Don’t sprinkle my donut. I hate eating wet pastries.

When they said that a ‘doctor baker’ was coming to teach a class, I hoped we were going to learn how to treat a cake with a muscle strain (I think it just needs to be iced). Then I realized it was Dr. Baker.

Dr. Beulah Baker is a lively lady. If we would have met her at the airport, I’m certain she would have started lecturing right then. Instead, she kindly waited until she arrived at the YWCA and then began class promptly, even though her biological clock told her it was 4am. She nods a lot, perhaps because she agrees with what she’s saying. I nodded a lot too, mostly off. [Just kidding; she’s a fascinating American.]

We learned quite a bit that week in our Irish literature class. I remember thinking I have no free time. Do I really not have any free time or am I just not using my time wisely? I worked out at the leisure center one day, and consequently stayed up one hour later to finish my homework.

 Conclusion: We really didn’t have any free time.

The reading was intense for the week and a half Dr. Baker was here. Some of the stories were grand. Others were more like the slogan “The greatest fair on earth” on the Hillsdale Grandstand: not true, but it’s painted on there, so let’s believe it anyway. One common theme that coursed through the works we read was awesome quotes. One of my favorites is:

“She took a tick out of his neck and touched the spot where the tick had drawn one pin-prick of blood; it was then they danced.”- Irish Revel

I’m not sure why they were dancing or how they were dancing. Perhaps it was a melancholy party boy, seeing as how the man only had a short time left to live since he probably just contracted Lyme disease.

We ventured to Sligo, Donegal, and Derry to experience the historical and literary significance of the cities. One special bonus to the trip was that we received free dinner from the hotel restaurant every night.  They served bread and three dips on the table at one dinner. I spread what looked like garlic dip on my bread, and it was quite tasty.

Audrey: What is this dip?

Waitress: Tartar sauce.

Mmm, there’s nothing like a hunk of mayonnaise to make a smooth trip for the bread sliding down my gullet.

Unlike man, God saw it was good for bread to be alone.

They gave us a menu of three choices for the main dish at each dinner. One night was lamb, fish and chips, or ham and turkey. I couldn’t bear to eat a cute baby lamb after seeing them frolic in the pastures. I didn’t want anyone yelling, “Ewe murderer!” at me. I’ve decided not to have fish until I can douse it in so much salt it’ll shrivel up. I ordered the ham and turkey; the pig died in vain.

In the times that we weren’t dining, we traveled to the locations mentioned in our books. I wish we would have read from CS Lewis so we could have visited Narnia. Instead, we stood on the street mentioned in the novel Reading in the Dark. We were standing at the very corner Larry had stood on page 52! Well, he totally would have stood there if he had existed. I’ve never followed in the footsteps of a fictional person before; they’re just as hard to see as I expected.

Fog messes everything up. Now I can't see Larry.

We were asked to journal about the different places we visited. Mine consisted of four pages of Sudoku, except for the actual words written about the epic woods in Sligo, because that place was more magical than markers, a young girl’s heart, and unicorns combined.



I'm just scared of how happy I am.

Debating is really fun. But that's debatable.

You know what really grinds my gears? They don’t have Lucky Charms here. You know what other place doesn’t have Lucky Charms? Europe. You know what else poisons my water hole? The movie Leprechaun wasn’t even filmed in Ireland. You know where it was filmed? Outer space. But seriously guys... Green? Does anyone know what the national color of Ireland is? Blue. And what’s the color of the European Union flag? Blue. Connection? I think so; and more than Irish would like to admit.

                This was my teammate Dan’s intro to our debate question: Should Ireland’s identity be viewed in the context of Europe or independently as a solitary nation? The team I joined was in favor of the former.

This is Dan. It's ok to judge him by his looks.

Here’s the point I wrote:

If you're an Irishman when you enter the restroom, then what are you while you're inside the stall? European! Ireland is best viewed in terms of Europe as a whole because Ireland’s history is heavily tied to other European nations. Ireland was invaded so much, if it were a food, it would be a seizure salad.  Ireland cannot be viewed solely as an isolated nation or culture because it has been heavily influenced by the groups who have invaded it. We have the Vikings, the English, the Spanish hopped over here for a while too.  The Irish were getting beat up by everything from the Viking’s horns to England’s tea cups. Plus, there are immigrants from other nations currently living here as well. Ireland is not quite a melting pot, but more like a casserole: it’s mainly pasta with a few other things thrown in.

