Scotland whirlwind

The drive up to the highlands was epic. One minute we were in Edinburgh- beautiful fairytale city, grey stones and narrow winding streets; and then we were in the country. Like a big Pow! of green and blue. A different kind of green than pennsylvania or Ireland. A thick rugged green. And then brown mountains rising up out of nowhere and no cars or houses. And castles and ruins. I felt like I was drawn into a picture book, or maybe part of a post card.

Once we hit Forress, we were welcomed into a beautiful venue on a farm. The owner- a slightly abrasive man with a thick accent and a disinclination for americans. So obviously I needed o become friends with him. Andy played to a small audience that night, and the owner lamented about lack of community support. Seems the same problems exist everywhere- people would rather go to the big cities to hear music than support the same acts in the local venues.

The next day we drove for an hour to the nearby town of Cormarty. A small artistic community set by the waterside. I don't think they even have a corner store, but they do have great art and music. The streets were narrow and the only word I could think to describe the town was "cute". Small houses like cottages, and such artistic, vibrant people all in one community. It was gorgeous.

Glasgow is Scotland's largest city, but when doing the art thing, I took the advice and stuck to the West End. Good choice. I met up with some local film makers, got some drinks, went out to dinner. Fabulous.

While in Glasgow I got a last minute message from a poet in Edinburgh. So I packed my bags and off I went.

Once in Edinburgh, I met up with Ant, a "I guess I'm a poet kinda" poet- which of course means he's a great poet. My first evening in Edinburgh I performed at a Ladyfest Open Mic in a dive cafe. It was cafe-love at first sight.

I talked PJ into coming to visit me, and I'm so glad he did. It made the Edinburgh trip that much better. We climbed Arthur's Seat, and explored the castle. We ate weird vegetarian food and gawked at the beauty of the city. Travelling is so much more fun with another person there to enjoy it with you.

Definitions

I know I should've wrote this post earlier, but I think I needed time away from Dublin in order to form my thoughts about this topic. While in Dublin, I took a friend of mine to a poetry event called "Love Poetry Hate Racism".

I asked my friend, after we left, which poet he enjoyed the most. His answer surprised me a bit. He described a soft spoken poet, whose poetry was dark and described hardship and poverty in a city. He said that this poet stood out in particular because he was attempting to define what life was like in a particular neighborhood in Dublin.

It's a strange time for the Irish people. Now, as never before, they are faced with the task of identifying themselves. In the past, people left Ireland. But now, due to the echoing booms of the Celtic Tiger, immigrants from all over the world are flocking to Irish cities- Dublin in particular. And as great as it is to introduce people to diversity and tolerance, it's interesting to watch how the Irish are dealing with this "identity crisis". What does it mean, exactly, to be Irish? In the past it was easier: things like family heritage and religion were markers of one's Irish-ness. But now there are Irish-Arabs, Irish-Czechs, Irish-Asians. A friend drove me past a mosque and pointed it out as if it were evidence of aliens.

Just like any city experiencing the effects of a booming economy, there are prices to pay. The irish are quite proud of their history, and often define themselves by it. How, then, will they be able to open themselves up to people who do not share that history of hardship? When we think of Ireland, we don't think of intolerance or racism. But it would be naive to say it doesn't exist just because we haven't heard of it. True, it exists in a different form than racism in the US, but it is still there, and it still causes tension.

I'd be interested to see where this takes Ireland. How will parents, teachers and the media approach this incoming wave of globalization? It's an interesting time to be in Ireland. It's a more interesting time, I think, to be Irish.

Borderlines

I don't know if its because of travel or because I'm just getting older. Probably a bit of both. I find myself remaining neutral on issues that I previously would've intensely researched, formed an opinion, and argued that opinion ad nauseum. It's not that I don't research things anymore- I certainly do my fair share of research on issues. It's just that I've found myself hesitating before engaging in intense political or social debate with anyone.

I've been told that traveling makes a person more liberal. And I've seen these effects first hand: students returning from foreign countries, swinging fists at american based corproations which are ruining the lives of those abroad, or complaining about our lack of healthcare or governmental services which are geared to helping the people etc etc. It's only natural to compare your home country to the outside world. I've seen the opposite happen as well, though, where Americans are so uncomfortable with their surroundings that they refuse to even partially assimilate and instead spout slight untruths about how superior the US or Canada is to the rest of the world. Being around people like that makes me feel a bit ashamed, but I know how they feel as well. I can't even count how many times this year I have been faced with a tough situation and though "oh man, we would handle this much better where I come from".

