tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83894106164822753302024-02-01T20:13:05.982-08:00around armaghstudent blog for the armagh project 2007Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger29125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8389410616482275330.post-33164510081455368112007-08-13T03:02:00.000-07:002007-08-13T03:04:13.869-07:00Almost Home<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjufkXKFE5lK2eJX-2ZX-4fmgClVcGAFDEH8VtuyUvQI4z4kPKIbK_n9mdLlyBx1Hu_5QqdARQwqNqg9cp34rz5cW_kG0mEFplEEs00xHMJCaFznxbwYhlFG85TmT_EpxY95KjsCOYABk8/s1600-h/NoraDaly.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjufkXKFE5lK2eJX-2ZX-4fmgClVcGAFDEH8VtuyUvQI4z4kPKIbK_n9mdLlyBx1Hu_5QqdARQwqNqg9cp34rz5cW_kG0mEFplEEs00xHMJCaFznxbwYhlFG85TmT_EpxY95KjsCOYABk8/s400/NoraDaly.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5098123802876143730" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">by <span style="font-weight: bold;">Nora Daly</span> (Temple University)</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">I'VE BEEN TRAVELING</span> all of my life. I flew across the country on my own to visit my aunt when I was seven; being away from home is nothing new to me. It has only been within this trip to Armagh that I have found the homesickness that I have eluded for so many of my travels.<br /><br /> Now that we are rounding out our third week I can regrettably say that I am counting down the days till I go home, next Saturday. I miss the warmth of the hot sun and the simple feeling of a summer night, hearing crickets outside my window, or even the rustle of the great oak’s leaves as a soft breeze blows through its branches. I miss my parents, my brothers, my dog and most of all my bed, the simplest pleasure I look forward to experiencing upon my return home; a soft, crisp bed made just for me. Nothing in the world would make me happier than to be surrounded by my own four walls, in my own bed, and feeling the sensation of a true August.<br /><br /> Although I am having fun with the group and hanging out with some truly interesting and entertaining personalities, I am certainly feeling the strains of being abroad. This past weekend I traveled to the Giant’s Causeway with some of my family that live in Galway. Not only did it help alleviate some of the anxiety that has been hovering over me these past few weeks, but it was a wonderful time to take amazing pictures and really take in the sights of coastal Ireland.<br /><br /> Virtually standing on the edge of the world I was overcome by a sensation of feeling small in the world. There I could look off the rugged cliffs of the Bushmill region and see nothing but the vastness of the ocean allowing me to see why history’s earliest explorers wearily toed the line of a “flat” world. In a place visited by so many tourists everyday for years and years it was a remarkable thing to imagine how the Giant’s Causeway could look so pristine and ultimately untouched. In all of its thousands of years in existence these pillars of hardened lava have stayed locked in a frozen frame of time, in a way of purity and visual intrigue, drawing all that view it close to touch, climb and listen to its extensive body as foamy waves crash against it.<br />Seeing this part of the world has left a great image in my mind as one of the secret corners of this earth; an untapped jewel and one of the most unforgettable scenes in my memory.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8389410616482275330.post-78204707748093859902007-08-13T02:58:00.000-07:002007-08-13T03:04:48.701-07:00Home<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbnWuAGMFlxS8h6fe4UqUj80E0UkPtnObqikV5fq70VRmokEW9gM_CQs2wfE0bRmuIx-djbtNqpfDKa22WEIS0XYnUaY444FcN9chWaqLmX3T6wysPritUuhqc34iTx3apI_nLug3TFdM/s1600-h/BrigidCarey.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbnWuAGMFlxS8h6fe4UqUj80E0UkPtnObqikV5fq70VRmokEW9gM_CQs2wfE0bRmuIx-djbtNqpfDKa22WEIS0XYnUaY444FcN9chWaqLmX3T6wysPritUuhqc34iTx3apI_nLug3TFdM/s400/BrigidCarey.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5098123171515951202" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">by <span style="font-weight: bold;">Brigid Carey</span> (Gonzaga University)</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">MISERY LOVES COMPANY.</span> I wouldn't classify anyone here as "miserable," but I think it's how we've all bonded essentially. I'm definitely not miserable, but there is a certain sadness that comes with being out of your element or comfort zone. It's taxing, and I believe that everyone here has felt the effects. One can faintly hear a sigh of "I can't wait to go home," and slowly the consenting murmurs will follow. I'll admit it: I'm very excited to go home, if not just to see my dog!<br /><br />I adore this experience and I feel that it is vital for all citizens of the world to immerse themselves in another culture. Not only to learn about people other than yourself, to widen your horizons and expand your mind, but also to appreciate your own culture; for its successes and failures. Is it shallow to admit that I feel a deep connection with my material objects at home? Not my high-tech, state of the art toys that "improve" my life, but rather my bed, my kitchen, hell... even my bathroom. My bathroom where I know ever inch and quirk hidden in those pipes; where I can produce the perfect shower temperature by easing the faucet a little hotter, a little cooler... oh yeah, that's it!<br /><br />All of these little luxuries that we are privileged and blessed with at home are taken for granted because we are focused on if we have the newest Mac, or the latest Ipod gadget, or if "Mommy will get me that new BMW for my sweet sixteen," exampled in every MTV show. In the end, I don't miss any of those things. Correction: If I HAD any of those things, I don't believe I would miss them. Rather, I miss my family, my friends, and my Home. That small space selected out of the universe that I can deem my own. That is what I miss most. Not an admirable confession, I'll admit. To each their own.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8389410616482275330.post-50203582895367425692007-08-13T02:55:00.000-07:002007-08-13T02:58:46.951-07:00Experience<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-62hGjDBtVjyaOO6YRvZmLWV3hNavcAOU4d1U5YNlvXwBhNnZYY3v8zhraN779aPRiz7I9rAbt81w-_g4PSmIKwDM92vl-kfIgk1dUxTNQbQE1STfD1daGrTTekyddmsHmoTTlUU7DoE/s1600-h/LaurenMcKeanPerazza.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-62hGjDBtVjyaOO6YRvZmLWV3hNavcAOU4d1U5YNlvXwBhNnZYY3v8zhraN779aPRiz7I9rAbt81w-_g4PSmIKwDM92vl-kfIgk1dUxTNQbQE1STfD1daGrTTekyddmsHmoTTlUU7DoE/s400/LaurenMcKeanPerazza.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5098122389831903314" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">by <span style="font-weight: bold;">Laura McKean-Peraza </span>(Randolph-Macon Woman's College)</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">I'VE ENCOUNTERED SO MANY </span>different feelings that I am beginning to feel like I’m back on the balance beam testing my limits. Fear, learning my limits (in cross-cultural conversation), and thoughts about time have completely dominated my mind for the past few days. I won’t bother with a description of my recent nightmares, featuring lions getting into our dormitory, but otherwise I seem to be concerned with soaking up experience and making sure I take advantage of opportunities that are only available for a short time.<br /><br />Friday night was very chilly, and photography professor George, film professor Dustin, students Andrew, Christine, Meg, and I were all drawn to Kelly’s bar to warm up and to listen to traditional Irish music. As soon as we walked into the bar, a group of five natives of Armagh ranging in age from 25 to 60 years old pulled us into their booth as affectionately and eagerly as if they’d finally found their long lost children. For a second I thought someone in our group must have known one of these people from a previous encounter – but no, none of us knew any of them. Orla, a friendly Irish woman in her mid-forties, literally lured us into the booth with her eager handshake and made us feel really comfortable. Meg and Andrew were pulled and squeezed into the center of the half-circle booth and began deep conversation immediately with Orla and the others. Of course, having learned that it seems to be the nature of the Irish to be kind, the rest of us also sat right down and began chatting. We lost all sense of time and simply enjoyed the conversation, even during difficult moments, and the music.<br /><br />For some reason an older man sitting next to Orla felt the need to begin a routine of insulting Dustin (about what?) and then shaking his hands to apologize – he must have repeated this sequence about seven times during the three hours that we were there. As he spoke energetically with his hands, he nearly hit Christine in the face several times, and Orla kept apologizing for that. But we knew he had gone beyond his tolerance for alcohol, and we did not take either the insults or the hand-waving personally.<br /><br />Then, a little person came up to the table, someone who knew the Armagh residents with us, and we were appalled at the way the older man teased him. We don’t know the history there, but no history really seems like an acceptable excuse for teasing. <br /><br />We all got talking about interesting topics, and although the initial encounter seemed completely friendly, the conversation drifted into difficult issues at times. Some of the Armagh residents were angry when we started taking pictures of each other in the bar, about our using our cameras. Even though we were only photographing each other, and we explained that we certainly wouldn’t photograph them too without their permission beforehand, they remained upset. We began to think that one fellow, who spent two solid hours pouting and debating the camera issue, must be in the IRA. One issue that we get slammed with almost every time we have a close encounter with an Irish person is George W. Bush. We have all learned to sit quietly and patiently as they pour out their explosive feelings on this pressing issue to American listeners. After the older man made his speech about the damage Bush is doing, I asked “What makes you feel the need to say such things to us, other than the fact that we’re Americans?” He didn’t have much of a response. I wasn’t surprised. Most of them feel that Bush is doing great harm around the world, and talking to the only Americans they have handy may seem like a chance to figure out why this can be happening and their only way to get the message into America that the rest of the world is very upset. Still, it frustrates me greatly when some people pour out such feelings with out knowing the beliefs and feelings of the people they’re talking to. They might find out that more and more Americans are beginning to agree with them.