I'm way overdue for a post

Sooooze, I've got a few things to say before I sign off this overpriced internet cafe.
I'm alive and doing well. heh heh. In the time since I last posted, My family has been to visit, I've been to France, Mattias N from Sweden came to visit and I went to a wonderful 1920s theme birthday party. The weather has gotten considerably cooler and I've been sick. My coworkers conned me into coming back to work and the slugs are reduced significantly. I also have been spending far too much money on travel and gifts.. but that makes life beautiful.
cheers.
(I will expound more later.)

Invasion of the slugs..

After a refreshing morning rain I grabbed my umbrella and headed off to work. By the time the last storm cloud cleared, sunshine reflected brilliantly off the grassy hills. You could almost hear a sweet midsummer melody playing pleasantly in the air. Buds lifted their heads to greet a swarm of bumblebees. Birds sang as they happily plucked worms from the moist ground. Juicy brown slugs wriggled their way across the pavement. …
Yes, slugs.. Armies of them slowly sliming across the clean, black walkway. I didn’t know whether to endure the sight of them or to look straight ahead as if they weren’t there. If I ignored them I could also ignore the uneasiness in the pit of my stomach, but risking the unpleasant squash of one beneath my feet. I could barely tolerate them and wished that this wouldn’t be a common occurrence during my daily commute.
On my return I happily noted their absence.

new house

New address... again. My amazing 45 days in Fitzroy flew by and I found myself nearly homeless... again. Luckily one of Barbara's tenants moved out early allowing me a room at 52 Ava St. The room, believe it or not, is actually smaller than Fitzroy. Seriously about 7" x 7". The perks include my personal TV, plush-ish carpet, the use of a lovely floral duvet, and a mirror. I like to be positive, so we'll leave the details at that *grin*. My house mates are absolutely lovely. Two student nurses, Jillian and Michelle, and the antisocial Alistair. It's lovely to come home to someone watching TV. That's absolutely it.. just coming home to someone. I don't care if there's nothing fantastic to do. It simply means I don't have to deal with the rotten loneliness. Debating whether or not the bother the boys down the street. Writing some lame entry in my journal because I can't think of anything better to do. Or worse, considering booking a ticket home. See, I've got to do this thing, the whole bit, five months or bust. So there are great days and sad days.. and I can't go making decisions simply based on the sad days.
Off subject, aren't we?
The color here is very nice, bright and cheery and I especially love the kitchen. The computer makes me quite content, though I probably drive everyone else nuts with my incessant clacking at the keyboard. Here I am again, however, and I have ages of blog catching up to do!
Cheers.

Ballygrooby = Party Central

The city with the longest, widest and deepest street in Ireland was my weekend destination. Cookstown has the distinction of being a bold, size 12 font on the map as well. It falls somewhere between Belfast and Moneymore. The population of 13,000 includes only three members of Aideen's family. By Saturday however, we were joined by nearly the rest of the siblings and their partners.

The BBQ was held at Anne Marie McFlynn's Farm as a Anne Marie 'Welcome Back' and a Tish Birthday Party. At the BBQ I was required to expand my knowledge of Irish names and their complicated pronounciation as I met a Grainne, Ruari, Orla, Oonagh and Seamus. It was a proper Irish BBQ in more ways than a name. It featured a full bar, behind which Connor made cocktails. There was a few games of football and rounders beside the barn. Later when we moved inside someone put on some traditional Irish music which promted a short session of dancing. After uneasily watching the floor heave with the rhythm I decided to try to join in.

am I nude?!?

In the midst of my travels I find my voice a lone thin quiver in the crowd. My Midwestern accent feels very bare in the hostels among the rolling r's of the Spainiards, the up down motion of the Swedes and even the tickling z's and Ous off the French tounge.

Perhaps it is because it is what I am used too.. why it sounds so plain. But I've always been of the opinion that Midwesterners have a very straight, no-nonsense sound in their words. Not as thick as New York or as casual as Californians.. its isn't as ornamented as the South or choppy as the North. It is the sort of bland sound that news anchors adopt. Bland.
Boring.

