Last Day in Dublin

It's my last day in Dublin and I don't know what to do with myself. I've walked down my favorite streets, had a picnic lunch from Dunnes in St. Stephen's Green, made a final purchase (striped nautical dress), ate soda bread, took my last Luas ride, got my Toms wet in the rain, and sat in the park behind Dublin Castle. The only thing left to do is pack, nap, and go to Brazen Head, the oldest pub in Ireland.

I have mixed feelings about leaving after an exceptional 6-week experience, but I'm so thankful that I got to end this journey with my family. They got to experience some of my favorite foods, places, and memories alongside me. I got to visit the Cliffs of Moher again, and had a surprise 45 minute adventure in Galway. I kissed the Blarney stone for the second time, and visited another section of The Burren. I brought my family on a day trip to Howth, my favorite seaside town in Dublin County, as my trip came full circle. Here are some images from my last week in Ireland, maybe they can express my love of this country better than my words can.

Walking Like Joyce, Talking Like Yeats

A collage of my literary journey in Ireland.

"Tread softly, because you tread on my dreams," is the first Yeats quote I ever read, on a plaque outside his seaside cottage in Howth. Since that first gulp of words, I've bought a volume of his poetry (selected by Seamus Heaney) and have been slowly taking sips of his work whenever I'm parched for beautiful language and imagery. His words ring true for me, and when I discovered that there was a Yeats exhibition at the National Library, I was overjoyed. I saw his personal copy of Walden, his last pair of glasses, personal letters in his own glorious handwriting, scripts for Abbey plays, and even a lock of his hair. Perhaps the most interesting artifact I found, however, wasn't even in the exhibit. At a small bookshop in Athlone, I struck up a conversation with the shop owner and when he recognized my interest in Irish playwrites, he lifted a black binder from the top shelf behind the register. It was filled to the brim with photos, letters, and other snippets collected from auctions that formed a shrine to Yeats, Beckett, Joyce, and Sheridan.

What stuck out most was a small piece of yellowing paper with the words, "Only the wasteful virtues earn the sun," dated April 24, 1916. According to the bookshop owner, this was Yeats' first reaction to the Easter Rising. He told me a story that shed light on the meaning behind the poet's curious word choice. When Yeats was younger, a young man from his home town jumped overboard a ship to save a woman's hat that had caught in the wind and drifted in the water. In his heroic attempt to salvage a mere hat, the man drowned. Yeats' mother thought that the man wasted his whole life because he was trying to be virtuous. Yeats, who had mixed feelings about the Rising, considered the event a "wasteful virtue" since so many men wasted their talents to rot in jail or be executed. However, he also adds that such a folly can "earn the sun," which shows that maybe he sympathized with the Nationalist cause afterall. He mourned the loss of life and opportunity of the men who organized the uprising, but he also recognized that a greater purpose existed. When great men like Yeats reflect on monumental events in history, it compells one to examine their own beliefs. His reactionary sentence, just seven words long, is so full of complexity and brings up so many questions. Yeats' quote provides a direct pathway to the mindset during the time of the rebellion, and helps to open a window to the past.

On Meeting Enda Kenny

I attended my first party of diplomats on the past 4^th of July at US Ambassador Rooney’s estate in Phoenix Park. I was in my glory, amidst cultural comforts of hot dogs, American flags, football, and the hundreds of important people who had gathered to celebrate the birthplace of my home country. After three hours of volunteering at a temporary tattoo booth, where I placed stars and stripes all over the arms, hands, and faces of youngsters, I was ready to meet the ambassador. Confident, I set off on a mission to shake his hand. I found a foreign officer with a headset and when he heard my goal, brought me to a lineup of elderly women dressed in big sunhats and men in expensive-looking suits. I shook his hand and told him I was from New Jersey, he smiled, said, “Very good,” and moved down the queue of handshakes. A little defeated by the lack of grandeur, I shuffled off to the side of the square, and watched the crowd for a while.