<br /><br />Christine, sitting between me and one of the people concerned about Bush, whispered to me, “It isn’t your environment that makes an experience, it’s the feelings you get during the experience.” I kept thinking about this over the next 24 hours, in different states of mind – happy, sad, depressed – and realized how important it is to function slowly enough to become aware of the feelings we experience. All of us at Kelly’s were so interested in talking to these kind, sometimes troubled, and always fascinating people that we were completely unaware of the time, and it was really nice to be able to focus on our feelings and the experience itself, and not on the time. I’ve lived in America for for 22 years and in Armagh for only 2 weeks, but these lessons about time are the most significant I’ve ever learned. Americans are so busy that we are obsessed with time. We work all the time, and we worry about schedules like the rabbit in <span style="font-style: italic;">Alice in Wonderland</span> who is always late for a very important date. Here the Irish are not nearly as worried, and they consider time spent with family and friends to be the top priority, just as important as work is to Americans.<br /><br />The music didn’t begin until an hour or so after we got there, but it was terrific. There were a flute player, a performer on the Uillean (elbow) pipes, a drummer, and a fiddler. Even though there are some differences in the music, hearing Irish music soon made me miss competing in Scottish highland dancing. There are similarities and shared songs –jigs, hornpipes, and reels -- that make me want to whip out a jig or hornpipe. These are character dances, developed in the theater in the 1800s, but they eventually became ritualized and technically difficult highland dances. The Sailor’s hornpipe imitates the work of a sailor in the British navy. Irish music is also similar to Scottish country dance music. I asked the musicians if they took requests and decided to ask them to do “Marie’s wedding.” The “Marie” is also spelled “Mairi,” “Mairie,” and “Mhari,” in Gaelic, and it seems that it is claimed to be both a traditional Irish song and a traditional Scottish song from the island of Lewis. Who knows where it really started? It was wonderful to hear the song again.<br /><br />My trip to Armagh is unlike any other trip I’ve ever made. Irish culture has given me new lenses – slow down, stop and listen to people, notice your own responses, experience a place, and listen to the music. This trip has taught me some of the most important things I could learn in a lifetime. To live life, we need to stop a bit, slow down, see it, enjoy it, and listen to it. Carpe diem.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8389410616482275330.post-10975723235978888722007-08-13T02:52:00.000-07:002007-08-13T02:54:24.397-07:00The Northern Coast<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjXoPfFYP3q9CGCwkkJqhTLxd0_PTwaieNiAawsPAmZqG4Hf6wyTBBeM81eRtcOLkvPjOaX2SlCyvvoSuJKzn3f4yIBjOjkLMgF3IZE-aRWlRvJeiifL7dUWsoZwd_apF7ZI72QC1rjIc/s1600-h/AndrewHarrington.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjXoPfFYP3q9CGCwkkJqhTLxd0_PTwaieNiAawsPAmZqG4Hf6wyTBBeM81eRtcOLkvPjOaX2SlCyvvoSuJKzn3f4yIBjOjkLMgF3IZE-aRWlRvJeiifL7dUWsoZwd_apF7ZI72QC1rjIc/s400/AndrewHarrington.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5098121268845439042" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">by <span style="font-weight: bold;">Andrew Harrington </span>(Temple University)</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">THIS PAST FRIDAY</span> I went up to Ballintoy, a small little town on the northern coast of Ireland consisting of one main road and two pubs. It was most likely one of those towns that was developed around a pub. We came into town in the late afternoon hours, and as we arrived and greeted the owner, she informed us that since I didn’t make a prior arrangement, I’d be staying in the dorm style apartment with a team of football players. Kyle took great amusement in this, much to my chagrin. No sooner we dropped off our gear, we went off in search of the pubs in town.<br /><br />The bar we found was a sort of strange place filled with a bunch of old guys watching football on a small television and a large dining room resembling a forties era ballroom, with seventies style carpeting. We found that there was no ATM in sight, and when we asked to use credit cards to purchase our grub and brews, one old, gnarly looking woman replied, “Oh, we’ve got one upstairs somewhere, I think”, she seemed to be implying that they’d have to drag out the instruction manual and push the dust off the machine before they could use it.<br /><br />Since Alex and I were going to be leaving early Saturday morning, we decided we would split off from Kyle, Darcy and the two Cait’s, and trek to find the Giant’s Causeway. We took a taxi west along the coastal route, and as we pulled up to the town of Bushmills, it was starting to rain. We told the guy to pick us up in a little over an hour, which he didn’t seem to understand. He seemed to think you could spend all night there, and I assume he thought Alex and I would turn on the romance on those wet, cold, hexagon shaped rocks.<br /><br />We braved the rain and cold wind, and tumbled down a winding hill to the rock field next to the ocean. Despite the tourists scrambling over the rocks with umbrellas and little whining kids, it was a beautiful scene. The cloudy, rainy weather added a daunting character to the rocks. I didn’t mind being cold, and when Alex and I returned to the top of the hill, we had some wine and chips. A nice finish to a good day.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8389410616482275330.post-21356312993992401862007-08-13T02:48:00.000-07:002007-08-13T02:50:24.340-07:00Ghosts<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgovQcS8-5A2D8_4TaJb5sRYlPQcjtFPJZFSgQlQkM3PEQu9PIlsHVKvmJy9_x3zEMjy180My13nVxDUwBDB8xQyFMfNtDebj1mMuAL9742vTzCQ-CQ_YH9ImRZFzYYualcaIZsMFODa8g/s1600-h/CharlotteLevins.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgovQcS8-5A2D8_4TaJb5sRYlPQcjtFPJZFSgQlQkM3PEQu9PIlsHVKvmJy9_x3zEMjy180My13nVxDUwBDB8xQyFMfNtDebj1mMuAL9742vTzCQ-CQ_YH9ImRZFzYYualcaIZsMFODa8g/s400/CharlotteLevins.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5098120225168386098" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">by <span style="font-weight: bold;">Charlotte Levins</span> (Temple University)</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">GROWING UP,</span> and to this day, I have always been fascinated with ghost stories. When my mom allowed me to choose the picture I would like to have hanging over my bed when I was eight years old, I chose an engraving of the town, Sleepy Hollow. For obvious reasons, I would force my Aunt to do her “goblin” voice and tell me stories about the banshee. However, I grew up and went to University and thought little more of ghosts.<br /><br />Until yesterday.<br /><br />Roisin is a girl from Armagh who I have had the pleasure of meeting. She joined our team and chose to write her story on the Green Lady, who haunts Vicar’s Lane. I will not get into the Lady’s story, for that is Roisin’s job. However, my job was to photograph the Green Lady. Now I like ghost stories, but I am completely freaked out when I have to stalk one alone.<br /><br />Luckily George, Sarah, Kyle, and Cindy came with me to go ghost hunting. We set up the camera to catch enough light, and George suggested that Sarah move around with flapping arms while he flashed light on her face. I told Sarah to let down her hair and look “mad crazy.”<br /><br />I wound up laughing uncontrollably, and I have a loud, loud laugh. It did not take long for the neighbor to peer out the door and question why we were there.<br /><br />“There is no ghost; you are wasting your time,” she said. “I suggest you get your facts straight.” Meanwhile, a man moaned “Mo0o0o0o” and floated by underneath a white sheet and black wig.<br /><br />Although the white-haired woman seemed annoyed at first that Americans had disrupted her peace, she did not go back inside. She remained out in the cold and chatted with us for over an hour and a half, until almost midnight. At one point, she even asked her recently hospitalized dog to come out and say hello, though he could not climb down the stairs.<br /><br />I was listening to the woman speak, but I could not stop glancing over at the Green Lady’s window that was boarded up for almost 100 years. Cindy took a picture of the window and showed it to me later. She claimed that she could see a ghost, dressed in Victorian clothing, staring out the window at us. However, I just see squiggly lines from an ancient windowpane. Even so, I would never walk by that house alone at night.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8389410616482275330.post-68050058101769583012007-08-13T02:47:00.000-07:002007-08-13T02:48:34.727-07:00A Taste of Home<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMPC0M9NbfxIl5BqN6SEBxGVb91YlKOxn-pEwKqrJnJE5hZPMQuhRFyy79azmemtWF530bhWUKwECEPycbVQ3h_JWtMxmeC_GprGVZRc8TPaA6z0k7Yh2jMT_9tsfExTnwDPfEu5BRqVE/s1600-h/FeliciaChapman.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMPC0M9NbfxIl5BqN6SEBxGVb91YlKOxn-pEwKqrJnJE5hZPMQuhRFyy79azmemtWF530bhWUKwECEPycbVQ3h_JWtMxmeC_GprGVZRc8TPaA6z0k7Yh2jMT_9tsfExTnwDPfEu5BRqVE/s400/FeliciaChapman.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5098119731247147042" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">by <span style="font-weight: bold;">Felicia Chapman </span>(Gonzaga University)</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">MISSING THE COMFORTS OF HOME,</span> I was excited to spend the day shopping at a mall (a large structure filled with stores, rather than a large patch of grass in the centre of Armagh) and going to a movie. I boarded a Greyhound-esqe bus to Newry, and driving past sheep and horses, I notice the large, solitary trees, heavy with leaves and branches, standing alone in green farmers’ fields. They seem out of place, yet remain untouched. The deep Irish connection to the lands extends to the trees growing in the middle of crop fields.<br /><br />Arriving in Newry, I arrived in a juxtaposed town, separated by a river. The older town is filled with traditional brick warehouses, cobblestones and political sayings painted on the walls of businesses. The modern town is across a stone bridge covered narrow black body of water, filled with rapids and shopping carts. Only in Ireland have I seen shopping carts in the water… lying on their sides, rusting, they are such a strange and distracting site.<br /><br />Across the river, I am beckoned by the Subway, the first of two malls, and the promise of a Marks and Spencer. Walking through the mall doors, I am greeted by vending machines, sale signs and beckoning kiosks. It was very much like home.<br /><br />Shopping without regard to the currency exchange, I begin to wonder how much money I have spent as my arms grow heavy with bags and souvenirs. Did I buy something in every shop? It is easy to become unaware of the flowing money, when the ATM machines spit out so little. A 100£ is a small amount of bills, weightless yet necessary, whereas the equivalent $200.00 makes my pocket heavy with guilt and responsibility.