Yes, they did some important things in history that made them distinct, but so have other countries, such as Italy’s Roman Catholic Church and how Spain is well-known for the style of its cathedrals. But, they’ve all merged together. The Catholicism of Rome has spread throughout Europe. The Spanish have influenced other cultures, as in how their architecture can be seen throughout Europe and how they declare “Naps aren’t just for kindergartners!” The unique contribution that Ireland has made and its distinguishing characteristics doesn’t detract from it as a separate nation but it also doesn’t mean that Ireland is not a part of the greater European context, influencing other countries and being influenced by other nations.

The Protestant-Catholic conflict may seem very distinct, but it was also a prevalent issue in England and many other European countries were choosing their fav. denominations at the point as well. While it was a climax in Ireland, this conflict was also occurring elsewhere in Europe.

In the words of Dan, you know what else grinds my gears and Brads my Kellyn? How Saint Patrick is viewed as a classic Irish hero when he was born in Wales, gained an education from England, and brought influences to Ireland from England and France. The Christianity he brought was very European. He emphasized the distinct values of the Irish, but those values were not unique to the Irish. A lot of the values the Irish had were influenced by other European nations. For instance, one reason they valued courage so much was because they were frequently invaded, and they really liked it when any lads put up their knives and angrily told them to “Stop it!” However, Ireland was not alone in its invasions. Countries in Eastern Europe were suffering from invasions as well. So, while a value such as courage was emphasized in Ireland, this value was not unique from other European countries who endured similar experiences to the Irish. Each European culture has different emphases, but as in the example of both the Irish and Eastern valuing courage, there are overlaps between cultures.
[Verdict: Debating is fun.]

While we’re not debating, we like to do this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=735V3baLT-k

I wish the light at the end of the tunnel would try to run me over so I could get to Greystones faster

               A good way to start an adventure is to give four girls a destination without a map. Not that the map would help.

                Four of us chicks embarked on a journey to the town of Kilcoole in search of fish and chips. It’s a five minute Dart ride, so I was envisioning a one mile walk. Oh how wrong I was. We walked, and walked, stopped, walked, stared at the sun, hoping it would blind us so we wouldn’t have to see how far we had to walk, strutted and strolled to change things up a bit, and laid down on the train tracks, aspiring to use Murphy’s Law to our advantage by catching the train that would inevitably come to run us over.  

This is actually kind of resembles Kilcoole's train platform

                 After more than an hour of trekking, I realized that we were either very slow walkers or Kilcoole didn’t exist. I was very nearly right on the latter. When we finally arrived at the train platform, it was deserted. There wasn’t a ticket booth or even people around. There was a sign that said something like, “Hey, don’t get hit by the train; no one will come save you, no matter how loud you yell.”  

DART bait oo-ha-ha

                We moseyed up the hill in search of the town. Instead, we stumbled upon a very classy gift shop. It was filled with candles in saran wrap and even a hedgehog holding a graduated cylinder, which I’ve been searching for for years. The owner of the shop actually was nice. We told her we were lost and looking for the town, and she offered us a lift so we could skip out on the mile walk. She was a stranger, but then I thought, What if she has candy too? So we hopped in.  

                  

Hedgehogs want foliage And rain water?
Greedy monsters.



Reese's Cups, my favorite!

         



                 The town was about as much of a town as the DART platform was a train station. We asked several people for directions to a pub, and we received the same response: Celebrating Saint Patrick’s Day early, are we? It was 2pm on a Wednesday, and we weren’t even going to celebrate Saint Patrick’s Day that way on Saint Patrick’s Day. They also were flabbergasted that we walked from Greystones. Don’t you know there’s a bus? I should have paid attention to the word “bus”.

                We wandered around the main street, even getting so desperate as to try a Chinese pub. It was closed, probably for the best.  I love mini corn, but not on that day.

In the distance, I saw a van.  It looked like it could have been parked outside of a restaurant.

                Audrey: Guys, that van says “Fruits and Vegetables” on it.

                Ladies: What? How can you read that?