Suddenly, a shot of excitement seemed to go through the mass of people in one particular corner, near the tent with the open bar. Cameras, shouts, and a quick storming of people pervaded the area, and I asked someone next to me what was happening. “It’s the Taoiseach!” they exclaimed. I felt silly, not having registered that the head of the Irish government might make an appearance at the lavish affair. I was still a little deflated from my simple handshake with Ambassador Rooney, so I hurried over to the nucleus of the commotion and became next in line to greet the Taoiseach.

I stuck out my hand, smiled, and gave a hearty introduction of my name, nationality, and reason for coming to Ireland. A tall man with a sharp nose and even sharper suit firmly shook my hand and pulled me in for a polite (though somewhat intrusive) embrace as several photographs were taken. He, like the Ambassador, asked what state I was from, and upon learning the answer, asked, “How’s my man down in Jersey?” I was confused for a moment until he clarified, “The Boss.”  I was awestruck that the Irish Taoiseach was a Bruce Springsteen fan, something I associate with American pride, red bandanas in blue jeans, and my own upbringing. He said he was looking forward to Bruce’s concert, and again, I was shocked by how normal he seemed. It seems so human and blue-collar to go to a Bruce Springsteen concert, and not at all a glamorous evening out for the political elite. After our minute-long bonding session over New Jersey’s hero, he moved onto the next handshake, the next introduction, the next conversation.

I was dazed, to say the least. For an American, meeting a political figure is a big deal, let alone meeting the President. I have a few friends who met President Obama and my father met Senator McCain the first time he ran for presidency, but I myself have only met lowly legislative assistants on a lobbying trip when I was 16. Meeting the head of the Irish government is something I’ll always remember because it’s so unlikely that I’ll ever have the same experience in America. The beauty of Irish politics is how localized and intimate it is, because common people can get involved easily and without travelling very far. This, to me, is a major difference between the Irish and American political systems. In the US, there are parties, news channels, and witty t-shirts that get voters involved. Here, in Ireland, there are actual people and personal connections that put a living, breathing character into political figures. Aside from interviews and a revealing New York Times article I once read, I will probably never learn about Obama’s taste in music, and definitely not from a primary source. After two weeks of living in Dublin, I had an actual conversation about a music artist with Enda Kenny. In America, we like to think that our government is “of the people, by the people, for the people,” but I would say that Ireland clearly has us beat when it comes to using people to build relationships between political figures and the public.

€1,000,000,000 House: Turning Destruction into Art

          The death of the Celtic Tiger has left unfinished housing developments all over the country and the only beauty that has come out of the more than 2,000 ghost estates is the graffiti that covers the cement foundations. This was true up until Frank Buckly decided to make a monument to the financial crisis by literally shredding money. I wandered into the museum last week and found that the walls, floors, and furniture were actually made out of a dust of shredded euros. The walls are composed of bricks, each worth €50,000, and the makeshift carpet is made of money as well. Everywhere you look, there's shredded money, acting as a testament to the wasteful and I stood on the porch looking at the artwork on the walls (also made of money) when a gruff looking Irishman walked in from across the street and introduced himself as Frank, the artist. 
          I asked him where he got so much money from, and he smiled and said it was a secret and he couldn't tell me. After doing some research, I learned that he collected two trailers full of notes worth €1.4 billion, given on loan from the mint. The house is made of 1,000 6"x 2" bricks, which provides excellent insulation during the winter. 
          Frank was inspired, upset, and furious when his good friend committed suicide after the bubble burst and lost his house and wife during the financial crisis. He thought to himself, "This is just paper." He felt that their needs to be an open debate on what currency means. Frank currently lives in the "One Billion Euro House"and uses it as a venue to sell his artwork. I'm inspired by his audacity to show the world how little money is worth, and his effort to turn a miserable crisis into a piece of artwork. His project is proof that beauty can be born out of destruction.