<br /><br />The movie theatres, the goal of my trip, beckon with posters and a neon board announcing show times. It is hard to believe that I am not in Canada. Boarding the escalator I get increasing anxious, readying for inflated ticket prices, sticky floors and hot buttered popcorn. I found none of that. After purchasing tickets to Hairspray, I notice the quaint store fronts adjacent to the theatres. Painted blue and white, with detailed roof peaks, they remind me of a European town of the past, as they offer moviegoers speciality ice cream and coffees.<br /><br />At the popcorn stand, I realize that the popcorn is not hot, fresh or buttered. There is salty and there is sweet. I am encouraged to try each one. Choosing “sweet”, I head to the movie, and stepping through the doors into a traditional and well maintained theatre with plush, high backed chairs. Had the movie theatres once been a spot to see the drama and artistry that Ireland is famous for?<br /><br />The movie was over much quicker than I had hoped, and as expected, it was a much needed reminder of home. Revelling in the experience more than the film, I head to Burger King for a meal that fits my budget. I realize that I needed only this one day to remind me of home, and the few days I have remaining here in Armagh. Has the time really passed so quickly? Did I get the most out of every moment? I hope I have, yet I cannot tell from the blur that is my memory, perhaps I will only know when I have returned home…Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8389410616482275330.post-20964764700425613992007-08-13T02:44:00.000-07:002007-08-13T02:46:17.083-07:00Ahem!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcjszouNbuYu4QdqrePQcrUM11XkuuC2sDYD8AoxbsDTIck0g4c-gUgwjXJOhrF9Ijhw2mDKT_8FlOa33N3Y7NxKWwCum8o64LC3lS-CVYg4ajvFpRC9yaqvumhDFpUw1GR_E6Xivff5s/s1600-h/ChristineSlomski.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcjszouNbuYu4QdqrePQcrUM11XkuuC2sDYD8AoxbsDTIck0g4c-gUgwjXJOhrF9Ijhw2mDKT_8FlOa33N3Y7NxKWwCum8o64LC3lS-CVYg4ajvFpRC9yaqvumhDFpUw1GR_E6Xivff5s/s400/ChristineSlomski.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5098119177196365842" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">by <span style="font-weight: bold;">Christine Slomski </span>(Gonzaga Univeristy)</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">I FEEL GRUMPY TODAY. </span> It’s the stress of getting everything done and planning to get away from here this weekend. It’s August and I feel cold and I feel cramped, like there’s no place of my own, in this hostel.<br /><br /> Over the past few days I’ve made a generalization: Irish are welcoming and talkative when they’re engaged in conversation, but left to walk amongst them in the streets and shop alongside them in the supermarkets, well I do not find them friendly. They do not make eye contact or move to let you move past them. I was at Sainsbury’s today (supermarket) and when I was paying for groceries the clerk didn’t look up to say hello, smile at me or converse with me. I felt invisible. In back of me, just as I handed my money to the clerk, a woman was already putting her groceries on the counter and I felt pushed out of the way. Customer service here is not a priority, I can tell. The people here like to talk about themselves and their history, not as much about you. In America, or at least on the West Coast, there is a lot of emphasis on getting to know the other person, on listening. I feel there is a desire to hear and to learn.<br /><br /> Last Friday night something happened that bothered me, and for the rest of the night small instances of the first experience kept jumping out at me. I was leaving Red Ned’s (a local pub) with a few girls and as I was opening the outside door to leave, a young man of about 20 rushed in from outside right past me, followed by his friends. I stood there stunned and tried to stare him down. Do men here not understand the phrase “ladies first?” I felt very annoyed. It’s just so expected, so normal for the men in America to put women first. That’s part of our culture, granted it does not happen 100% of the time, but nonetheless it is sort of a cultural standard. So from that point on that evening I noticed how much the men here are not as aware of the women in terms of manners and politeness. Men pushed past me at a local dance club later that night, not making eye contact or anything. They aren’t purposely rude but they ARE NOT GENTLEMEN. I think they could learn a few things from those chivalrous Southern boys in the US. <br /><br />Oh, yeah, what’s up with all those striped, long-sleeved, collared shirts? Men in the US may be manicured and more glamorous, but at least they have some outward individuality in their dress sense. What I have seen and only seen so far is: long-sleeved, striped, collard shirts; plaid, short-sleeved, collard shirts; and rugby jackets and jerseys. On Friday evening I saw two men with the same striped shirt. It’s THAT bad. Unfortunately I don’t have a picture for this blog… I think you’d be amused.<br /><br />Looking forward to customer service (which I won’t take for granted as much anymore) and distinctively different looking men, little over one week to go…..Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8389410616482275330.post-57846171316855967222007-08-13T02:42:00.001-07:002007-08-13T02:43:41.611-07:00Rain<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1ht0cOfesR1EoMZi_m_0ZW-hoztB-JdfZwtLcsoboRWzH58kp7GIbfpsW1wMjxal7JyNi9hUzPyowHOGjEdYQCGbmq-s6_r0QG9immRtt8XDfCL6jcrynPeXY2Oi8O8-7aqkqpzr15uw/s1600-h/LaurenHicks.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1ht0cOfesR1EoMZi_m_0ZW-hoztB-JdfZwtLcsoboRWzH58kp7GIbfpsW1wMjxal7JyNi9hUzPyowHOGjEdYQCGbmq-s6_r0QG9immRtt8XDfCL6jcrynPeXY2Oi8O8-7aqkqpzr15uw/s400/LaurenHicks.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5098118459936827394" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">by <span style="font-weight: bold;">Lauren Hicks</span> (Gonzaga University)</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">LET'S TAKE A MOMENT</span> and be perfectly honest. No matter how many introductory e-mails or informative letters a person receives, no one can be properly prepared for... rain.<br /><br />I had heard the tales of rain drops the size of boulders and never-ending torrents that cover the country like sheets. Pish-posh- it's just a bit of an exaggeration. Oooh, my rain-filled soul is having quite a hearty laugh. When it first started, I got lost in my leprechaun, misty, four-leaf-clover idea of Ireland. So quaint, and so fresh. Three hours later, it was still coming down-- hard. I could feel my excitement begin to wane. I was thanking my lucky stars that I had brought the heavy-duty waterproof jacket. Whoever invented the oversized hood deserves my first million.<br /><br />At the moment, flip-flops have lost my affection. It had been a tragic separation, but one that is necessary for well-being.<br /><br />One thing that was pointed out by a fellow American student-- locals never seem to look wet. While I resembled something like a wet dog, they all must have magic bubbles to protect them from the elements. That should be the story told round the world. Pots of gold and rainbows are old news; magic bubbles that battle the rain warriors are far more appealing. Even the ground obeys the bubble-- the hems of pants were still dry, but my lack of defense was apparent in the fact that my jeans were water-soaked up to my knees!<br /><br />So yes, I may be able to understand an Irish accent better, know which local beers appeal to my thirst, how to dodge cars that zip around corners quicker than a roller coaster and that curse words don't always qualify for a penalty during the local football game.<br /><br />Oh yes-- these are small tid-bits of knowledge learned during my time here, but there is one question: where does one find the magic, mystical and mysteriously alluring rain bubble?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8389410616482275330.post-51176942158307842042007-08-12T02:50:00.000-07:002007-08-16T02:52:47.416-07:00I Can Dig Revolution...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitKZdd4xa5K2UnGXoPLatP3BlYXcHBXCgew1J4SK0iJ4Ktho8IjNSafvhrWDSBIp9RKW_zFK_GOTp0V43pXaKcbfgIH5I9MkDR2ul9KyEXDQsbmWT18euSXUF8mBLnXjBjA4ufSIqTCMg/s1600-h/JanineQuarles.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitKZdd4xa5K2UnGXoPLatP3BlYXcHBXCgew1J4SK0iJ4Ktho8IjNSafvhrWDSBIp9RKW_zFK_GOTp0V43pXaKcbfgIH5I9MkDR2ul9KyEXDQsbmWT18euSXUF8mBLnXjBjA4ufSIqTCMg/s400/JanineQuarles.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5099233980172168818" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">by <span style="font-weight: bold;">Janine Quarles</span> (Bennett College)</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">I CAN GET DOWN </span>with the idea of revolution. Here in Northern Ireland paramilitary groups like the IRA and the INLA (Irish Nationalist Liberation Army) were rebelling in the name of civil rights, defending the Catholic minority groups. The British government usually responded with more violence, resulting in death, people being placed in jail, and hundreds of people being injured. But when you examine the circumstances from the viewpoint of the oppressed, taking up arms and demanding your civil rights doesn’t seem so far fetched.<br /><br />The IRA kind of reminds me of the Black Panther Party. In 1966, the Black Panther Party for Self Defense was founded in Oakland, California, just a few years before the enlistment into the IRA went up, due to attacks on Catholics who were participating in peaceful protests. The Black Panther Party “practiced militant self-defense of minority communities against the U.S. government, and fought to establish revolutionary socialism through mass organizing and community based programs. The party was one of the first organizations in U.S. history to militantly struggle for ethnic minority and working class emancipation — a party whose agenda was the revolutionary establishment of real economic, social, and political equality across gender and color lines.” Like the IRA, the Panther’s sought “freedom” for the black community in America, saying that black people wouldn’t be free until they were able to determine their own destiny. The IRA and the Provisional IRA—a break away group formed during the time of the troubles, and supported by the Sinn Fein party—was formed during 1969 with the “stated aim to remove the British from Northern Ireland, protecting Catholics from loyalists sectarian attacks.”<br /><br />Both of these groups have been labeled as terrorists by some federal organizations but when you really look at what they were about it included protecting these minority groups, and resisting governments that they felt didn’t have their best interest. And there is evidence in both cases that during these time periods, the American government and the British government did not see Blacks and Catholics as equals.<br /><br />I see the pros and the cons to armed resistance. But most importantly I see the logic: armed resistance can be used as both a threat to this form of totalitarianism, a method of protection from governmental attacks, and a form of protest and rebellion against discrimination. I’m sure there are many people in Northern Ireland who are grateful for the protection from the IRA. The things you don’t here about are the programs and efforts put forth by these groups to actually benefit the communities they were defending. For example, the BPP instituted food pantries, free health clinic programs, free clothing programs and other entities that were beneficial to the Black community. The IRA has policed areas that the British wouldn’t and constantly fought for the freedom of Irish people, and the unification of the country of Ireland. They have been martyrs for a group that has been at battle with Protestant Britain for nearly a thousand years.