pushed this guy out of our foyer and slammed the door in his face.

After that, I was a little too awake to go back to bed.

 

This is just the most recent story from the events of the last few weeks that seem to suggest my life is being secretly filmed for some reality show, probably called ‘Let’s Mess with Trenna and see How She Takes it, haha this is funny’ or something like that.

 

Briefly, let me tell you a couple other stories…

 

Last week, the day that classes started, I was taking a shower in our hall’s bathroom down the hall from my room. I walked back to my room in my towel, expecting to soon be able to put clothes on. I turned the door handle, pushed, and walked straight into a locked door. The maintenance people had come to deliver a trash can to my room, and locked me out when they left. I waited for 30 minutes in my towel, and my roommate Lukas’ tshirt that he so kindly let me borrow (thanks Lukas), until the security guy got to our house. He took one look at me and just started laughing.

 

A couple weeks before that, I managed to insult the intelligence of one of Northern Ireland’s most famous contemporary poets, while attempting to ask if I could take part in his weekly workshop. I had just gone to a reading where Michael Longley, Ciaran Carson, Medbh McGuckian, and two others read. Afterwards, I went up to speak to Ciaran Carson in the parking lot because he apparently holds an informal workshop every Wednesday that I’d like to attend. He was talking to another man, and when I asked if it would be alright if I interrupted, Carson replied, ‘I don’t know, that’s a bit of a moot point now, isn’t it? We’re having a really deep conversation, you know.’ He was being sarcastic, so, I automatically replied in kind, saying, ‘Oh? I didn’t know you were capable of deep conversation.’ The other guy looked a bit shocked that I’d replied with that…anyway, I explained myself to Carson, and he kind of waved me off and said to send him an email because he wouldn’t remember. Hopefully, he won’t remember me at all. You can’t say I’m a sleazy networking-whore, at least.

 

 

When the show comes out, please let me know how it is.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Now for the long update

The long-awaited, long-procrastinated, long blog post about life in Belfast to date:

Whew!

That’s me letting out my breath, finally, after a mad 2 and a half weeks. I can’t believe I’ve only been gone for a month! So much has happened in these last 4 weeks that it feels like much longer. I’m finally getting settled in to school and living here, so things are starting to slow down. I won’t go through a week by week report on what I’ve been up to because that would take too long, and I’m kind of ADD…but I’m going to try and brush over the highlights to give y’all some kind of general picture. Anyway, there are 250 international students total at QUB this semester – quite a lot compared to the 15 or so UTC gets! I live with 13 of them in a house about 2 streets over from the Students Union (the Northern Irish version of the UC…a very impressive, highly-functioning system headed by 6 student-elected delegates that actually runs like a real union for students: protecting our rights, planing fun stuff for school, and more. Solidarity! etc.) My housemates are so great. I love them all. I wrote a bit about them in the previous post, but to review:

I live with seven Germans – Johanna, Dana, Juli, Laura, Andrea, Lukas and Sebastien. (My knowledge of German geography is going to be so good after this semester is over.) Johanna made us all German pancakes for lunch today (much better than American pancakes…everything’s ‘better than how the Americans do it’ apparently, haha!) Dana loves the blues, and sings out-loud to herself in her room, and the hallway, and the shower. Juli is a vegetarian, who LOVES ginger and giner tea. Laura is the only one of us who is an actual QUB student, not just study abroad. This is her first year. She’s studying politics, and is a wonderful, curly-haired force of nature. Andrea is Juli’s ginger tea buddy, studies Biology and loves animals. She’s hitchhiked all over Europe. Lukas is pretty much Grandpa as a 23 year old. Seriously, the similarities are hilariously uncanny. Yesterday morning, he sat in our lving room reading the paper, drinking tea, and listening to jazz. We always end up brushing our teeth at the same time in the bathroom. Sebastian is studying medicine, and loves to play squash. He’s always up for a party.

Jenny is Swedish. She works at IKEA in Stockholm. SHE’S SWEDISH AND WORKS AT IKEA. Did I mention that she works at IKEA? Hehe, sorry Jenny. She smiles arguably more than I do, calls people ‘darling’ all the time, and loves anthropology.

Maria is from Zaragoza, Spain. She didn’t know much english when she arrived, but that doesn’t stop her from talking all the time. She’s great, and so funny. She’s a geology major, known to forgo luggage in order to carry big rocks back home with her on the plane. She helps me with my Spanish, and I help her with English. Jose is also from Spain. Jose has a feathery mohawk, giant muscles, drinks protein shakes, rum, or milk, plays techno music, and works out pretty much all the time. He made sangria in our trashcan last weekend while I was in Paris. He almost signed with an MLB team (I don’t remember which one), but didn’t…I don’t remember why. I’ll try and post pictures of his clubbing outfits soon. I normally see Jose in the kitchen with his friend from next door, Arturo. Arturo cooks in our kitchen a lot. He just recently got to the point where he could cook and only leave the door open to air out the smoke for an hour, as opposed to all day. We’re all very proud. According to Jose and Arturo, everyone in Ireland goes to bed ‘berry erly. Berry erly.’ These two provide a constant source of entertainment for everyone in the house.