It seems that just thinking about carrots gives me improved vision.

                The van was parked outside of a restaurant indeed. I’ve never screamed joyfully at a building before, but I’m sure it was flattered.

I could suckle on that bad boy all day

                After our delectable lunch of fish and chips, the time to catch the train back to Greystones was upon us. At the platform, we waited for our 3:15 train. At 3:05, we spotted a train in the distance.

                Natalie: Good thing we came here early, guys!

Then the train blazed past us.

                Our hopes were quickly dashing.

                3:14: Man, I hope the train comes.

    3:15: No train.

                3:18: Are those lights in the distance?

                3:19: The lights are definitely moving!

                3:20: The train is here!

                3:20:10: Why is the train still moving??

                At approximately 3:20:15, the train halted. After we boarded it and made our way back home, we realized that the train most likely wasn’t supposed to stop at that station. There wasn’t even a ticket to buy.  This is probably why the townspeople kept suggesting that we take a bus, because the train thinks it’s too cool to stop in Kilcoole. But, it was all fine and dandy because the conductor presumably felt sorry for us and let us on out of the goodness in his heart.  I will always remember him for as long as I’m in Greystones.

[This quest from March 16]

I felt sheepish instead of sheep

I’ll go on any adventure that ends with ponies. This one ended in heartbreak.

Four of us voyaged to a pet farm yesterday. Our first order of business was to attain the cycles. Unfortunately, the seats were too high for our lady legs. We enlisted the help of our fellow American, Ryan.

                Ryan: You need an Alan wrench.

                Audrey: I don’t even know Alan.

                Ryan: You don’t know what an Alan wrench is?

Ohhh an Alan wrench. Yes, of course, I was just using that to patch up my submarine, right after I used a jackhammer to install some concrete.

We were clearly baffled, so Ryan adjusted our seats for us. If Jesus were a cycle repairman, he would look like Ryan. Ryan was the strength to our weakness, just like holding hands.

He probably has a license to steer a screwdriver too

                We began our journey to the farm. The directions to Glenroe were ‘follow the signs’, which is kind of like telling someone that all you need to do to skydive is jump out of a plane.  It was a perilous journey, filled with roundabouts and two casualties. The first hill claimed Hanna, and she turned back to do her homework’s bidding. About two minutes away from our destination (unbeknownst to us), Paige jumped ship.  It was down to the two of us. “You won’t leave me, will you Natalie?” There was silence. I feared that she had abandoned me as well. Luckily, she was just breathing, and soon yelled back an acceptable response.

                We wondered why our journey was taking so long. Then we realized we were biking uphill the entire time. I just thought I had poor posture. As we finally approached the farm, my worst fears were confirmed. It was closed. Hanna and Paige weren’t so silly for turning back after all. I had checked the website four times to make sure it was open, but I must have wanted it to be open so badly I didn’t really pay attention. The sheep were so close I could see the joy in their eyes at the prospect of being pet. The animals at Glenroe Open Farm are enclosed by a fence. First they’re closed, and then they lie. An old man saw us from the Glenroe building and stared us down. I wanted to befriend him.

                Audrey: I thought you were open today!

                Man: Nope.

                Friendship terminated.

Natalie and I made the most of the closed farm. We drank water, saw some ornery dogs, and took a picture of a sign with a horse painted on it. It wasn’t very cuddly.

Our disappointment poses look a lot like our awkward poses

                Undeterred by our failed farm experience, Natalie and I embarked on a new adventure with fanatical positivity. We ditched the bikes (after responsibly putting them away and locking them up) and ventured into town in search of frappes. We stopped into the coffee shop where I’ve been working on Saturdays. I must not be doing so badly, because they gave us free drinks. My favorite manager Alan was there, whom I’ve sadly never worked with because he doesn’t work on Saturdays if he can help it. I bet he knew how to use a wrench.

We were sad we missed out on sheep, but we sucked it up

                 Nat and I boarded the DART in search of adventure. I still had 3.5 slices of white bread meant for precious animals (.5 slices went to an ornery dog who, in retrospect, didn’t deserve it). Unfortunately, the bread was eventually returned to the cafeteria after failing to find even a measly pigeon. We also missed the DART on the way back by 30 seconds because it left early. It is faster than I realized. We built our own train instead. It was filled with massages and happiness. No tools were involved, because we don’t know how to use those manly contraptions.