<br /><br />I wouldn’t say that I condone violence, but I do believe at some point people have to take matters into their own hands, by any means necessary. I don’t believe any group of people should be subject to a biased government; and if peace doesn’t work out, alternative methods should take place in order to get your point across. For years, different parts of the world have gone to war for some sort of liberation or fight for the rights that they deserve as human beings. It’s somewhat unfortunate that people had to die, and blood had to be shed in order for progress towards liberation to be made. But I, personally, would rather die for a cause and at the hope that the next generation would benefit from my fight, than to live and never have seen true equality and freedom.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8389410616482275330.post-59927689345297339242007-08-06T02:16:00.000-07:002007-08-06T02:19:58.561-07:00Talking for Hours<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggBEYO8vLSeoM0kCrZ1RfCgrvGSYYjzc6tRHK5MyryyNHPvqbFy-eTIVTY2PyfpDqicuV86169QHTXkwLHWfEocyN1bYazmbAII9uSEngXzFQI2gbTg81sVHovDv7HONgzXSc8ikn5qzk/s1600-h/CateOliver.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggBEYO8vLSeoM0kCrZ1RfCgrvGSYYjzc6tRHK5MyryyNHPvqbFy-eTIVTY2PyfpDqicuV86169QHTXkwLHWfEocyN1bYazmbAII9uSEngXzFQI2gbTg81sVHovDv7HONgzXSc8ikn5qzk/s400/CateOliver.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5095514803517351714" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">by <span style="font-weight: bold;">Cate Oliver</span> (Gonzaga University)</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">I FIND IT SO HARD TO BELIEVE </span>that it has been less than two weeks since we arrived here in Armagh. Maybe it is because we all live in such close proximity to each other, or the face that we spend all of our time together, but I just feel that everyone in the program has really bonded. Sitting in the study room with everyone last night, talking and laughing, telling stories, and sharing experiences, I realized that everyone was just so real. There was no shyness, or uncomfortable silences, it was just us, students and professors alike, having a great time and enjoying our short time here in Armagh.<br /><br />I think that the fact that the Irish are so accepting and accommodating to our group is one of the main reasons that we have all accepted each other and bonded so easily.<br /><br />I think that the kindness of the Irish was very well depicted this weekend when we attended the Flaghd. Upon arriving I was a little surprised at the atmosphere of the festival. I was expecting to see traditional, colourful Irish dancing costumes prancing in the streets to the upbeat tunes of pipes, banjos and drums. I had my dancing shoes tied tightly and I was ready to shake it up and down the streets, with a little liquid influence of course. Instead though we pulled up to a large parking lot with children secluding themselves in corners concentrating deeply on whatever performance they were preparing and a school type building with a sign stating the cost of admissions. Slightly disappointed and not prepared to be cooped up inside of a school building, a few of us hit the town and decided to see what the scene was in a few of the local pubs. <br /><br />My disappointment quickly disappeared upon our entrance to the first pub. There was a crowd of people all clapping in unison to a catchy Irish tune blaring through the speakers, and cheering on two individuals having somewhat of a dance-off in the middle of the bar. As soon as our group spotted an empty table and plopped down in the corner there was an Irish man plopped down next to us introducing himself and shaking our hands. The kindness of the Irish, combined with their ability to talk for hours, never ceases to amaze me. The rest of the day pretty much followed this pattern, sitting at a bar and making new friends. Besides having no cultural bias for us Americans, I was also pretty shocked at the fact that there was no age bias either. The majority of the people that we were conversing with at the bar where at least 45, but they talked to us as if we were peers, and even invited us to stay at their house. That was something that I really appreciated. I feel that if we were in the U.S. that would be seen as inappropriate, and that they wouldn’t have given us the time of day. I guess that’s the beauty of our current situation though, the cultural differences that have made me feel more at home than I do in America.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8389410616482275330.post-17142666996771631962007-08-06T02:14:00.000-07:002007-08-06T02:15:53.716-07:00Change<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGFptMKGJSJyLgyG9BCHZzxdNaAci-0h1Tv3PcEm9NZGCztiK9R296tQVTieF-Wq84uimNd2AOYTFFg6ftrUKDnttnvYPYaXKJK43NYnYXrV1SS4SdEGwUN3QtONG2kH_IMz9LvdyPrWI/s1600-h/KyleSaadeh.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGFptMKGJSJyLgyG9BCHZzxdNaAci-0h1Tv3PcEm9NZGCztiK9R296tQVTieF-Wq84uimNd2AOYTFFg6ftrUKDnttnvYPYaXKJK43NYnYXrV1SS4SdEGwUN3QtONG2kH_IMz9LvdyPrWI/s400/KyleSaadeh.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5095513626696312594" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">by <span style="font-weight: bold;">Kyle Saadeh</span> (Roger Williams)</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"> IT'S FUNNY</span> how quickly living away from home will change a person. It starts out as little things, tiny little aspects of your character that only you would notice. For example: in Ireland I have found that I do not mind getting up early. I did not say that I enjoy waking up early; I said that I did not mind it. If you knew me, you would know how prolific a step this is for me. To say I don’t like waking up early is like saying cancer is just a minor inconvenience. Okay, so it might seem like a major change, but if my college roommates were to see me jump out of bed in the morning back when I was a sophomore in college, like I do here at 8:30…ish, they would probably be very concerned and force me to visit the nearest mental heath facility.<br /><br />Change is good. It helps you remember just how elastic we can be. It brings us back to childhood, where everyday was a new adventure that required a different adaptation from the day before. Think about it; really think about it, the situations we faced as children were the best times of our lives – and the most trying. Okay, so I might only be twenty-two and I might not know much; but I do know this, I live for the moments that make me feel like a kid again. Remember your first kiss? Remember how nervous and unsure you were, and how insignificant it seems to you now. There was a magical thing about really wanting to do something that you were petrified to do – and then actually doing it, and I know I would do anything to get that feeling back. Somewhere along the line we forgot about this. Between classes, work, dating, deadlines, traffic, and parking tickets – somewhere along the line we tightened up and lost our flexibility – and with it, we lost our perspective on the true pleasures in life. Can you remember the year you started to actually sleep in on Christmas morning? Or when walking barefoot in warm mud became gross and dirty? When a baseball card’s value became solely monetary? And when did the mornings become so painful.<br /><br />I guess that is the reason I love Ireland so much, because it brings the kid out of me.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8389410616482275330.post-42944101345168747802007-08-06T02:11:00.000-07:002007-08-06T02:14:05.285-07:00Jumping Rope<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMUPohLb1vNWhAetngBvyCsS9kJK6P50MRHwyakBTGQDUhWuipLyesBuC3B1pazlRIouWpevc6tYDPpx1sTmo-mewrrbuf3hNWAtSzoKRgvjkHgHVLT63q6LAIlDnx2oTH7lz_sSYJNag/s1600-h/BrigidCarey.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMUPohLb1vNWhAetngBvyCsS9kJK6P50MRHwyakBTGQDUhWuipLyesBuC3B1pazlRIouWpevc6tYDPpx1sTmo-mewrrbuf3hNWAtSzoKRgvjkHgHVLT63q6LAIlDnx2oTH7lz_sSYJNag/s400/BrigidCarey.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5095513283098928898" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">by <span style="font-weight: bold;">Brigid Carey</span> (Gonzaga University)</span><br />I haven't jumped rope since eighth grade. Trapped in a stuffy gym with carpeted floors (whoever thought that was a good idea was on acid), I was forced to jump rope for a few minutes in double layered gym getups. Not a fond memory.<br /><br />Last Saturday, when the Armagh Project journeyed to the Fleadh Festival in Coalisland, some of my classmates and I stumbled across three girls and a boy jumping rope in an alleyway. Scheming purely for our photo class, we slowly moved in on our unsuspecting prey, snapping<br />photos, looking for "lines, shapes, patterns, and texture," and fiddling with shutter speed. Finally, I admitted defeat and forfeited in the battle with my camera. I asked the young girls (Megan, Chloe, and Aine) if I could jump rope with them and although we were strangers, they welcomed us with open spirits and an open rope. The first few tries were full of awkward postures and hair flying as we deduced the rope was definitely not tall enough for me. But as the hour quickly crept away, I learned how to jump rope successfully with the help of these lively, curious little girls and their brother, Padraig. Nora, Charlotte and I all played with them; playing children's hand games, learning how to run into the rope and spin mid-jump.<br /><br />After all the sweat was dropped, feet were tripped, and our hips were hugged, we bid adieu. Hours later, our smiles still new and our hearts still tapping to a refreshed tune, I remembered that all of this could not have happened without the act of simply forgetting oneself. As students, we are brought to Armagh to capture everything we can about the city. We are constantly reminded that this may be our only chance to come and experience Ireland, so "make the most of it." Thus we diligently photograph every breath and ray of sun in hopes of<br />finding that perfect moment. But sometimes you have to look through your eyes instead of your lens and experience the moment with your pure attention. Maybe you wont have a copy of this moment to show your friends, maybe you will (my sister just so happened to be photographing the "jump rope experience" ... phew!), or maybe you don't need to show anyone anything. You can just revel in the memory you created, reminding yourself why the smallest things are worth keeping.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8389410616482275330.post-75681562400080132232007-08-06T02:09:00.000-07:002007-08-06T02:11:14.803-07:00A Political Debate<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdtWw03tkQpNSoeouszrooxrBYNcUCnMt4stKJwHX4AFgiL4ZBERrtSzeWI5UO8viC2EbzxRABr6wJBzX7QXmy1MV4fU_5WuMn0hP6_WpuYLPP9wVrjOdDsUn5IAT2bS_CbTnquUj2E78/s1600-h/FeliciaChapman.