Yet this trip has picked me up and landed me right smack in the middle. I still hold my values, my opinions and alliances; however I must admit that I am far more hesitant in flaunting these as "truths" or "facts" or "the right ways of being". I've suddenly found myself of having developed a new ability to see both sides of the situation. Even a painful and political one.

I know, I'm surprised too. I'm still anti-war (I don't think anything could change that ) but now not only can I understand why an American (or anyone else whose country is involved in this war- an aspect that many people forget!) would be pro-war, I respect their opinion. Who am I to judge someone for their worldview. Because, remember, someone's world view is more than a reflection of their personal character. It's a reflection of so many different aspects of their world: socioeconomic status and interests, education, familial upbringing and involvement in the war. There are so many variables that go into a person's opinion and political persuasion that I just can't bring myself to write off someone as "an ignorant jerk" for disagreeing with me anymore.

So what? That's just a part of growing up. Well it just snuck up on me, I guess. I went to countries where I was well aware of conflict, and I went with premeditated opinions on that conflict, only to have them pulled apart and re examined once I got there. In Australia, I began to understand why it was so difficult for the native people to achieve reparations and equal treatment. In Northern Ireland I was faced with the fact that during the troubles life was scary as hell regardless of what "side" you were on.

It's easy, attractive and exciting for people to take radical sides. The independence movement is more interesting when there are guns and car bombs and violence and it *looks* like a revolution. But revolution like that hardly works nowadays. People just want to live their lives without having to worry about carbombs or propaganda.

I guess all these thoughts are coming out now because I've been in Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland and I've talked to people about their experiences during the Troubles and I've learned that effective revolution looks like compromise, equal representation in government and forgiveness. And there's nothing small, easy or weak about such acts- they take bravery and strength of character. I've been to Scotland where an independence referendum is being proposed, patiently, it seems because there is very little talk of "revolution" and more talk about "referendum".

No, perhaps my generation won't have as much fun as our hippy forefathers and foremothers. But perhaps this was always the way to go, dissent through discussion, small compromises making big changes.

Am I becoming moderate in my age?

I know, I couldn't believe it at first either. But upon further reflection, I think I've always believed all this. I think I always knew discussion and diplomacy were the best ways to achieve a goal. But I think the difference is, for the first time, I'm not disappointed with this method. In fact, I'm excited by it.

Because what does this mean for America's future?

I left last August feeling guilty and a bit hopeless about my country's future. But I've seen a candidate who is so well spoken, I get chills after almost every speech. I want to know more, not less, about this candidate's platform. Mainly because the idea of a charismatic candidate who can speak well gives me hope.

I was told by a recent visitor to the US that if aliens invaded the US today, they'd think one of the candidate's names was "Hope".

Gosh, I like that.

There were Roses

So my song for you this evening, it's not to make you sad
Nor for adding to the sorrows of our troubled northern land
But lately I've been thinking and it just won't leave my mind
I'll tell you of two friends of mine who were both good friends one time
Isaac Scott from Banagh, he lived just across the fields
A great man for the music, the dancing and the reels
McDonald came from South Armagh to court young Alice fair
And we often met on the Ryan Road and laughter filled the air

There were roses, roses
There were roses
And the tears of a people ran together

Now Isaac he was Protestant and Sean was Catholic born
But it never made a difference, for the friendship it was strong
And sometimes in the evening when we heard the sound of drums
We said it won't divide us, we always will be one
For the ground our fathers plowed in, the soil it is the same
And the places where we say our prayers have just got different names
We talked about the friends who'd died and hoped there'd be no more
It was little then we realized the tragedy in store

There were roses, roses
There were roses
And the tears of a people ran together
There were roses, roses
There were roses....

It was on a Sunday morning when the awful news came round
Another killing had been done just outside Newry Town
We knew that Isaac danced up there, we knew he liked the band
But when we heard that he was dead we just could not understand
We gathered round the graveside on a cold and rainy day
The minister he closed his eyes and for no revenge he prayed
And all of us who knew him from along the Ryan Road
We bowed our heads and said a prayer for the resting of his soul

There were roses, roses
There were roses
And the tears of a people ran together
There were roses, roses
There were roses....

Now fear it filled the countryside there was fear in every home
When late at night a car came prowling round the Ryan Road
A Catholic would be killed tonight to even up the score
Oh Christ it's young McDonald they've taken from the door
Isaac was my friend! he cried, he begged them with his tears
But centuries of hatred have ears that do not hear
An eye for an eye, it was all that filled their minds
And another eye for another eye till everyone is blind

There were roses, roses
There were roses
And the tears of a people ran together
There were roses, roses
There were roses....