So as my friends will tell you, I have a strange ability to pick up accents. Like a sponge. It may somehow make up for the fact that I cannot retain languages just the sounds and emphasis.
If you would sit in on a conversation at my table in the Coe 'U', you would wonder where I call home. The combination of 2 Frenchmen, a Swede, German, Irish and Indian leave me with a very muddled accent indeed!

As I am in Ireland, I anticipated picking up a lovely, lilting tone.
Instead, I ended up with some sort of lower class, Belfast accent. UGh! why couldn't I have a cute Derry accent? Or at least the melodic tone of Donegal. NOPE! When I speak it comes out in this harsh.. EUuuw sound.

"How 'er YUUueeehhHH?"
"I'll take a strEEWWwwbura one"
"bout yeeu?"
"will yeeu 'ave a cuppa?"

The trick to the Norn Iron accent is the intonation, which I cannot relay appropriately via computer. It's a sort of slide up at the end of the sentence the important words emphesized at the back of the throat. As it is a tricky one to master you'll have to catch me fresh out of Ireland if you wanna hear my impression. Or else it will be gone as I reabsorb my Iowegian tongue.

just one of those wonderful summer days

Last month I had one of those saturdays that you just wish you could frame and hang on the wall.
Midmorning, I woke up from a delightful dream with a smile on face. I showered, breakfasted and went out to face the world.

The sun was shining as I walked down Ormeau road and I felt warmed to the toes. Beyond the City Centre gleamed the metal angel as she stood guard over the river Lagan. The Lagan itself was on improved behavior.. the awful stench that usually eminated from it was subdued.
I continued along the river beconed by the strange sight of towering boats in the horizen. I vaugly remember hearing something about a Maritime fest going on that month so I walked further to investigate.

The Tall Ships were berthed on both sides of the River Lagan, at the Abercorn Basin and Queen's Quay beside the Odyssey, and at Donegall Quay. Some of them were reproduction pirate ships and others were well maintains historical fishing boats. They bore wonderful names on the side.

The Jeannie Johnston (right), a replica ship, was loaded with information of the Great Famine which impacted Ireland in the 9th Century.

A Swedish built ship, the Zebu (left), held strong as one of the last traditional sailing ships to travel the world. The crew was busy tying the sails and preparing the deck for visitors.

Another of the eight ships, the Grand Turk, a full size replica of the 18-century Royal Navy frigate HMS Blandford, proudly boasts a number of telivision and movie appearances. I queued for approximatly 20 minutes until I got to step aboard. The interior of the ship seemed much more spacious than I had imagined. One object seemed very out of place in the belly of the boat and made me smile a little. It was a shining black motorcycle tied in the center under the grating. It seemed like something to be lying around in a James Bond Film. Perhaps he would find himself trapped in the ship and burst out in all resplendent glory astride that ridiculous cycle.

Following my slow tour of the ships I wandered over to Clairdon Quay where a lively continental market was being held. After wandering past the tantilizing smells at each both I settled for the German tent. The aroma of Currywurst is what won me over, it reminded me of my week in Germany. I carried my wrapped wurst, bap and coke over to the tables. They were clustered around a large stage where blues and jazz was being played. I couldn't think of any better music to listen to on such a fine day! The lead singer crooned out the jazz standards like a Chicago native. When she finally spoke, I couldn't believe the strong Irish accent she had. With my few remaining coins I purchased a long string of blue licorish and a double 99. As I felt my skin turning a faint shade of pink I ambled back up the road towards the city.



There seemed to be quite a bit of activity around the Custom House Square and people with strange make-up and costumed filled the area. I followed the music to Alberts Clock and found the end of a parade winding past. There were carnival bands from Belfast, Brazil, Berlin, Ireland and Scotland filling the square with noise and color.