The Skelligs and Inis Oirr

triumphant and full of a mixture of fear and glee, climbing to a sacred summit

After being pushed around by the sea for an hour, I was elated to stand on dry land. I climbed 600 slippery steps up the side of a cliff to reach the 6th Century monastic site at the summit, which was well worth the precarious journey. The early Christian architecture of stone, igloo-esque huts was beautiful and full of history. Honking puffins cheered us on as we made the descent back to the dock as they roosted in the green cliffsides. Skellig Michael is definitely the most remote, isolated place I've ever visited. It was exhilerating to climb a slippery flight of ancient stone stairs that winded up the side of the cliff and even more of a rush to slowly make my way back down. Luckily, I made it back to the boat safe and sound, which is more than I can for three unlucky tourists in years past.


This wasn't the first time I've taken an hour long boat ride to a new, uncharted island. Last weekend, I journeyed to Inis Oirr, the smallest of the Aran Islands off the west coast of Ireland. I toured the beautiful limestone-clustered hills of the island by bike, stopping frequently to take in the breathtaking scenery. I felt as if I was biking through a Van Gogh painting. The natural rock formations, greenery, and old stone walls were the perfect backdrop for an adventure. The tiny island was mine for the taking, as very few tourists were there, having opted to visit the largest of the three islands. I took in the glory of nature and animals, blue horizons, and the fresh air. I spent nearly the entire day outside, but I did venture indoors to buy a pair of blue wool socks made in connemara and to enjoy a hearty bowl of soup with brown soda bread and a half pint of Guinness.


Both island trips - to the Skelligs and to Inis Oirr - were empowering journeys into the less-travelled nooks and crannies of Ireland. I've been to the paths less-travelled, giving me a new sense of place and direction. Wandering feels good, and sometimes, you need to get lost in order to find yourself.

drinking from a well with magical healing powers

the green and blue foam of the crystal sea

gazing out to Galway Bay

stone, sea, and sky

Bray-eautiful

Hopping on a €6 train along the east coast of Dublin and Wicklow Counties, wandering into a seaside resort town, climbing on the jetty, and hiking a 700 foot mountain made for the perfect Sunday. While stepping over brooks and tree roots up a steep ascent, I found myself constantly pausing to take in the breathtaking scenery. Similar to Howth, every step I took created a new field of view and a different perspective of the sweeping Wicklow mountains and nestling towns. The panoramic view from the summit of Bray Head was the most beautiful thing I've seen so far in Ireland. A cross was erected there in the 1950s, where hundreds of locals gather every year on Good Friday. To see the simple cross of wood up close after seeing a miniscule cross from the bottom of the mountain was surreal. It loomed over me, as if to say that even though I just climbed a mountain, there is still always something to look up to.

view from the top

playing on the jetty

taking in the scenery

beach of stones and pebbles

even at the top, you can never be the tallest

Animal Farm

Just an hour outside of the city lies a beautiful farm that caters the country living experiences to native Irish and international students alike. The hospitality provided a warm and welcoming environment, and the sunny disposition of our hosts matched the (mostly) sunny weather. Causey Farm brings traditional Irish culture to life by incorporating food, dance, music, and traditions in a seamless way that allows one to feel connected to their Irish roots.

In addition to a happy bunch of tourists, students, and tour guides, the animals are as peppy as can be, in particular, a green-eyed dog with a limp named Patch. I milked a cow for the first time in my life, caught a chicken with my own two hands, and fed a beautiful gray horse some grass. 

The experience began with tea and scones, followed by a cooking lesson where I baked my own loaf of brown soda bread. After three hours of dancing an Irish jig, playing a fast beat on a Bodhrán, meeting all of the animals, and doing a Bog obstacle course, eating a slice of self-made bread was deliciously satisfying. I felt connected to a simpler way of life, where the network of human and animal is crucial, and where the relationship between man and the environment is symbiotic. 