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdtWw03tkQpNSoeouszrooxrBYNcUCnMt4stKJwHX4AFgiL4ZBERrtSzeWI5UO8viC2EbzxRABr6wJBzX7QXmy1MV4fU_5WuMn0hP6_WpuYLPP9wVrjOdDsUn5IAT2bS_CbTnquUj2E78/s400/FeliciaChapman.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5095512518594750194" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">by <span style="font-weight: bold;">Felicia Chapman</span> (Gonzaga University)</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">ENJOYING THE DARK GREY, CLOUDLESS SKY</span> and chilly air, I dreaded walking to the Marketplace Theatre. Going to a political debate was not my idea of a good time, but I looked forward to the opportunity to observe the Northern Ireland culture.<br /><br />Entering through the automatic opening glass doors, I was ushered into a cosmopolitan world of high ceilings, leather furniture and a long, open bar; I expected this in Dublin and Belfast, not in the centre of Armagh.<br /><br />The political debate was more like polite conversation than a heated debate, and it was more interesting than I had expected. Honestly, I preferred the after party, a showcase of the culture. Standing with a glass in hand, I met some of the political leaders, members of the community, and the Mayor, a short, older man adorned in a large, gold necklace; a symbol of his important role in the community? I could never get that close and personal to the political and municipal leaders in Calgary.<br /><br />As the party dispersed, I followed the sounds of conversation and laughter to an expansive, yet hidden downstairs restaurant/bar. I find the size of this theatre building to be deceptive; like the people of Northern Ireland, they are more than the Guinness commercial stereotype.<br />Warmly welcomed by two Armagh women with smiles, laughter and difficult to understand, gentle, dancing accents, I find myself enveloped by the inviting and unforgettable sounds of Ireland. As the seats at the table filled, the animated conversation quickly turned to stories, favorite recollections and song. Sporadic and somewhat familiar Irish tunes were belted out by the only male sitting at the table for the benefit of our small group, while the conversation in the room continued. I wonder, can you just break out into song in Armagh without drawing attention? Would a Karaoke bar be popular with the local residents of Armagh?<br /><br />As the other guests in the room left for the evening, our table continued to be filled with lively and enthralling conversation. The laughter, drama and song ended all too quickly and I soon parted ways with my new Armagh friends and their promises of home cooked traditional Irish meals, <span style="font-style: italic;">hallelujah</span> to the ears of a starving student.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8389410616482275330.post-51310743408892122612007-08-06T02:07:00.000-07:002007-08-06T02:09:03.946-07:00Friendliness<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCeEAJnkf27GOG1Tt_pTj4tx9uCtRo64f-7CzXblkMQ7nAjNHOdEmTQzePyRDIas6HW6WOi-BukzFin7RKcLvo6Kyddy2SWct6OKmHc6JfC9CrSTKZEVrSfXCDxxEbWUBTrMGXa_1fF-A/s1600-h/NoraDaly.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCeEAJnkf27GOG1Tt_pTj4tx9uCtRo64f-7CzXblkMQ7nAjNHOdEmTQzePyRDIas6HW6WOi-BukzFin7RKcLvo6Kyddy2SWct6OKmHc6JfC9CrSTKZEVrSfXCDxxEbWUBTrMGXa_1fF-A/s400/NoraDaly.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5095511994608740066" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">by <span style="font-weight: bold;">Nora Daly</span> (Temple University)</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">ALTHOUGH IT HAS ONLY BEEN </span>about two weeks, I truly feel comfortable with Armagh. For, it counteracts the craziness of Philadelphia and the fast paced, 24 hour-a-day shopping complexes that dimple my area. Here, there are no 40-foot florescent lights whose glow challenges the night sky; instead the world of Armagh is hushed by 5 o’clock, lights dimmed, and gates neatly locked over their storefronts, its as if Northern Ireland has been tucked in heir beds for the night.<br /><br />What is most striking to me is the friendliness I have experienced. As if it were right out of an episode of Gilmore Girls I find my most favorite part of the day to be in our early morning pilgrimage to the Bagel Bean, where we are greeted individually by Roger, the owner and his band of girls bustling about behind the counter; flipping a sausage here and steaming a frothy coffee concoction there. Everyday it’s the same, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. We have become more than just faces in a coffee shop but friends and expected guests in their adorable kitchen, and as American students I feel it is of the utmost important to make ourselves available to the community that is hosting us. For, I have been greeted by several locals in passing who also stop at the Bagel Bean each morning religiously, and its an amazing feeling to be recognized in that fashion; to evoke a smile on someone’s face when they see you in town, just because we share the same love for conversation and a toasted treat in the morning.<br /><br />Now that we are rounding out our second week in Armagh I feel as though we have become a favorable feature in this city, with the energetic personality of our group and the companionships we have formed I think we are turning into a very complimentary fixture here, one that has branched out to not only the townspeople but to one another as students abroad.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8389410616482275330.post-87204116426518375702007-08-06T02:03:00.000-07:002007-08-06T02:05:57.038-07:00Fleadh Cheoil<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4C33YkbpmfXa6OfDV_s8DXpnG7llTv0-O5BYptSO50dupEAHcVPb3beZWp5OrMfjtnMaIjjWobTmgAxwCM5dyxBRqVuXNvwdN8GIDZtuD88jCBqK0FceowE9hM9SuaKcWDD2baMlRE00/s1600-h/CharlotteLevins.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4C33YkbpmfXa6OfDV_s8DXpnG7llTv0-O5BYptSO50dupEAHcVPb3beZWp5OrMfjtnMaIjjWobTmgAxwCM5dyxBRqVuXNvwdN8GIDZtuD88jCBqK0FceowE9hM9SuaKcWDD2baMlRE00/s400/CharlotteLevins.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5095511092665607890" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">by <span style="font-weight: bold;">Charlotte Levins </span>(Temple University)</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">THE <span style="font-style: italic;">FLEADH CHEOIL</span></span> at Coalisland disappointed me this past Saturday. I went with such high expectations—that it would be like the Irish version of South Street but with music and dance. However, my appetite for fun and music was most likely not fulfilled because I left at 7:15pm and found out too late that nothing began until eleven at night. Nevertheless, I did get to see a bit of the children playing their instruments. I was surprised to see so many young people eager to share their talents with people of all ages. I know that in my hometown, I would not be considered “cool” if I played the accordion. But there, it looked like most of the children just walked off the football field and picked up their instruments. Judging from the expressions on the children and their parents, everyone was excited to be there and calm when the time came to stand before the judges.<br /><br />Just as quickly as I became bored with the children shouting and banging drums, it took half as long for my spirits to rise again. Nora, Brigid, Lauren, and I went strolling about the center of town, searching for potential pictures to use for our scavenger hunt. We peaked down an alley full of smashed glass, nails, rotten wood, and trashcans, and saw three girls at the end of the tunnel giggling as they jumped rope. “Do you think their parents would mind if we played with them for a little bit and took their picture?” we thought to ourselves. Fortunately we worked up the courage and asked if we could play.<br /><br />Before long, Megan was jumping around shrieking, “Watch me, watch me!” Her blond hair was in a braid but the loose hair was wind blown and tangled. She proudly announced that she wounded her elbow some days before. Nora laughed and whispered that Megan could have been her twin. Megan’s friend, Aine, had red hair and was dressed in black shorts and a white t-shirt, which made her fancy ballet flats stand out when she stomped around on the cement. Brigid remarked separately that she was a lot like Aine not too long ago.<br /><br />I couldn’t help but notice how similar I was to Chloe. At first she was quite shy, but after I remarked on her exemplary jumping skills, she would not stop hugging me. She reminded me of how I used to treat the older girls when I was eight. I would hide from them until they gave me attention and then I would follow them everywhere. Chloe also had long, straight hair that fell down her back. My hair was that long for almost ten years. She also wore a white headband, which was my favorite accessory during my youth (plus, I always cut my bangs crooked, so I would hide them under the headband).<br /><br />It was difficult for Nora, Brigid, and I to say goodbye to the girls. Aine’s mother said that we made their day, and I can honestly say that they made mine as well. The hour that we spent with Megan, Aine, and Chloe was more precious than any Irish-version-of-South-Street could ever be.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8389410616482275330.post-91169526512225141392007-08-06T01:56:00.000-07:002007-08-06T01:59:52.355-07:00A Wholly Irish Experience<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3J00k3USBgkMdoZNB0gzXfXC7CpQm7TmlZZ6lSUFCesDwhUNqi7XOpqbEqZ0q5npFbnGYS1_IA9TKzd1SOoVgV-Tb4Tn81xqHkgpfjFqC302ufZIStIo17YWIoqc2yMOPmAioggN_U7g/s1600-h/SarahTurner.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3J00k3USBgkMdoZNB0gzXfXC7CpQm7TmlZZ6lSUFCesDwhUNqi7XOpqbEqZ0q5npFbnGYS1_IA9TKzd1SOoVgV-Tb4Tn81xqHkgpfjFqC302ufZIStIo17YWIoqc2yMOPmAioggN_U7g/s400/SarahTurner.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5095509460578035394" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">by <span style="font-weight: bold;">Sarah Turner</span> (Northeastern State University of Oklahoma)</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">EATING AT BURGER KING </span>was, despite its American origins, a uniquely Irish experience. I could say that most notably I was the only foreigner in the restaurant, with the eyes of several women and children fixed on me as I ate my Whopper with cheese in the corner. But, it was the subtle ways in which my classically American meal was turned into something Irish that stand out most to me.<br /><br />First, the selection of burgers and side orders was vastly limited from what I remembered of the BK at home. In addition to this, there was no clear indication of where customers should start a line. Groups of hungry patrons simply milled about until an employee asked them for their order. But the most notable difference here was the lack of pretense often found in American fast food chains. There was no façade attempting to class up the joint, something American restaurants do in an effort to attract a wealthier clientele. Here within the grunge of the establishment, things are exactly as they seem. I and the 15 other odd people knew exactly what we wanted and what we were getting; we had it our way with none of the shame or guilt attached to unhealthy food or corporate greed.