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Monday, September 7, 2015

Getting into Stranger's Cars (And Other Lessons of the Weekend)

Happy Monday! (And happy Labor Day to all you phenomenal workers in America and beyond) It’s a happy one because 1. Being in Dublin, there’s nothing to not be happy about. 2. My morning began with drumming lessons at the Masamba Samba School for class. 3. This weekend was aglow with travel.


Friday kicked us off with a trip to the zoo—or what was supposed to be only a trip to the zoo. A small group of us headed off with a spring in our step towards Phoenix Park, one of Europe’s largest enclosed parks. Inside, it holds walking/biking/driving trails, a zoo, a cricket park, and the Wellington monument, where we found ourselves lost in the park’s seventeen hundred acres. The obelisk, reminiscent of the Washington Monument in D.C. or the Bunker Hill Monument in Charlestown, rose over the treetops and piqued our curiosity. We followed it until we reached the clearing that it is located in, and asked two men if they could point us in the direction of the zoo. Travelers themselves, they flipped open their guidebook to Dublin and searched for us. At the same time, an older gentlemen came up behind us and asked, “Are you guys lost?”

He quickly pointed us in the direction of the zoo, and as we thanked him and started the trek over, he asked where we were from. Conversation ensued about the monument and the grounds, where the man talked about the park’s six hundred free-roaming deer and their ancestry with the original deer placed here in the seventeenth century. It’s taken him about two years, he said, but he’s finally been able to start feeding the deer straight from his hand.

“Do you want to go do it?” He asked, glancing around at all of us and waiting for the immediate agreement on our part. Hesitation blanketed me for a moment when he brought up getting his car; but the genuine way in which he spoke with us and reflected on the overwhelming history and beauty of Phoenix Park was more than enough for that to last no more than a moment. Six of us, including Tony (we learned his name after agreeing to go) squished into his two-door car before being taken through the park’s winding roads and estates—including the Guinness family’s property!

And yes, the deer we were promised were there. A group of them were spotted between trees, and Tony pulled over to the side of the road and fished around in his trunk for the oats he keeps there. Stealthily, we stepped through the tall grasses and watched from afar as Tony shook the bag of oats and attracted one, then two, deer. I scared one away with my approaching, but as my step grew slower the second one stayed around and nibbled the oats from my palm. The proximity of these gentle animals was beautiful. Cobwebs grew on their antlers, and they stood with almost a majestic innocence. Tony passed oats around to each of us until the bag was empty, and we left with the deer watching us from the woods carefully. When it was apparent to the creature that we weren’t returning, it turned and followed the small group it had been with.

We ended up at the zoo after more than an hour of driving around with Tony, but it couldn’t have been a more spontaneous or exciting exploration.

Saturday saw to an early rising and a thirty minute walk to the bus station, where a few friends and I hopped aboard for a trip to Cork. As soon as we were out of the city, we drove south among the stereotypical rolling fields of Ireland. Large groups of cows lounged in morning’s growing light, and sheep peeked out from behind clumps of trees. It was the first truly sunny day that I’ve seen since being in Ireland, making for nothing short of a pleasant day. And the ride home was spectacular—the sunset glowed on the horizon until just before nine in the evening, leaving us with the day’s last touches of delight.

We arrived in Cork at half past eleven in the morning, and we traipsed through the city’s narrow, lively streets. Most places at that time were still serving breakfast, so we popped into a local chain for bagel sandwiches. We did find some theatre with our dinner (sort of) in the trail of musicians performing on every street corner. Across from the café we sat in, an older man strummed his guitar and crooned Irish melodies into the microphone. On a different street corner sat a man at an outside piano, his fingers dancing swiftly across ebony and ivory. The world in Cork is utterly alive.


Oh yeah: I also found lots of Maher's.
From there, we hopped on another bus to Blarney, where we spent the better part of the afternoon being nothing but enchanted by the Blarney Castle’s gardens, trails, as well as the Castle itself. We popped in and out of the castle’s rooms, always returning to the one spiral staircase that grew narrower as it twirled to the top. But we climbed to the top, which offered sweeping views of the expanse of land, and led us to the famous ol’ Stone. Yep, I smooched it.





But to me, the gardens were the most exquisite piece of the journey. Stories about a witch’s cave and ice houses surround the land, and each turn provided a new climb, or a new angle from below, or a new cluster of Jurassic Park-esque leaves. And with sunshine’s fateful glow in the space between trees and late afternoon rays over the hill that we (almost) napped on, I felt like I had stepped into another world entirely. I could build a hut and live there for the rest of my days with all the joy in the world. While some say to avoid Cork or Blarney Castle, I say go at it with full force. Unless you don’t like being mystified, but who wouldn’t want that?




We ended the day at an Italian restaurant, Clauddaugh, with an uncensored American Top 40 playlist and too many tempting dishes. I burned my tongue on lasagna and laughed and chatted with my wonderful company of friends.
On Sunday, I was woken from that once-upon-a-time land with a jump into the Irish Sea. You heard me—on a cloudy, fifty-something degrees and windy morning, many of us from the program traveled to Dun Laoghaire for a dip in the water and a well-deserved ice cream afterwards! I jumped from this Forty Foot cliff jump’s baby rock, and was glad I did. I got the thrill without the incessant nerves leading up to doing it (or the fear of jumping too close to the rocks, hitting a rock below… you get it). 

You see the baby, moss covered rock at the tip? That's where I came from.


And the ice cream swirled up from my cone like a puff of whipped cream and was covered in Oreos, some rogue sprinkles, and in its side was stuck a little chocolate stick. What better way to warm up?!
The adventures I have been on thus far have been somewhat unexpected but always worthwhile. So could the same be for this journey in total: planning a study abroad semester and living it have come with some expected differences, but nothing could be more satisfying or enjoyable.

“Let us step into the night and pursue that flighty temptress, adventure.” – J.K Rowling

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