Howth: Sunday June 24th, 2012

Yesterday I took a 25 minute train wide up the coast to Howth, a village with two awesome farmers markets, fresh seafood (I enjoyed seafood chowder for 5 euros, yum!), seals who beg for food, and the most spectacular views from a steep and winding walking path along the cliffs. My breath was taken away. The panorama of sea, sky, and the greenest green I've ever seen made me feel as if I was walking through a postcard. Here are some photos from the life-changing climb:

céad míle fáilte - 100,000 welcomes

The past 3 days have been a whirlwind of maps, rain, wellies, tea, and not getting nearly enough sleep for all the excitement each hour holds. I can definitely say that I have my bearings after studying a map, a walking tour, and a hop-on, hop-off bus tour. I'm so thankful I inherited my dad's sense of navigation, because understanding where you're going in a city with inconspicuous street signs is imperative.

Yesterday I attended a day-long orientation at Dublin Business School (included scones, library tours, a sexual conduct talk, scheduling, and 3 cups of coffee) before getting some free time in the Creative Quarter. Yes, I go to school in a place called the Creative Quarter. This is because Georges Street, where DBS has 2 of its buildings, is in an area full of boutiques, galleries, restaurants, and theatres. It's full of culture, whether you're admiring the graffiti or passing through the excessive amount of music shops (one is from Onces, but I have yet to go inside it).

Our group, accompanied by the wonderful and all-knowing Genevieve (our program director), went out for an early-bird dinner special (Dubliners normally eat dinner around 8-9 PM) and I enjoyed a magnificent, paid-for three-course meal of sweet potatoe soup, duck, and a chocolate fudge brownie dessert. I need to learn how to say "delicious" in Gaelic.

Last night we hung out with our first Ireland native, Connor, who is rooming with one of the boys on the trip. We all got a taste of the famous Irish banter, and I can't wait to finally go out to a pub and experience it one-on-one. Statistically, Ireland is the most sarcastic and witty country in the world. I only hope I'll be able to keep up!

This morning Sarah, Victoria, and I woke up to head over to the city center and stumbled upon Dublin Castle, which is now a series of rooms open to the community, it houses a cafe, and is home to the Guarda (police force). The gardens were beautiful, and the grass and flowers were exactly what I think of when I think of Ireland. The sun actually broke through the clouds while we were in the gardens, making it even more magical.

Next, we explored a market and I purchased a dream catcher, now hanging on my bed post. I hope it'll help me get a night of uninterrupted sleep tonight! After the bus tour with the group, we "hopped off" on O'Connell Street and did some shopping for warm clothes, rain-proof shoes (3 pairs for 25 Euros), and groceries.

I'm really excited to be shopping for and cooking my own food! This is new to me, as a 20 year old who had a decent meal plan for the first half of college. There's a grocery store called Sparr a block away from our flat, and the prices were more reasonable than I could have hoped.

After helping a stranded American college student at the gate (she was arriving to stay with her friend in the same apartment complex, but had no key or phone number to call), I'm now sitting down to unleash all that has happened in the past 2 days with a cup of tea.

Dublin has been amazing so far, and I'm extremely happy with my decision to study abroad in Ireland. This land is so rich in cultural, political, and literary history. I'm becoming somewhat of an Ibernophile, and I hope that my love for this country helps me to better understand its traditions and people. To close my blog entry, I'd like to share a "rose" and a "thorn," or the best and worst parts of the trip so far:

Rose: Buying a piece of artwork along St. Stephen's Green from an artist named Hugh McLaughlin. I was his first patron...ever. He was extremely grateful and delighted to have a customer.

Thorn: Being woken up at 3:30 AM when my flatmate came home from the pub.