After the parade the participants gathered at the square for a grande finale. Trapeze artist swung from ropes in the open air and drum corps beat out complex rhythms. There were fire jugglers and clowns to keep the crowd laughing. The whole lot of people seemed very joyful and it was hard not to smile and nod along.


I took the route back along the Lagan hand noticed a large crowd. I wasn't about to miss anything else dramatic that day so I walked closer and noticed a tour was about to depart. I followed the group past the Lagan lookout and into the dam. We took about 50 steps down into the depths of the wier. At last the guide annoucned we were 10 metres under the river itself. We followed the tunnel under the river and stopped in the middle. I disovered that I was standed exactly on the border between county Antrim and county Down. It was a unexciting event but interesting nonethe less. The tunnel walls were damp with condensation and I was anxious to move along to the outdoors. I hadn't really expected that sort of tour, but when you hang along uninvited you can't really complain. The guide also noted that this was one of the last tours of the tunnel ever. She said this with such conviction and seriousness that I nodded, eyes wide in mock amazement.

After that, I decided that I had too much excitement for one day and finally headed home. After my tea I noticed my entire face and arms had turned an angry red color. Sunburned.. in Ireland?! This WAS a day of discovery!

abwarten und tee trinken!

-Will you have a cuppa? [phrase, say ‘Will yea have a cup-pa’]
An invitation to a social act of sharing a drink made from brewing dried leaves of an Asian shrub.

If tea does the body good, then I’m well on my way to superior health. It all started the first moment I arrived to Northern Ireland and I sat with Peter and Jim sipping my tea watching BBC NI news. From there it became a disease- tea drinking (Tee trinken) invaded nearly every corner of my life. In the morning I was automatically flipping on the kettle in to pour out a cup for breakfast with my toast. At 47A I used tea breaks to lure John and Michael away from their computers. And this dark drink even wove itself into my work day.

My work day is charmingly divided into sections, a cup immediately upon arrival, at tea break around 1030, after lunch, and finally at 1530. These breaks are usually initiated by the comforting sound of the kettle gurgling and someone poking his or her head in the office to ask, “Angela, have a cuppa?”

When I arrive home Jillian or Michelle usually brew a pot before dinner and finally one in the evening around 2100. Punjabi tea is the best, contained in tidy circular packet that fits neatly at the bottom of a cup. It must be made with a bit of milk till it reaches a lovely tan colour. It goes without saying that an abundant supply of McVitties milk chocolate digestives accompanies the pot at every tea episode.

Of course if you decline any- Mrs. Boyle from 'Father Ted' with come after you with her tea tray repeating "Go on, go on, go-on, go-on, goan goan!!"

My time at the 'bracken

After waiting ages for a call I finally took some initiative. I laid out all my business cards on the desk in the order of importance. I got some information regarding a job at Knockbracken Health Care Park. Denise informed me that it was quite easy to get to only straight down the Ormeau road on the 15 route. Being a bit of a tightwad I wasn’t sure I wanted to pay bus fare.. and to where? I walked down the road that night following instructions from the S&E Belfast Trust website. After about an hour I approached the Knockbracken Park. Things were getting a bit dark and I felt somewhat suspicious nosing around the Park at that hour so I returned home.
The next morning I allotted myself the 90 minutes to assure timely arrival. Once at the gates of KHCP I looked at the map quite puzzled. Past the entrance, the Health Care Park took a literal meaning. There were rolling hills dotted with distant buildings and wards. I navigated around a wee forest to an impressive red brick building. I saw signs posted for Finance, Physiotherapy, Occupational Health but nothing for Mental Health. After wandering aimlessly around the grounds until about 0905 I became frantic. I stopped a man wearing the S & E Belfast Trust Badge and asked for help. He walked me to the department and smiled knowingly as I exclaimed, “Gosh, this place is so big, didn’t expect to get lost! What a great first impression I must be making.”
I was let into the Social Servies Dept and met my boss. She introduced me to the staff and explained that today would be a bit unusual. The staff was using the day to clean up and unpack after some remodelling had been done. This accounted for their very casual apparel. The day began with a meeting with tea and scones. I politely perched on an unsteady chair pecking at my scone like a bird. I hadn’t ate breakfast that morning and didn’t want to appear as famished as I was.