So my song for you this evening, it's not to make you sad
Nor for adding to the sorrows of our troubled northern land
But lately I've been thinking and it just won't leave my mind
I'll tell you of two friends of mine who were both good friends one time
Now I don't know where the moral is or where this song should end
But I wonder just how many wars are fought between good friends
And those who give the orders are not the ones to die
It's Scott and McDonald and the likes of you and I
There were roses, roses
There were roses
And the tears of a people ran together
There were roses, roses
There were roses....
-Tommy Sands-

There were only about 40 people in the small bar in Scotland, but when Andy White sang this song, the whole bar echoed with people singing along. Not in shy "i'm at a gig singing along" voices. In loud, sad, solidarity voices that echoed.

Belfast

I had heard a lot of things about Belfast before I got there. The old man at the Bed and Breakfast in that small town, the girls in Dublin, the students in Cork. They all had their own stories about Belfast, their own versions and rumors of the strange city that was “lost”.

I was criticized, a bit, for not really knowing what I was getting into by going to Belfast. I had been educated about the conflict, as much as any American, and I had an interest in talking to people about it. But all the answers I got were hearsay, because though everyone had an opinion about Belfast, no one had ever actually been there. Read these books, see these films before you go! They told me. You’ll be disgusted. But I didn’t want bias. I wanted to go and see it for myself.

Belfast is a hard and sensitive city. It wears its scars publically. Though at first glance it appears just like any other city: busses, taxis that don’t stop for pedestrians, shops, apartments, old buildings etc. But the past is evident in small details: “unite ireland” in spraypaint on the side of a building, protestant propaganda murals still painted and perfectly intact, British flags flying over the sidewalks- a constant reminder of conflict and conquest. A troubled, tragic city, you can almost still feel the ground pulsing with tension that was only just quelled. I always believed that art, worthwhile art, needs to come out of conflict. It’s all fine to talk about sunshine and happy love etc etc, but the art that moves, quakes and elevates the spirit, that art understands pain. Even something classic and beautiful, like Van Gogh’s Starry Night- I would venture to say that his famous painting wouldn’t have been so beautiful if Van Gogh himself wasn’t so troubled.

It was an interesting time to be in Northern Ireland. Peace talks were finally turning into action. Sudden realization that blowing eachother up was not an effective way of resolving the conflict.

“They’re blowing up the boarder!” Musician/Poet Andy White proclaimed, tuning his guitar “kind of ironic since they spent so much time checking cars at the boarder checkpoint for bombs. But it’s a new ireland- that is to say, they’re building a big massive highway.”

English?

"Farkin hell that's a rightauolrant!"

"What?"

"A rightauol rant!"

"a rhino rant?"

"No a right auol rant!"

"What's that middle word?"

"auol"

"how do you spell it?"

"A-U-O-L"

"what does that mean?"

" Auol! Do you not understand plain English?!"


Ugh.

Cross-Ireland adventure part 3

When we drove through the mountain crossing, I had a flashback to lord of the rings. You know, the part where they climb that steep mountan ridge and go into the cave where they find gollum. Yeah, that’s where we were.

But soon the road opened up and we pulled in to get some ice cream. I almost dropped the cone, though when I saw the view.

Unbelieveable. Pictures cannot capture it. The mountain,s the grey haziness of the bay, the flat smooth rocks.


After a bit of staring and when we caught our breath, we contineud the drive. There was a big momma sheep and her baby sheep on the road, and we drove slowly around them, I snapping photos the whole way.

We pulled into dingle around early evening and grabbed some delicious fresh fish at a pub. We found a small bed and breakfast by the bay and collapsed into a warm sleep.

The next morning we woke early to the smell of freshly baked bread. Slightly still bleary eyed with sleep, I walked into the breakfast room to find a whole array of delicious hand baked goods and a table of cheery australian women. I poured myself a coffee and sniffed. The smell of good freshly brewed coffee reminded me a bit of home, a bit of icy cold college mornings where I would stumble into Café Opus, flip on my tunes, put muffins in the oven and sip on coffee.

After stuffing myself with the best yummy baked goods I’ve ahd in a long time, I dropped off the keyes and we headed out. Next destination: Sligo.

But the road to Sligo was long, and we decided to stop for dinner just outside of Galway in a smaller town. We were blessed with another gorgeous dday, very not typical of Ireland, as all the shopkeepers would remark. Beautiful beautiful blue sky, the water sparkled a mirrored reflection and boats sailed in the distance.

It was getting late though, and Sligo was far. At about half past 7, we stopped in a small town called Knock. Now, for such an incredibly small town, there certainly was a massive amount of religious paraphanalia in Knock. Apparently, this sleepy town was famous for a beautiful bassilica. We stopped at another bed and breakfast and fell fast asleep.