<br /><br />Much of Armagh has proven to be this way, in that people seem to know what they want and take it without the usual guilt that accompanies Americans. In today’s political climate, the Irish seem freer in their religious beliefs, political actions, sexual discourse and indulgence in vices than Americans who overanalyze every minute detail. Here, analysis is saved for the classroom or psychiatrist’s office (of which I have seen none).<br /><br />While the Irish are direct in what they want, at the same time they tend to talk circles around what they mean to say. In a country stereotypically known for the anger its citizens often display, Margaret’s calm recollection of the murder of her grandfather surprised the entire class. Her almost casual reflection at the loss her family suffered in recent years both shocked and sobered me. There was no vengeance in her voice, no desire to exact revenge on the militant extremists who riddled her family house with bullets; she only noted how “interesting” it was to meet an accomplice in the event.<br /><br />Listening to this story could not have made it more apparent to me of my visitor’s status; women and children’s eyes glued to me meant nothing compared to the gut certainty of my inadequate understanding of this part of the Irish culture. The readiness and ease of calling up tragic events in recent years is both a part of the land and the people who inhabit it. As a visitor to the town, it seems that much is hidden from the average eye of the tourist. On the surface level, Armagh is active in the arts, thriving with local businesses, full of friendly people and seemingly trouble free. Yet, a bomb threat like the one Monday reminds us of the close proximity Armagh has to the Troubles this country has worked so hard to move on from.<br /><br />When I first came to Armagh, I saw a city not unlike my own. Once I scratched the surface, broke through the glossy image those who fly through town may see, the unfamiliar culture and history of the city of the seven hills came flooding out. Much like my visit, I went in seeing something American but came out with a wholly Irish experience.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8389410616482275330.post-92215818862563802142007-08-06T01:54:00.001-07:002007-08-06T01:55:58.368-07:00Thoughts<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifVz6lLHTu6CHsAei9P4e4vjS9hkkRm-Oq9RTdSQSbMZ6cZtc-3YIvTlrqkY_h72YZcP4oFW9iVRkgSjgYN9e86z5KfzpsycIkLpMvn4MlTA3GyK5Ce2GZh6tyxBFro4LySba_bu2NoqY/s1600-h/ChrissyDoughty.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifVz6lLHTu6CHsAei9P4e4vjS9hkkRm-Oq9RTdSQSbMZ6cZtc-3YIvTlrqkY_h72YZcP4oFW9iVRkgSjgYN9e86z5KfzpsycIkLpMvn4MlTA3GyK5Ce2GZh6tyxBFro4LySba_bu2NoqY/s400/ChrissyDoughty.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5095508313821767346" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:130%;">by <span style="font-weight: bold;">Chrissy Doughty</span> (Temple University)</span><br />AS I WALK DOWN THE EMPTY STREETS</span> of Armagh, I wonder why all of the stores have gates over their windows upon closing time. I've seen this in Philadelphia also, but in this city it seemed out of place. <span> </span>I had encountered this in Belfast too, so I begin to think of it as a European thing.<span> </span>Why are those bars there? Is it just to protect their store's goods?<span> </span>I consider the Troubles in this area and try to wonder whether or not that has something to so with it too.<span> </span>For such a small, quiet city they sure lock down at night.<span> </span>Walking through the town center feels similar to walking through a ghost town, or maybe exactly like it.<span> </span>I'm not saying that this feeling takes away from the beauty of Armagh, it adds to the rich history of it.<br /><br />From our hostel you can see the two spires from the Catholic Cathedral.<span> </span>The size of the building dwarfs and dominates the rest of the small structures around it, not to mention that it's placed on a hill.<span> </span>I feel like such monstrous and elaborate designs are meant to intimidate people more than make them feel welcome to walk through the doors for daily and Sabbath mass.<span> </span>It's not only St. Patrick's Cathedral that does it, so does the Church of Ireland Cathedral on the opposite hill, numerous castles, jails and government buildings do it too.<span> </span>One time I was taking a walking tour of the Eastern State Penitentiary in Philadelphia and the tour guide said its walls were built to mimic those of a castle to remind civilians in surrounding areas of where they did NOT want to end up.<span> </span> <span> </span><br /><br />Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the beauty these massive cathedrals give to hills they sit on. <span> </span>I just think that they are indeed built so colossal to be a "subtle" reminder to folks in Armagh and other counties to keep their religious center in tune.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8389410616482275330.post-81099942184241402382007-08-06T01:51:00.000-07:002007-08-06T01:53:16.312-07:00A Day in the Life of an Armagh Project Student<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsHBuk2HDyDNmBctl0OLkb-JVqxBeL-UwRPWUU-0d1xNl3wxMWUjv122DJugj4kCVluL4Htc_JWCg6tDnYzC2zbyo4PhbQwI84rPnS-4J8cJkYsUWpB2F-rKAGxKSfBEZ7nv7K_1iAsjI/s1600-h/MargaretCarey.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsHBuk2HDyDNmBctl0OLkb-JVqxBeL-UwRPWUU-0d1xNl3wxMWUjv122DJugj4kCVluL4Htc_JWCg6tDnYzC2zbyo4PhbQwI84rPnS-4J8cJkYsUWpB2F-rKAGxKSfBEZ7nv7K_1iAsjI/s400/MargaretCarey.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5095507905799874210" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">by <span style="font-weight: bold;">Meg Carey</span> (Gonzaga University)</span><br /> <span style="font-size:85%;">I JOLT AWAKE</span> at the piercing song of my cell phone alarm. Hit snooze. I’m shocked awake once more and turn off the alarm completely this time. I begin to sit up and remember that I must untangle my legs from the cloth-covered plastic comforter that has coiled around me throughout the night. I trudge to the shower and alternate between scorching hot and slightly cool water. I get out, dry off, and and pick out my outfit for the day. Tank top? Nope, too cool. Sweater? Nope, too hot. Tank top underneath a sweater, underneath a raincoat? Perfect. I’ll need to be prepared to alternate stripping off and piling on layers as the weather is about as stable as my rapid cycling bipolar aunt.<br /><br /> I arrive in the Bagel Bean. My favorite local, Rodger the Bagel Bean owner, greets me. He gives me a hearty “Hello Meg,” and I feel immediately warm and fuzzy; at home. As other students waft in for their morning bagel and cappuccino, Roger recognizes each by name. I am truly impressed both by his memory, but also by his genuine desire to make each person feel as welcome as possible. Just by saying my name, I feel like we are old friends. Great start to the day.<br /><br /> I take my cappuccino to go, and stroll over to the Armagh center where we are having class. The first class, Irish History, is with Margaret, a professor from Trinity University. She is lively, funny, and extremely well informed. Next is Dr. Caputo’s Intercultural Module of the program. His humorous examples and side notes create a comfortable atmosphere for the complex subject of intercultural learning. Dustin’s Video Module is after that, and the student’s get ready to hear a passionate filmmaker teach the very basics of video . . . a “Shooting Video for Dummies” if you will.<br /><br />Time for lunch . . . yesssss! All of us jump up eager to leave the sauna that has become our classroom, and rush to ask the professors question about specific project issues. Slowly, everybody separates and some go and work on assignments in the computer lab next door to the classroom, while others wrestle the steep hill in hopes of the final prize: the hostel, while still others roam around the surround streets looking for something to eat. After lunch, we find ourselves sitting in the same, somewhat aired out classroom from the morning.<br /><br /> George Miller saunters in, his perfectly manicured mane holds shape even with the bounce in his step, and sets up his slide show. Amidst broken record repetitions of “Strap it” and “When is your scavenger project due?” “Lines, Patterns, and Textures” and “No flash,” the students learn to experimental with creative angles and lighting to produce the most unique pictures possible. Finally, the last class of the day. Professors Emmett and Petner quiet the class down, and we practice creative writing and interviewing techniques. There tag team teaching style incorporates both broadcast journalism and creative writing experience to give a well-rounded view of the Armagh Project story assignment.<br /><br />And we’re freed . . . but the day is not done, oh no. We now have the rest of the evening to search out contacts for our stories, chat in the hostel common rooms, watch Gaelic football, check out Dustin’s documentary “Matchmaker”, write our stories, complain, bite our nails, practice operating a video camera, watch 24, cook some food in the hostel kitchen, go out to the local pubs, climb a couple hills, sit and stare, panic, relax, panic again . . .<br /><br />Finally, sleep.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8389410616482275330.post-78306425081855523652007-08-06T01:43:00.000-07:002007-08-06T01:50:03.086-07:00A Moonlight's Diamonds<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfk7emROVp7i2tsJIUuE0jLwmVSaiMMtqSw9Ezh1FUbFYpAIpof59p9bvoClmvDdzMwngF3ZFdDCosnPVR1ZkGXEDqCMr4rOuPciJpJxSgmWV4PWpf9-k6aAuV3WU70rTKY7xFFdfEQKw/s1600-h/JuanitaDudhnath.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfk7emROVp7i2tsJIUuE0jLwmVSaiMMtqSw9Ezh1FUbFYpAIpof59p9bvoClmvDdzMwngF3ZFdDCosnPVR1ZkGXEDqCMr4rOuPciJpJxSgmWV4PWpf9-k6aAuV3WU70rTKY7xFFdfEQKw/s400/JuanitaDudhnath.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5095506763338573458" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">by <span style="font-weight: bold;">Juanita Dudhnath</span> (Loyola)</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">THANK GOD IT’S FRIDAY!,</span> was the exclaimed looks on students faces as they left the Armagh Centre. It was finally the end of the first week on the Armagh Project. Final Cut Express, Photoshop, and Storytelling had finally come to a screeching halt.<br /><br />A night out in town was to celebrate out first week’s experience. Long desired naps had finally been quenched before hitting the Irish pubs. The next morning would tell the afterglow tale of mysterious coloured Tequila Sunrises, Pinot Noir, and Guinness of course!<br /><br />Our next adventure was a minibus tour of the city of Tyrone. The quaint town, artistic in taste, was lively in comparison to Armagh. The buildings were more brick-like, there were more businesses, and vintage/antique stores. As we walked to Tyrone’s Crystals we passed what looked like a pin-up girl vintage furniture store. The store had pearls, princess-like furniture, and decorated storage boxes.