Tomorrow

On the eve of my departure from Newark, NJ I'm staying up later than I should be, reflecting on the past few days and dreaming about the ones to come. Ireland's forty shades of green are just beyond my field of vision, and I can't wait to see the beautiful isle from my plane window in approximately 24 hours. I've been getting plenty of advice from my parents, grandparents, sister, and friends on how to best spend my time abroad and I'd like to share some bits of coversation that have made an impact on how I view this whole experience:


"Go way out into the countryside, go where no tourists are, get away from the hub of the city, that is where the Ireland you dream of is. Those rich rolling hills are there just right out of sight so go climb them, bring a notebook and journal the day the away." -Naomi


"You're studying a broad? Why are you studying a woman??" -my grandpa


I've gotten loads of suggestions of places to visit and directions on how to find the various filming locations from "Once" from a friend who is the closest to Glen Hansard I'll probably ever get. Aside from finding the Hoover shop, I want to find an actual street musician and interview him for the play I'm supposed to be writing. My interviewee list also includes a pub owner, the oldest lady I can find, a professor, and some stranger sitting in a cafe, alone. 


Hopefully, the interviews will provide good source material for something that is completely, utterly uninvented and nonexistent. 

1 Week

My Ireland adventure is one week away, and the big monster of saying goodbyes (and packing) looms before me. I'm nervous, excited, and mostly, just really anxious to see what this magical, lucky country has to offer. Essential things I'm packing: journal, camera, sketchbook, backpack, and my traveling gumby.

12 Days

The Island of Saints and Scholars awaits.

37 Days Until Ireland

I found this poem while researching towns in Ireland to visit while I'm studying in Dublin this upcomming June & July. If this is an accurate description of the Irish mentality, I can't wait!


Beautiful Listowel, serenaded night and day by the gentle waters of the River Feale. 
Listowel where it is easier to write than not to write,
where first love never dies, and the tall streets hide the loveliness,
the heartbreak and the moods, great and small,
of all the gentle souls of a great and good community.
Sweet, incomparable hometown that shaped and made me.

tikkun oLAm: social justice trip to Los Angeles

Life is Beautreeful

“The meaning of life is to plant a tree under whose shade you will never sit.” This is the sentence that first made me realize the bigger significance of planting trees – a seemingly small task that has a greater impact than I ever imagined. Danny, the incredibly witty forestry manager of Tree People, taught us the series of steps it takes to plant a tree: Choosing a location, digging a hole, massaging the roots out of the baby tree’s “root ball,” settling it into the earth, spreading its roots further into new soil, filling in the new earth, watering it with four buckets, setting up supportive stakes to keep it from falling, and finally, the naming ceremony. So much goes into this process to make sure that the tree is healthy, secure, and might stand a chance against LA’s lack of rain from March to September. Not to mention the air pollution.

Aside from the direct service of planting trees, we’re creating a lasting investment in the community. I hope that the trees I have planted will provide a refreshing shelter from the hot California sun for someone who needs to rest. I hope that my trees (their names are Treealah, Big Easy, and Jazzy the Love Tree) offer happiness to a young child who wants to dig for bugs around its roots. I hope someone climbs my trees one day.

I hope someone finds my tree and sits beneath it, and daydreams for a while.

In Judaism, we talk about the “tree of life” pretty often, and until now, I haven’t truly appreciated the life force of a tree. From sapling to mighty oak, they grow slowly but surely, ring by ring. Their branches reach up to the heavens and their roots dig down deep for nourishment. Similarly, humans look up to the sky for answers and burrow into their past to find out who they are. As humans, we like to branch out yet stay grounded. My biggest hope for the rest of this week is to continue to enjoy the satisfying work, get some more dirt under my fingernails, and appreciate the trees of life that we are bringing into the world. It would be nice to return to Griffith Park one day and sit under the shade of the trees I’ve planted, but that’s not the point. As long as others find joy and shade under the canopy of leaves reaching upwards, I’ll be proud.

Jerusalem, if I forget you...

It's been four months since my return from Israel, and this blog post has been festering in the cocoon of my mind, not quite ready to emerge. A lot has happened since I landed in JFK, but the memory of my adventure in the Holy Land still remains unchanged. It was a monumental trip for my twin sister and I, for my observance of Judaism, and for my understanding of the conflict in the Middle East. The stars as seen from the Negev desert, the dazzling blue of the Dead Sea, the view from the summit of Mt. Masada, and the rolling dunes of the desert outside my tour bus window are forever ingrained in my mind, and in the following photographs: