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!