<br /><br />As we finally entered our destination it was luxe-like bejewelled with crystals sprinkled in every corner of the store. A grand Chandelier penetrated the centre of the ceiling. It was reminiscent of a giante luminescent glass octopus peering down on an audience of upturned heads. Tyrone’s is famous for handcrafting extraordinary crystals. As I gazed at the chandelier I wondering the amount of time, people, and skill that was essential in making it so beautiful and as my gaze drifted toward the top—that’s when I saw it.<br /><br />Gleaming in the background, was a midnight blue satin ceiling. It was embellished with miniature lights that looked like white stones. The impact of deep sea of midnight blue against the tiny lights was stark-- a great use of contrasting colours. Funny, how I walked into a store of one of the world’s greatest crystal manufacturers, yet the crystals weren’t the main aspect of captivation. It was the lighting, the look, the ambiance, the sound of the whole place that drew me in. Maybe it’s just a characteristic of mine, the ceiling looked as if diamonds were encrusted in the moon’s light. And all the while as I continued to gaze I thought to myself a moonlight’s diamonds. In all it was the fantasy-like ceiling that captured my attention, and on that note I’ll end.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8389410616482275330.post-19863268396936026402007-08-06T01:39:00.000-07:002007-08-06T01:43:23.151-07:00Phases<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiuXUE-kHr8tpb8zzt3gE6zF5XfTXMV7XJUeOEYf3aprvtIofmq8j6W9Yqm0zKd7hdJjKkYNihb1zNPVVe92yDl1sjyGglgJL3gfLbg4XeRIl-S_F6hJc_yy3f4O3m6XMjSSv6uGKG-50/s1600-h/LaurenHicks.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiuXUE-kHr8tpb8zzt3gE6zF5XfTXMV7XJUeOEYf3aprvtIofmq8j6W9Yqm0zKd7hdJjKkYNihb1zNPVVe92yDl1sjyGglgJL3gfLbg4XeRIl-S_F6hJc_yy3f4O3m6XMjSSv6uGKG-50/s400/LaurenHicks.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5095505268689954418" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;">by </span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >Lauren Hicks</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> (Gonzaga University)</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">PHASE FOUR--</span> I have finally reached phase four. The honeymoon (phase one) came quickly and filled me with such extreme amounts of happiness and ecstasy that I was never able to wipe the silly grin off of my face. Crisis (phase two) hit gradually and over silly, minute details, such as feeling disconnected from home and the comfortable luxuries I was accustomed to. Who really feels distraught over accessible laundry and a bathroom faucet that stays on for over 15 seconds? Turns out I am that person.<br /><br />It's not the family or greasy take-out food that makes me miss home, it's the things that make my life routine. The friendliness of my morning coffee stop, especially the hearty laugh of Natasha, has definitely taken the edge off of this feeling!<br /><br />Phase three, or recovery, passed over me like a black cloud. I had gotten used to my small pet-peevish annoyances, but now I was seeing that life was continuing as usual. People still argue over stupid things, have mini panic-inducing problems, don't feel like getting out of bed, run out of money, etc. This is not a five-star hotel / resort where every person is looking to please my every whim. This is Armagh, a place where life is slow-paced, the shopkeeper knows your name, a favor is as readily granted as received, and strangers are welcome.<br /><br />Enter phase four, my adjustment. I no longer miss my vehicle, my cell phone or large shower. Instead, I have taken that moment to stop-- stop and feel the rain on my skin, hear the church bells, make eye contact with a stranger and smile, but most of all to feel the impact that Armagh has had on me. Laughter is genuine, hellos are welcoming and the promise of a 'see you later' ignites the possibility of a familiar face.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8389410616482275330.post-33439338041570370302007-07-30T03:26:00.000-07:002007-08-01T02:34:59.543-07:00Belfast<span style="font-size:130%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEZBpesHR7hgoaFDUJwr56Rx6VZSKlTJZzpqS1WaDT-kiV-VW7vHeD4yGTxa2oXp0ochvVvfRgOU4wM83YLfKyuXgs0Fc0AajfuWdhW8D0pFzKghomyu6vFBGf79sR3sEdl76IkD947vA/s1600-h/ChrissyDoughty.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEZBpesHR7hgoaFDUJwr56Rx6VZSKlTJZzpqS1WaDT-kiV-VW7vHeD4yGTxa2oXp0ochvVvfRgOU4wM83YLfKyuXgs0Fc0AajfuWdhW8D0pFzKghomyu6vFBGf79sR3sEdl76IkD947vA/s400/ChrissyDoughty.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5093402933738169698" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >by </span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >Christine Doughty </span><span style="font-size:130%;">(Temple University)</span><br />UPON ARRIVING IN BELFAST </span>last Thursday, I was excited to experience Ireland and all the things it has to offer. As I walked through the terminal I felt as if I had just stepped into a time portal. The small airport in Belfast was not expected. It smelled like home and there were very few people in. Getting through customs wasn't hard, but I finally felt my jetlag seeping into my bloodstream. I arrived at Europa Bus Station (which was a target for attacks during the Troubles, it was bombed more than eleven times) I did the tourist zombie walk to the hostel. If you're wondering what the tourist zombie walk is, imagine someone pulling a suitcase that is too heavy, but has other carry-ons strapped on the other arm which makes it perpendicular to the rest of the body in order to counter the weight. The arm then directs the undead to their target. I don't know.<br /><br />So I show up at the hostel and find out that although I had given an arrival time when I booked my room, that check in isn't until "half one". This was food for delusional thought. I had never really heard "half one" before, but I was tired and needed a bed. I didn't know if that number really meant twelve thirty, as in it's almost one ("halfway there!"), one thirty, or something else. I ended up passing out on a loveseat in the open computer area where everyone walking around me must have thought I was a hobo.<br /><br />When I finally got into my room, I ended up sleeping for what I feel like was the next two days. My time in Belfast was short, but I got to meet a couple people, some being from Germany, Northern California, and a girl who was from Australia but now lives in Dublin. I had two other roommates but they were kind of weird and we didn't talk. I'd rather forget about it. I got to see Albert Clock, City Hall, the Botanic Gardens, and many other places during my own zigzag walking tour of Belfast. Don't go on it, it takes two days.<br /><br />I met this guy Steve from the hostel who was really cool and on Saturday night we did a historic pub tour in Belfast. Most of the places were dimly lit with wooden walls, booths and jolly patrons. One of the pubs, whose name escapes me now, was very similar to a frat party. It was just too packed for me.<br /><br />On Sunday, slightly hung-over, I made my way back to Europa bus station where I met up with a bunch of lovely people who are also participating in this program. I was excited to see other people who I could identify with; I was getting lonely on my walks around Belfast. The bus we took felt like a madman was driving. Suit cases were falling all over the place, people were smashed against one another, others were tripping over the fallen suitcases, and it seemed as if this bus ride would never end. We arrived in arMAGH about an hour and a half later, clutching for our carry-ons and our lives. Setting up camp was pretty easy here, despite the shuffle with the rooms and putting things away.<br /><br />My first impression of Armagh was that it is a very quaint town. It has all these tiny streets that are really easy to get lost in. I have also learned that if you want to go to anywhere all you need to do is walk down a hill. Right or left never really seem to matter, it just depends on how quickly you want to get there. There are those times when you find yourself needing to walk up another hill, which complicates things. I have no reservations as far as this program goes, I know I will have a good time completing the work I need to do, my greater concern is that when I walk across the street I look the right way. On the next episode of my nonamerican travels: A small American girl has buck wild experiences in Armagh.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8389410616482275330.post-60424037514039029692007-07-30T03:24:00.001-07:002007-07-31T09:48:40.403-07:00Sensory Overload<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgv65QJERkiClheSILB23pIHgN7Oh9p5-7JGKFm8wmzNC9a0zH_eW8be3FvelS_EnbZwCKmhAptNiDiUoJJXuQtYX-Nn2VXDW8Laonx5lHSGbq1kChp50s0yaBccaxA3lydA6mqEfNaJw/s1600-h/AlexCavallo.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgv65QJERkiClheSILB23pIHgN7Oh9p5-7JGKFm8wmzNC9a0zH_eW8be3FvelS_EnbZwCKmhAptNiDiUoJJXuQtYX-Nn2VXDW8Laonx5lHSGbq1kChp50s0yaBccaxA3lydA6mqEfNaJw/s400/AlexCavallo.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5093403900105811314" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >by </span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >Alex Cavallo</span><br />TO BE QUITE HONEST,</span> my arrival in Ireland was a bit of a blur. Having endured a six-hour plane ride, a second hour plane ride, a harrowing taxi ride to the Ulster bus station, a two hour wait in an unfamiliar bus station, and, finally, a seemingly interminable and jarring bus ride all on exactly zero hours of sleep with nothing but a child’s size bag of dry pretzels to sustain me, my first step onto Armagh soil (or pavement) was less than momentous.<br /><br />On the contrary, I felt frazzled, drained, and rather confused. However, after a decent night’s sleep and a revaluation of my present situation, I felt my outlook and general sense of well-being significantly brighten.<br /><br />I immediately discovered Armagh to be a quaint and charming town (as sickeningly saccharine as those adjectives might be.) The people are, almost entirely, unbelievably friendly and engaging. Unlike my hometown of New York, where strangers are more likely to greet you with a lewd hand gesture than an open smile, the citizens of Armagh are quick to acknowledge unknown passers-by with a welcoming grin or even a completely sincere “how are you”.<br /><br />It’s all a bit of sensory overload, I must confess. However, it grows on you—the complete lack of cynicism and good-natured candor with which the people of Armagh approach both their daily lives and the people in them. Each day spent in this tiny, yet bustling community is refreshing.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8389410616482275330.post-73254526966767701822007-07-30T03:22:00.000-07:002007-07-31T09:50:33.615-07:00Flattened American<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_xtbH0gZ7VVrU-ryphTeGeXmAZUFVEdij1CreMZiWaYRZ9InPK6IcJLbeqGhf3XUaCCy9iJXrQ4DjHpGeNAF_k7kITymU1C0jJQrVx-Ko3Jjo7q3dvmL00fs1O8BiYNBL44VIyTs4LR8/s1600-h/ChristineSlomski.