Ping and Sheng are from China, and they are wonderful as well. They are really quiet, but always hang out with everyone in the living room, observing and smiling. They make delicious looking food to eat, and sit in the kitchen using their chopsticks to pick out stuff from the bowl to put in their rice. They both just recently got Facebook profiles, because Facebook is banned in China.

Ruth is our one native Irish girl. She’s starting grad school for medicine, and is really skilled with tortellini. She also lives in the coolest room in the house – big windows, mirrors, it’s kind of Dickensian…but purple.

Bili is from Bulgaria, and while she’s decided to go home on Monday, she’s been a great roommate so far! She’s studying medicine as well, but also loves Bulgarian literature and poetry. She’s showed me poems by some of Bulgaria’s most famous poets. Their national heroes are mainly revolutionaries and poets. Everyone knows who they are, and studies them in school. It’s fascinating to me; Walt Whitman probably wouldn’t make it on to the National Hero list for most Americans.

I think that’s everyone! Arturo is cooking again, and I’m a bit distracted (smoke in the eyes), so I hope I didn’t forget anyone.

My classes are all going well. I’m taking Shakespeare on Screen (studying how Shakespeare plays have been translated into film), Intro to American Literature (Emerson!!), and Intro to Creative Writing (no upper level poetry workshop is being taught this semester. We’ll see how this one goes). It’s interesting, because for my Am. Lit course, I go once a week for an hour to a lecture, where one professor, uh, lectures to a room of about 100 students on the background and historical significance of whatever we’re reading. Then, the next day, I have a one hour tutorial, where we talk more in-depth about the themes, etc of what we’re reading with one teacher and about 15 students from the lecture. My tutorial professor reminds me of Professor Quirrell, though thankfully without the odor of garlic.

I’m having a good time hanging out with my housemates, and talking with them. I’m reading a lot. I’m really enjoying directing my own reading, and conducting my own literary studies based on my interests and inclinations. I’ve gone from John Irving to Peter Carey; now I’m (re)reading Marvin Bell, Charles Simic, and (for the first time) Rimbaud, in addition to whatever I have to do for class. I think I could handle this European solitude in which to read and write for quite some time, though I would prefer to do so in Paris…. I understand the 1920s expats now – how could anyone not want to live there? Le sigh. Someday! Someday!

Overall, I think Belfast, or at least the Queens community, feels a bit more tweedy and ‘don’t step on the grass’ than the Republic did, at least to me. I think mainly it’s the British academic institution atmosphere that I’m feeling. I really love it here though. It’s giving me a great opportunity to ‘embrace solitude’ as Rilke would say, and to make new friendships and connections that I’m learning a lot from. I’m very happy, even when things are incredibly stressful and overwhelming. And I think all the stress-inducing problems have been worked out, so hooray!

I love you all, and miss you! I’ll be home at the end of December at the latest. I’m thinking I’ll probably spend a week in Paris with Lillie and her roommate, Jessica once school ends on December 17th. They’re renting an apartment in the 3^rd district of Paris for 3 weeks over Christmas. I don’t want to miss what might be my last time in Paris for few years, so I’ll probably fly out of there to come home around the 28^th or so.

I promise the next blog post will appear sooner, and won’t be as long. I had lots of catching up to do.

Here’s something to end on:

Views from a Train

-Charles Simic

Then there’s aesthetic paradox

which notes that someone else’s tragedy

often strikes the casual viewer

with the feeling of happiness.

There was the sight of squatters’ shacks,

naked children and lean dogs running

on what looked like a town dump,

the smallest one hopping after them on crutches.

All of a sudden we were in a tunnel.

The wheels ground our thoughts,

back and forth as if they were gravel.

Before long we found ourselves on a beach,

the water blue, the sky cloudless.

Seaside villas, palm trees, white sand;

a woman in a red bikini waved to us

as if she knew each one of us

individually and was sorry to see us

heading so quickly into another tunnel.

Now, I’m off – there’s smoke billowing out of the kitchen, pushing me out the door to spin class and a girls-only dinner with the housemates after.

Finally!

Note: I wrote this about a week ago, and am only just now posting it.

I’m jotting this down very quickly before I go to bed because I’m exhausted and need sleep. These past 2 weeks have been one of the most stressful times I’ve had in a while, just in terms of dealing with finances, school, illegal immigration, my unfortunate lack of a filter in important social situations, etc… But I just came in to bed after spending two hours sitting in my German, across-the-hall housemate Dana’s  room, talking about everything from music, race relations, Hitler, neo-nazis, anarchists, Google China  Hong Kong, to Bulgarian poetry, cevapcici, gypsies, and the Chinese word for ‘zit.’ There were seven girls total-3 Germans, 1 Bulgarian, 1 Swede, 1 Chinese girl, and me-and we spent such a wonderful time talking together, becoming closer friends, and learning a LOT about our different cultures. As I sat there, listening to the wonderful conversation happening around me, I felt myself cheering up very quickly; there I was, surrounded by wonderful people, who just met each other, but are totally willing to open up and discuss anything. My friend Wang Ping (if I spelled her name right) was almost too shy about speaking English to leave her room when she arrived last week, but tonight she was right in the middle of everything, listening with a big smile on her face, even chiming in to help explain the Chinese childbirth system and teach us some words in Chinese or laugh at one of Jenny’s bad jokes (just kidding, Jenny…).  In this house, there are seven different countries represented amongst 13 housemates (those I listed before plus Irish and Spanish). I could spend a long time writing about Belfast itself, how at night the local girls tease their hair up 80s style, wear tiny tiny tiny tight skirts and super high heels to wobble down the street into clubs, their gelled and tanned boyfriends following behind,  or how everything really is SO green, or how my school looks like Hogwarts and even has a Great Hall. I could even complain about the UK Visa Rules (to be honest, I already have, a lot, to everybody), about how expensive everything is on the Pound, or about how sometimes I just want to give up and go home. But, nights like tonight are the reason I won’t; moments like this are what really count, more than the cathedrals and museums and famous landmarks I’ve visited, more than the pictures I put on Facebook, or the ridiculous jeans I find at H&M. All that is infinitely less affecting than this wonderful mash-up of culture I currently live in.

Caffeine Conversation

September 11, 2010

Today I ate porridge for breakfast, and chatted with Mary, who still calls me Trina, and has a dog named Rambo that looks like an ugly chihuahua/rat hybrid. I’m at Java’s cafe now, where there is a piano upstairs that anyone can play, and anyone does! It’s great, I ate (a lot…) to piano music, and wrote (how bohemian, right?) and drank coffee. I’m still writing–this, in fact. I had dinner here which consisted of the “Mediterranean plate” (Ratatouille, a salad, and prosciutto) and a cappuccino, followed by a strawberry and nutella crepe, followed by coffee. It will be a bit expensive all together, but I felt like treating myself. The waitresses are french; Java’s is a french bistro/wine bar. Galway is just kind of magical. I feel like I’m walking around in a poem sometimes…a pretty one, closer to “To Dorothy” than “the Wasteland,” for instance. Other than the hordes of drunk college kids that stumble about the streets at night, laughing too loudly, falling down, and generally stuffing themselves with cheap booze and greasy fish and chips, Galway’s a perfect place to be; it maintains a pretty clear atmosphere. I couldn’t do it now because I still feel the urge to spread out and wander, but this would be a fantastic place to live. I’ve found that I really like being alone. This trip sort of forced that on me, but even when opportunities for social activity arise, I find myself avoiding them. Back home, I’m usually right at the center of whatever’s going on, afraid to miss anything. Now, I’m more focused on not missing anything about myself. Last night I hung out with a Canadian I met in Dublin, which was mainly an exercise in tedium. He was nice, but doing the whole social butterfly thing just felt like a very exhausting act. Dude’s are boring! Also, he spilled Guinness all over my favorite white v-neck–sloppy. My favorite white v-neck that I wear a lot. I own quite a few, but only brought one of them with me. “Blame Canada!!!” Rage, rage, rage. Ok, maybe not rage, but I’m quite ticked. Anyway, let’s try and move on… I bought a funny hat at the market today. I’m trying to find things to buy as souvenirs for everyone back home, but it’s really hard! I always feel like it won’t be enough. Sure, I can buy you a necklace from a stall at the market, but you won’t know what the market was really like! I need to get over that and just buy some friggin’ presents already, huh? Haha. I’ll get on it. I can’t wait to get to QUB on Monday! Next week is my International Student Orientation (“Welcome Week”), and I’m really excited about it. It will be fun to meet everybody. Ironically enough, I’ve been using my Spanish more over here than I do back home. There are lots of Spanish students studying abroad here, and in Dublin the other day I gave directions to an older couple from Spain looking for the park. We didn’t realize until after fumbling through the map in English that we could have been speaking Spanish. Oh well! That was funny. I’m done writing for now, and think I’ll go read some more before I pay my bill and head home to the B&B. I wish I’d gotten out to Connemara and the Aran Islands, but I don’t think I have time to anymore. I plan on doing so after I get settled in in Belfast. I’m sort of tired of the stress of navigating travel plans alone, so I look forward to settling in, to having a more permanent home-base.

Here’s a passage from the book I just read, “Sexing the Cherry” by Jeannette Winterson:

I’ve never wanted to be an astronaut because of the helmets. If I were up on the moon, or by the Milky Way, I’d want to feel the stars round my head. I’d want them in my hair the way they are in paintings of the gods. I’d want my whole body to feel the space, the empty space and points of light. That’s how dancers must feel, dancers and acrobats, just for a second, that freedom.