Conducting a train is easy

I could have bright ideas if my head was a lamppost. My first idea would be to get my human head back.

           After reading about Saint Patrick, I thought his holiday would involve sharing the Gospel and loving people from all cultures. This message must have gotten lost in translation over the years since I only saw the sharing of Guinness and an Irishman and an Asian woman snogging.

We watched the Saint Patrick’s Day parade from our box office seats on a roof top. This was grand, because I would not want to see any of the “creative” things we witnessed that day up close. Don’t get me wrong, I love dancing potato chips, people with lampposts for heads, and a sinister wiener dog on wheels as much as the next lass, but I draw the line at creepy  twelve-foot tall walking dolls that blink. In theory, these all would belong at a trippy yet fun medieval festival. But, like the clown doll in my grandma’s guest bedroom that looks like it’s being strangled by the balloons it’s holding as it watches you sleep, it really isn’t that fun at all.  



Monster dog is ornery because his head is too big to wear a shamrock hat.

 

The potato chips couldn't reach us from here, even though they had arms.

                  We then attended a match of the fastest sport in the world-hurling. It involves chugging a gallon of milk and then seeing who can make it come back up the quickest. That’s how the Americans play it at least. The Irish pros play by using lacrosse sticks and a ball, and they run to and fro for an hour while scoring both in a net and through a football goal post. Gaelic football is played the same way, but without sticks. We didn’t really know what was going on or who was playing, so we picked the team with the prettiest jersey or the guy with the coolest hair and rooted to our hearts’ content. The Christmas Colors were slayed by the Yellow Zebras! The Colors’ spirits were broken and they resumed their usual life back in the north.   


Baby Jack is wonders why we're making faces at him
 when he's clearly too old for that nonsense.

                A few of us meandered over to Temple Bar area and dined at Quay’s. Emily Day and I walked across the street where we were meant to meet her friend. I started taking pictures of the crowd around us, when a young Brazilian man approached us.

Brazil: Would you like me to take your picture?

Audrey: Ohh, no thank you. [I don’t want you to steal my camera.]

He chatted us up a bit (probably because he was 5’5”), and before he left, said, “It was very nice to meet you.” He extended his hand, and I began to shake it. But then, my hand started moving upward, and it wasn’t just because of the shaking. He was going in for the kiss. My hand was being sucked upward toward his alien spaceship of a mouth. I wasn’t even wearing a “Kiss me I’m Irish” shirt.

                Emily and I returned to the pub. However, there was a bouncer the size of a full grown man blocking the door. I pretended not to see the giant and make my way in, but he stopped us. We were not to be allowed upstairs. “We have a table up there already,” I protested. He then let us in. Now I know what to say if I ever need to lie to a bouncer. 



If I told St Peter I already had a table, I don't think he'd believe me.

                 Back in the Temple Bar arena once again, an Irish lad approached us with his friends. I don’t think he told us one true statement. He was from Maryland, which was in Wisconsin. He also had Justin Bieber’s hair. Strike two. His friend, we shall call him Spike, then began a proposal.

                Spike: “Ladies, I know this is very strange, but my friend is turning 21 and we’re trying to get him 21 kisses. Would you be willing to help a fellow out?”
                Girls: “No.”

[In addition, the guy we believe he was addressing looked to be 28 and had the type of facial hair that would erupt in a full-blown beard in a matter of hours.]         

He persisted in asking for a few more minutes. Then, he made a monumental discovery, revealing why we would not say yes.

                Spike: “…You don’t drink, do you?”
                Still sober girls:“ Correct!”

                Spike: “Hey! Me neither. Look, I have viht-ah-min water!...So, will you kiss him?”
                Audrey: “I just ate, so my mouth has had enough action for one night.”

                We soon after made our way back to the DART. But before the night was over, one girl celebrated the holiday in true St Patrick’s Day fashion by hurling on the pavement. Even though she didn’t drink, the food poisoning, ear infection, and stress made sure she finished her Irish night properly.

Justin Beaver must have thought I was giving him a high five

I have so much sodium I could assault the devil

I would drink the Irish Sea if I could.