During the meeting I quietly observed my colleagues.
The boss was leading the meeting with a casual air. She wore a comfortable smile and had loads of laugh lines around her eyes. Her darkened skin implied hours spent on the tennis courts.
Throughout the meeting E R interjected a few comments. She had the transient manner of someone nearing retirement. Her pastel linen dress coordinated with her gentle character. When she smiled it was a sort of bemused smile as if she was refraining from some clever comment.
Opposite Elizabeth sat TW who had more of a loquacious personality. Her slight frame could be deceiving as she was not one to go unnoticed. Her previous job had been the one I was filling thus I paid close attention to her advice. To hear of her weekend exploits and carefree attitude one would never guess she had five children to her credit.
A young mother herself, M B only worked part time. Though calm, she had a lively sparkle in her blue eyes. Her sapphire nose ring and loose hanging blonde curls gave her a young, trendy look.
As the only male on the team, H M compensated by commuting in on his motorbike. He kept his hair trimmed short and his clothes were surprisingly neat for a bachelor. His scrawl on the other hand could have used some ironing out. His mischievousness was well matched by A M. When they were both in the office, something was always brewing. A M was the youngest social worker and always had a joke or story to tell. She was very bouncy and the office seemed dull when she was away.
Despite the seriousness of their jobs, the office was always ringing with laughter and it was unusual for a week to pass without a prank being pulled. I always looked forward to tea times when I could and be entertained by my co-workers. AM, TWand HM were usually the raconteurs while E, MB and I sat assiduously.

Bradley Business

The Mid Ulster Garden Centre was far more than I expected. I suppose when Peter spoke of the family business I imagined a couple of greenhouses and a wee shop with a few pots, seeds and the till. I was fairly impressed with the Bradley operation.

There is a main shop with 4 areas containing house wares, potted plants, seeds, and gardening books. Within the shop is a café with an excellent selection of sandwiches and beverages. One exit from the shop leads out to a partially enclosed plant display. These plants are the eye-catchers, parading carnations, geraniums, roses and showy grasses. The other departments contain trees, grass, shrubs, azaleas and hydrangeas, decorative statutes and rocks. Peter hovers around the Water area- selling Koi, water plants, and pump systems. If your intent is not to purchase any living things, there is a wide selection of garden and patio furniture and BBQ equipment. In the event of loosing your place in the maze of vegetation, trendy signs designed by Michael direct you in the right direction.

The Centre employs a diverse group of people for a wide range of job descriptions. At half eight, gardeners, chefs, waitresses, sales clerks, cashiers, cleaners, secretaries and baristas arrive wearing black shirts with the trademark green logo.

I worked with two Polish gardeners, Adyta and Evelyna, tending plants and arranging displays. As a new employee I inadvertently became a target for wandering customers searching for a special addition to their lawn. Thanks to my gruelling Botany education and tips from my Grandma Fitkin, I was able to navigate around the array of foliage directing customers to various selections. The alternative was to hunt down Adyta for her expert counsel.

When the customers caught my accent the questions turned from, “we’re looking for this one” to “whereabouts you from?” Depending on the customer I got a variety of subsequent questions. The older ladies would quietly ask, “so how does this Garden Centre compare to the ones back home?” The old men would compare weather, Middle aged women inquired, “Did I have any family here”, and the younger crowd always asked, “whatever possessed me to come to Maghera?” My answers were always the same: “Very tidy and well stocked”, “Yes, its very wet and much cooler here”, “No family that I’m aware of”, “I came to visit a friend who studied at my University”.

Due to Peter’s workaholic tendencies, hanging around the Centre is the best way to catch a glimpse of him. I usually joined him for a grilled sandwich and cuppa at half 12 to hear about his sales and bizarre customers. Then at six I drove down the road with Peter, Michael and Jim from 35 Station Road to 60B for dinner.

