Galway

Now is as good a time as any to blog about my latest adventure; this time it's a trip to Galway. The city –– the third-largest in the Republic of Ireland –– is situated on the west coast of Ireland, directly opposite Dublin, and it took €10 and a 2.5 hour coach ride to get there. Essentially, Galway feels less like a city than a large town. I think this is really what Irish cities tend to feel like most of the time. The proportion of tourists must be just as large as in Dublin, but even so it's much more staunchly Irish, and not as cosmopolitan. I think this is what attracts so many people to Galway, an authenticity that refuses to dissolve under the relentless stream of foreign travelers. It's nearly impossible not to stumble upon a trad music session spilling out of a pub in the famous Latin Quarter. And the Irish Gaelic language commands a larger presence here than in Dublin. A typical tourist probably will not be able to pronounce the names of half of the pubs, neighborhoods or streets in which they find themselves.

It's also deeply entrenched in its own history, a history that's contributed so much to the wider world. The famous Claddagh Ring, worn by lovers and Irish-enthusiasts across the globe, was born here. One of the Medieval structures of the town, Lynch's Castle, takes its name from a town sheriff so committed to upholding the laws of the city that he was forced to hang his own son for murder, thus originating the English verb "to lynch."

In any typical midwestern American town you'd find avenues and front yards festooned with American flags, and occasionally a pennant from the state university football team. In the Galway I saw, pubs, houses, storefronts, and every other flat surface was plastered in the maroon and white checker pattern of the Galway hurling team, or colored with the blue and green of Connaught Rugby.

Checking in to our hostel on the first day, I was met by Declan, a short and friendly greying hostel-keeper originally from Achill Island. When he saw my Ohio driver's license, he asked immediately "Are ye from Cleveland?" When I answered "Yes," he went on to explain about the connections between the Cleveland-Irish and Achill Island, and that lots of his wife's family immigrated to Cleveland (or "Little Achill") and have been there for years. When I asked what gave me away as a Clevelander, he said "De curly hair."

The second day was our trip to the Burren and the Cliffs of Moher. We hopped on a day trip coach south out of Galway. The farther we went the wilder it got –– the more the crumbled stone fences were overgrown with weeds older than me, the more frequent the ruined farmhouses and abbeys, the smaller the towns got that punctuated the two-lane road. There are nearly always mountains in sight in this part of the country, partially obscured by cloud or mist, and you wonder what you'd find in the shadow of one if you got that close.

The sea views from the Cliffs of Moher were stunning, but it was the Burren that fascinated me most: a region of County Clare where naturally-occurring limestone slabs stretch as far as the eye can see, and arctic, alpine and Mediterranean flora coexist in the cracks over hills and plains. The landscape is completely unique. In some places it's almost lunar. It's a wasteland, but not forbidding; it just admits no human influence or intervention. But when you look up into some of the hills, it's hard not to imagine a million gravestones, rows of stone terraces, or seats in an enormous stadium. The Burren is untamed, yet visitors feel connected to it; it's inexplicably deliberate. When the coach stopped we skipped across a honeycomb of limestone rock to see the Poulnabrone dolmen, an 6000-year old Neolithic tomb. What was it that brought prehistoric cavemen out into this inhospitable and utterly wild landscape?

These are just a couple of highlights. Galway is a lively city surrounded by lovely countryside that demands a visit of anyone who finds themselves in Ireland.

Poems?

Talking to a former classmate brought up the subject of poem-writing. We agreed that (at least) 75% of what gets spilled out ends up being useless. Another 10% becomes poems straight away –– good poems, bad poems, just poems. The remaining 15% is made up of this conglomerate of weird phrases and mismatched lyrical scraps. That's the interesting part.

They just lay around.

So it seems, though really once they're written down, they gain a permanence that will easily outlast the writer's short-term memory.

In my experience, they kick around in there; squeal about and jostle for room and sometimes just play it cool. And then in a month, or in two months, or in six months, or in 2 years, or in 20 years (!) they must find poetical mates, become poems of themselves, or languish in the margins of a journal.

Of course, the best part is that all of this is based upon the assumption that poems even have endings. And they don't –– as long as there's anyone else to read them, as long as some reader may impart meaning, or sort of water the soil the seed was planted in –– they just grow. They live in a life running alongside ours; or if we're doing something right, running through ours. A life of their own. And God bless 'em.

Welcome Returns

It can be a challenge getting back in the groove. I've been in Ireland now for five days, and I am getting adjusted once again to life across the pond. Last time, I spent a semester at University of Ulster in Coleraine, Northern Ireland. During that semester I blogged occasionally (you can find it here: http://semesterinnorthernireland.blogspot.com), but this year I hope to be a slightly more faithful correspondent. This time around, I'm studying for my MA in Creative Writing from University College Dublin, and I should be here for about a full year.

I landed in Dublin on Sunday morning to find an array of American flags and red, white and blue balloons; despite the notoriously warm welcome of the Irish people, I quickly learned that the patriotic bunting was not for me, but in honor of the Notre Dame – Navy football game, held right here that very day. It's been sunny and warm here, though I've been warned not to get lured into depending on this idyllic Irish-style Indian Summer.

After a night's stay in a hotel on the south side of the city, I arrived at my university-owned accommodations in Blackrock, a charming town at the southern edge of Dublin. It instantly reminded me of Portrush, on the Causeway Coast of Northern Ireland. You can arrive in so many new places in Ireland and still feel as if you've only been away for a short time.

I'm in the middle of the necessary but sometimes grinding first week. It's a flurry of open suitcases, signatures, bus timetables, and € leaving your wallet. My classes don't begin until 17 September, so aside from a few orientation activities (graduate students' orientation itineraries are noticeably lighter than anyone else's) I am trying to occupy my time by getting out on foot to familiarize myself with my environs. 

And beautiful environs they are. From the promenade near the train station, one gets a panoramic view of the whole of Dublin Bay, with the harbor of Dún Laoghaire (pronounced "dun-leary") to the South and the peninsula of Howth to the North both stretching outward and around to embrace the Bay.

Despite the natural beauty surrounding you, it's easy to feel a bit lost or untethered at the beginning of an experience such as this. I've gone through it before, but it doesn't lessen it this time around. I've got more responsibility and independence this time around, and supposedly more maturity. "I'm a grad student;" I have to say, it rolls off the tongue easily. Finding out what that means will undoubtedly be a different story. For now, during the limbo of adjustment, I'll have to try not to worry too much in unoccupied moments ("Should I be doing something important right now?").  Okay, I'll admit it: I was feeling a bit lonely – until I walked five minutes up the avenue from my flat and passed by a large white house named Leoville; it's adorned with white stone lions and a plaque reading "IN THIS HOUSE LIVED JAMES JOYCE." I think I'll start feeling at home shortly.