Lent is upon us. I traditionally give up sweets, but I knew exactly what else I had to give up: my beloved salt shaker. I have so much sodium in my body, people started picking me up and throwing me over their shoulder to ward off the devil. I talked to my mom on Facebook chat, and she was unsure about what to give up for Lent.

Audrey: I just ate a candy bar after realizing Lent is in three days.
Mom: OMG I better think of something to give up!
Audrey: How about teen acronyms?

Giving up sweets isn’t too difficult, but I do miss my salt. My food tastes so bland. Lasagna tastes like lasagna now instead of salt, and I can’t stand it.

Fat Tuesday was just that

I had fish and chips for the first time in Ireland in the legit fishing village of Howth. Not only did they have fish, they had seals! Not for eating, for admiring lovingly from a distance. They were just chilling out in the harbor waiting to be fed. Seals are lazy buggers. They howl, “AR AR AR” instead of properly articulating “Are you going to feed me, kind lass?” Or maybe they just have a worse stutter than Moses.

Sing "Kiss From a Rose"!

We hiked the Bray Head trail and came across a field of semi-wild horses. Their ropes were frayed, so I’m guessing they went rogue. I’ve learned to always carry food with me in case I come across wildlife, so I whipped out some white bread and started making equine acquaintances. Dan wanted to get on one, but was unsure if he should. I encouraged him to do so because it was a win-win situation. If the horse stays still, then I can get on him. If the horse runs wildly away with Dan on his back, I won’t ever have to see Dan again. The horse stood still, and so I was also able to take a turn on him. However, once I mounted him, he started moving away. The others started yelling at me to jump off. It looked like I might have been attempting to dismount, but I was trying to reach the rein and ride off into the mountains. But, I couldn’t reach it. I yelled, “Abort! Abort!” and let the steed gallivant off. I think he wanted to take me on a tour of the countryside as a token of gratitude for the delectable grains.

Mounting on a mountain

We’ve been watching The Story of Ireland for the past six weeks. It’s a show about Ireland’s history that plays at 10pm, a time where I’m ready for bed and can’t absorb any information said in a monotone. The only thing I’ll remember from the seven hours we’ve spent reliving Ireland’s history is the presenter, Fergal Keane. He looks like Bono from a distance, but unlike Bono, you don’t want to listen to what comes out of Fergal’s mouth.

Example:

Fergal Keane is holding a picture of a woman wearing a white dress and veil walking out of a church with a man in a tuxedo:

Is this a photo of you on your wedding day?

No, that’s from when she went to play Skeeball at Chuckee Cheez. Come on, Fergal!

Not too keen are we, Fergal?

Q: What color was the Red Sea? A: Jesus

We met Simon Harris last week. He’s a 24-year-old politician jockeying to be a TD (in American terms, it’s a government position located somewhere between Obama’s gig and student council treasurer.  I’m not very keen on politics).  He stayed for a group picture, and I was lucky enough to be situated at his left flank. I touched his arm. Twice. It was not an accidental elbow graze.

Simon Harris puts the TD in stud

               

                Last week, an 85-year-old woman from church named Joan took us to Avoca Handweavers, a garden/café/shop three-for-one deal. Joan is awesome.  While most women burn themselves by touching caramelized sugar, Joan once received third degree burns on her face from climbing in the Alps.  But, like most other women, she’s a pretty horrid driver. At least she can blame it on her age.

I’ve been going to my church’s Bible study held at Simon’s house (not Simon Harris). We have tea and coffee beforehand, and I’m guessing on Bible study nights, Hebrews it himself. I feel a bit out of my element because it seems those guys have as much knowledge about the Bible as Jesus had loaves and fish.

                Simon: Who was the first person Moses met in the desert?

                Ryan: Aaron.______________________________________________          

    Simon: How did God plan to implement His plan?

                Anthony: Jesu—

                Simon: No.

                Eoin: Moses.

                [Note to self: Jesus is not always the answer]____________________

    Simon: How many times does the word ‘love’ appear in the Bible?

    Ryan: 341 times in the King James Version [is how he would have correctly responded if

    this question had been asked.]

I'm planning to keep going to Bible study until I'm as good at Jesus knowledge as Moses was at stuttering, or until Simon's adorable white cockapoos run away.