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_xtbH0gZ7VVrU-ryphTeGeXmAZUFVEdij1CreMZiWaYRZ9InPK6IcJLbeqGhf3XUaCCy9iJXrQ4DjHpGeNAF_k7kITymU1C0jJQrVx-Ko3Jjo7q3dvmL00fs1O8BiYNBL44VIyTs4LR8/s400/ChristineSlomski.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5093404385437115778" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >by</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >Christine Slomski</span><span style="font-size:130%;"> (Gonzaga University)</span><br />FIRST OFF</span>, I am discovering that by talking, I am so much more able to understand my own emotions and feelings as I feel my way through this test-drive of an experience in my life. Talking with Janine and how she feels she’s a culture within a culture in the United States, but that here she feels like “just an American”, I am able to clearly express how I have been feeling since arriving in Armagh: I feel <span style="font-style: italic;">flattened.</span><br /><br />All of the parts that I thought made me up as a whole, all the parts that make me wonderful as Christine in the United States—well, all of that feels so insignificant now. I’m a foreigner here. To the onlookers I’m not Christine, I’m an American. I feel so flattened.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8389410616482275330.post-72306560201174948512007-07-30T03:20:00.001-07:002007-07-31T09:52:11.687-07:00American?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMMnDOk2uXKWslC3Hv7fVY-HMxG1clIlCwTznbqRkq0EB5xozNgUW53qzfm0ym0CuXaf3yIIU3kWLGgtwyPWkD9kkmCDcBHUO4DsHazdPXUEgCR1qFFJMTLai2zfPFkAn9D7qXSEAMVs0/s1600-h/JanineQuarles.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMMnDOk2uXKWslC3Hv7fVY-HMxG1clIlCwTznbqRkq0EB5xozNgUW53qzfm0ym0CuXaf3yIIU3kWLGgtwyPWkD9kkmCDcBHUO4DsHazdPXUEgCR1qFFJMTLai2zfPFkAn9D7qXSEAMVs0/s400/JanineQuarles.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5093404737624434066" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">by</span> <span style="font-weight: bold;">Janine Quarles </span><span style="font-style: italic;">(Bennett College)</span></span><br />I FIND IT HIGHLY INTERESTING </span>how being here as a part of the Armagh project has grouped me in as an American. Yes, I was born in America. And yes, I’ve lived here all my life (actually, this is my first time out of the country). But being here in Armagh has been like a double adaptation, trying to fit into a culture within a culture.<br /><br />In America, I am constantly categorized by my ethnicity as an African American, or Black American. And that’s ok with me. I’m proud to be a descendant of African people who came to this country and survived hundreds of years of abuse, oppression and indescribable turmoil. I come from greatness, and I know that. But that greatness isn’t always recognized in American culture, causing me to sometimes distance myself from any form of association with being “an American girl.” I feel like it’s important to make the distinction that I am an African American for many reasons including the fact the black people in America are still suffering from internalized and institutional racism that makes it hard to full identify with white people as equal Americans. Also, African Americans still go through a sort of rejection and separation from others within the African diaspora including black latinos, black carribeans and Africans who migrated here from their homeland. I’ve found that when we try to claim our African heritage, many times we’re rejected by Africans. We can’t fully identify with the culture of black people who have roots in the Caribbean because of the different cultures brought to those islands by different colonists, and the different tribes of indigenous peoples who were there originally. I’ve also found that even darker-skinned latino people who are clearly of African descent often don’t want to recognize that part of their heritage.<br /><br />So all my life—well at least from the point that I could recognize words, and understand the concept of race—I have felt that it is important for African Americans to distinguish themselves in America, representing a culture that has often been underrepresented or misrepresented by perpetuated stereotypes in media and other sources.<br /><br />With all of that said, my adjustment to Irish culture in a group where the majority of the people have some Irish heritage has been very interesting. And while the group has been pleasant, and there are some similarities between us, I find it hard to relate in a lot of ways. Sometimes I wonder if it’s just me making myself an outcast, and allowing my conscience of race matters to jade my vision so much that I’m not allowing myself to adapt. But then again even in a classroom setting, I find it hard to relate to the history and culture of Northern Ireland because I have no ties here. It’s hard for me to capture the essence of the community because I haven’t seen many people who look like me. And of course there are going to be major cultural differences between me and a person who grew up in white suburbia, or who has always been considered the majority, and maybe never, ever had to think in terms of race, or doesn’t recognize the idea of “white privilege.” And its hard when at times I almost feel like an eyesore as stares from the local people aren’t necessarily hostile, but they do make it noticeable that I’m different. And in this case, I’m not sure if being different is a good or bad thing.<br /><br />Some things are apparent, and don’t need the convenience of cultural similarities to be recognized: the land here is absolutely beautiful. The cathedrals and hilly landscapes amaze me. The cobblestone streets filled with small mom and popish business tells me that the people here do have a strong sense of community, and understand the value in maintaining it by not allowing corporate giants to come in and invade their homeland at the promise of some high powered technological advancement. Here, I feel like there’s no rush to be the best, and the only need for competition is in the area of sports. These are things that I can definitely appreciate.<br /><br />And if I can appreciate that, maybe I can take the veil from over my eyes and recognize that underneath the skin tone we’re all the same people. The differences in our backgrounds and heritage make us all unique, and make the world a much more colorful, flavorful place.<br /><br />Racism is an attitude that is possessed by people who allow race matters to invade their conscience and make decisions and preconceptions/misconceptions for them. And if you’re not careful, what an awful thing it would be to become to very thing that you hate.<br />…I guess I have a lot to think about.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8389410616482275330.post-50054520034063200192007-07-30T03:18:00.000-07:002007-07-31T09:53:35.136-07:00A Cup of Coffee<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir2eo95c-Ss_0ZY4tSQoY6rsewOKL8uPdM9TepdAWsb7x3kgcZO1hWmrvPP8mEn_L_LayCGgE5yMlgANuAjmzcC0noKG0HMVjGcgher86pCiZtqBOGkjGrV01n-Z88G6pmK7cGkIdnNk4/s1600-h/CharlotteLevins.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir2eo95c-Ss_0ZY4tSQoY6rsewOKL8uPdM9TepdAWsb7x3kgcZO1hWmrvPP8mEn_L_LayCGgE5yMlgANuAjmzcC0noKG0HMVjGcgher86pCiZtqBOGkjGrV01n-Z88G6pmK7cGkIdnNk4/s400/CharlotteLevins.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5093405180006065570" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">by </span><span style="font-weight: bold;">Charlotte Levins (</span>Temple University)</span><br />I AWOKE EARLY ON SUNDAY,</span> the first morning I had ever experienced in Armagh. A beagle was crying in the kennel below my window and its dog-sitter was probably too sleepy to take it to the potty. It whined outside for at least forty-five minutes, during which the neighboring dogs began to wail, creating a disturbing discord. I decided to submit to my stomach, which was growling in unison with the dogs, and give it some nutrition.<br /><br />The sun dominated the sky that Sunday morning, though the clouds proved acceptable accents on the blue canvas. Although the blue sky and green hilltops were inspirational, my body still required caffeine before it could frolic in the sunshine. I tapped on Meg’s door and we both set out to find the cutest coffee shop. Oh, I could just picture myself sipping delectable infusion of espresso beans and milk in the shade of an outdoor café! But to my astonishment, every shop was closed! Born and raised in inner city Philadelphia, I had never seen a small town completely shut down on such a glorious morning. So what did I do? Panic.<br /><br />Despite the obstacles I faced, I was determined to find my coffee. Meg and I stalked every road, alley, and corner in search of the object of our desire. Nearly ready to forfeit my quest, I saw a girl dancing her way over to the mailbox with a letter in hand. Well, of course she was not really dancing, but she walked with a slight bounce—almost as if she were tapping to the beat of Judy Garland’s “Come On, Get Happy.”<br /><br />“Excuse me,” I said. “Do you know of a place where I can get a cup of coffee?”<br /><br />“Aye,” she said, abruptly ending the song and dance in her head and feet. “You can get some at the hotel, which is just, ehh, down the road, but I’ll be glad to take ya there if ya’d like.”<br /><br />After I responded in the affirmative, the girl skipped over to the mailbox, disposed of her mail, and she, Meg, and I were on our way. I walked over to the left hand side of the front seat with the girl, whose name she stated was Donna, and plopped myself in front of the steering wheel. How embarrassing--I forgot that the steering wheel was on the other side! Luckily Donna just savored a hearty laugh and we continued on our merry way.<br /><br />Donna told Meg and I that Armagh is a sleepy town. She said that most of the young people go to the hotel for fun on the weekends or drive to Newry and Belfast.<br /><br />The drive only lasted about two minutes. We arrived at the hotel and waved good-bye to Donna. I realized that few people in my own neighborhood in Philadelphia would be so trusting of strangers to give them a ride. I regret that I did not get her phone number because then I would have had a connection to someone in the town. But I still had another three weeks here, so I may see her yet. After all, Armagh is a small city.<br /><br />I indulged myself that morning with a warm, buttery, cinnamon raisin scone and a mug of hot coffee.<br /><br />Since my stomach was at peace, I climbed up hill to the Cathedral where I could see the town center and the rolling hills in the distance. The homes and shops seemed to swim the hills just has a dolphin swims through the waves—gently flowing with nature. The hills role into each other and the town just rises and falls with the hills. They say that there are 40 shades of green in Ireland, but I disagree. There must be hundreds of shades in Armagh alone.<br /><br />“This is what my heaven looks like,” I thought as I absorbed the earth, sky, and cobblestone streets below. “Just like Armagh.”Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0