Greater Life

The following Saturday I received a call from a member of Greater Life. MaryCris is the Worship Leader and coordinates carpooling to Gilford. We arranged to meet outside Queens near Botanic Ave.

Sunday came and at 1330 I sat on the wall facing Queens. After 1340 I decided to move down the street closer to the Botanic Gardens. Sure enough, a grey Vauxhall pulled up, its front seat passenger was scanning the path for someone. I stepped forward and identified myself. Driving the car was a woman from Zimbabwe, named Goodrun. MaryCris was from the Philippines and 11 year old Peace was from South Africa.

The drive to Gilford took nearly 40 minutes, probably shorted by Goodrun’s ‘lead foot’. We took the M2 out of Belfast and drove through Moira, Lurgan, and Gilford. The church itself is situated in between two hills in the countryside. It is a long white cement building divided between the parsonage and chapel. Most of the equipment and furniture within the chapel was sent from Headquarters in Illinois. Due in part to the feeling that I had just stepped into a home missions church in rural America.

The atmosphere was amazing. I must be said that the moment I walked through the threshold I knew I had found my church. It may be in part of the familiar surrounds and music, but mostly due to the sweet spirit of the Holy Ghost that just permeated every corner. The worship service was very simple. Piano, bass, and guitar played songs in the style Matt Redmond. If you listen carefully you can pick out all the voices. Cooke has a very sweet and light soprano voice that compliments the tenor voice of her husband, Miguel. voice Bro. Larry’s rich baritone voice carried the harmony in a thick Rwandan accent. Goodrun is hard to miss, she paces the front singing boldly. At first I began singing hesitantly, but after the second line of ‘How Great is Our God’ I got carried away and started belting it out with everyone there. I thought I could be very low key about my love for singing, until MaryCris fell ill and had no replacement for leading worship. Before I knew it, I was up on the platform plunking on a YAMAHA and attempting to lead songs. They are a very forgiving congregation and tolerate my lack of ability.

Even on my worst day, spending time at Greater Life leaves me feeling complete.

Sunday Dinner at Granny Margaret's

On Sunday after mass everyone meets at Granny’s house next to the Garden Centre. She cooks a scrumptious roast with all the fittings, peas and carrots, boiled potatoes, gravy, spinach, rice or rolls, salad and of course, the desert. After this eye-popping feast there’s always room for tea and biscuits.

Following the meal, Peter and Jim cross the yard to work the afternoon and Barbara, Michael and I sit in the parlour while Jesse munches on the leftovers. Auntie Anne joins them for dinner as well. She is well into her upper 80s and doesn’t look a day over 67. It is very much the same for Margaret, she has very youthful skin. I hope it is all the tea they drink that preserves them so well. If that is the case, I’m on my way to a healthy future.

Thou art most fair, my beloved Botanic!

After a week living on Fitzroy I found that I longed for a lawn. I needed green, lovely, luxurious grass. Surprisingly for Ireland, there wasn’t a speck of green on the entire street. Then I had a brilliant idea, the Botanic Park!

On the sunniest day I could find I grabbed my book and headed towards Queen’s. Apparently, my idea wasn’t all that original because the expanse of grass was full of sunbathers. The scene was familiar but somewhat odd. That was it! This was grass, not the beach. Everyone looked like they had been abducted from a brochure for the white sands of Cancun. Beach towels, soccer balls and coolers cluttered the ground and the scent of coconut sunscreen filled the air. On the corner an ice cream truck was parked, keeping the multitude well fed.

I was quite happy to settle between a cuddling couple and a guy playing his guitar. With nice Jack Johnson tunes playing in the background I devoured the remaining content of my book. By the time that I had turned the last page, the sun was hanging relunctantly behind a cluster of trees and a cool breeze was wafting through. Encroaching shadows acted as a kind old Usher, nudging people from their places on the lawn. I lingered on to observe the unhurried exodus. By the time the last sunny patch was gone, the Botanic was nearly vacant.