Bray to Grey

I woke up not sure what I'd do today, but knowing I had a whole blank day. I went to the interwebz to see what was available. I was in familiar Dublin yesterday, so I wanted a new town, but something that was close enough for a full day's activities. I figured I'd go south to Bray or Greystones, two towns in County Wicklow on the southern end of the Dublin Bus system.Cari told me about some trails in that area before i left, so I took the bus to Bray to walk to Greystones along the trails. A morning highlihgt of the day was reading a section of A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man on God's eternity while waiting in Cabinteely for the notoriously late 45 bus.

Bray is a gorgeous coastal town. It caters to Irish and international tourists, but I enjoyed walking along the simple boardwalk watching the sea, people, and architecture. The beach is small placed stones rather than sand or gravel. There are two way to hike from Bray to Greystones. One trail climbs up Bray Head, a hill with a large cross on top, and another trail runs along the cliffs with the sea off to the east. I first took the steep trail stright up the mountain. I did some backpacker's rock climbing towards the top like I haven't done since I scaled the Tooth of Time in Philmont, New Mexico. Then I continued south and downhill on the easier trails. Like the rest of my walks, I had gorgeous views, amazing weather, and tired legs towards the end.

Greystones is a nice small coastal town that had a farmer's market today. I took advantage of the luck and bought a brownie, loaf of multigrain bread, and rasperry jam. I had my lunch on the shore near two father-son pairs who skipped stones off towards the horizon. The walk home along the cliffs was great. It's another experience bette expressed in photographs than in words.

Saturday in the Park

Friday night I met some of the H-Dips at Padraic's house. The five of us and Padraic's friend Derek shared a great evening in his living room. Then we head out in a taxi to Copper's. Don't ask me where we were. I got into the taxi and got out when I was told to. This was the Dublin clubbing scene that was dramatized in Rough, a Trinity University production that was one of the better shows I saw as part of the Fringe Festival. The lighting was dim and smoky. The club music was similar to that in America. The prices seemed high enough to exist outside this recession-driven culture.

Saturday I woke up and after some research decided to go catch a show in city centre. Fortunately/unfortunately my bus got to the city too late and I ended up wandering Dublin for the day. I saw a Caravaggio! Whoa! I was going to take it home for Gail, but it would not have fit into my bag. It was in a room called "Caravaggio and His Followers." It contained a lot of artists who played with light and chiaroscuro. There were several images of singers holding candles. One painting showed the light filtered through the trees hitting a few folks on a bench. Most of this room was, of course, Biblical in nature.

I actually got to the National Gallery by accident. I was going to get tickets for a play, but I got to the city too late because I had just missed a 145 into town. Instead I got off at the park with the Oscar Wilde statue, nicknamed the "fag on the crag." I wandered around the park and then head for city centre. A block later I'm in front of the National Gallery and figure what the hell. There was an exhibition of Munch prints that I really enjoyed. I got some of my souvenir shopping done and headed home.

H is for H-Dip

I've referenced several times that the other student teachers whith whom I am working are not "student teachers" as Americans commonly understand them. These other people who are not-quite-teachers like myself are called "hired diplomas" or "H-Dips." H-Dips have already completed three years at a university and hold bachelor's degrees in English, history, biology, etc. Now they work mornings at Blackrock College teaching one to three classes by themselves, a sort of trial by fire, if high school can be compared to a expository conflagration (no comment). They then take classes in the evenings at a university, specifcially University College Dublin for the students I know. They will continue this pattern for the whole school year. On their first day at Blackrock they had not taken their educaiton classes yet. Their lectures in the evenings cover methods, educational psychology, and the other education classes needed to gain their "hired diploma," a form of master's degree. This leads to a very busy year, because they are leading class in the mornings, going to lectures in the evenings, and then preparing lessons for tomorrow. Repeat about 180 times.

My program what I gather is a fairly typcail American student teaching experience. I have been in charge of John's first period second year (8th grade) class since the second day. I prepare the lesson plans, lead the classes, and reflect in my portfolio journal. This is "my class." I still work within John and Ireland's system, because it is what the boys are used to and what they will return to once I am passed and fully gone away. After first period I shadow John when he has class. I sit and watch when there is not much I can do to help. I get up and participate or lead then the opportunity arises, which is becoming more and more frequent.

My tendency is now to have you fill out a Venn diagram or give you a few oral response questions, but I'll let you get away without homework tonight.

Immigrant Song

So some of you may have seen my Facebook status relaying part of my drama with the Garda National Immigration Bureau. Here's the story.

I mentioned in a previous post that I had trouble entering the country because the guy at immigration didn't believe that I was neither paying student nor paid teacher. Just like at home, it's all about the Benjamins . . . or . . . Yeatses. He let me through telling me to go to the location on this green card (not "green card") within a month and pay €150 for . . . something. He wasn't specific.

I go in for attempt #1 about two weeks ago, hoping I can quickly find out what the heck I need. As I walk in to the immensely crowded room, I realize that it would take 45 minutes to get a question answered, so I come back another time.

Attempt #2 came this Monday. I had the day free, so I went down to the GNIB full of optimism and important documents. The office, which closes at 8pm, stopped giving out tickets just before 1pm when I am a tantalizingly close second in line to receive this golden ticket, therefore nullifying a 45 minute commute and 45 minute queue. I ask the lovely man a quick question: does he have any idea what it is that this man at the airport was talking about. The answer is no, but if I come back again he can finish my registration. Hooray! Damn.

Attempt #3 was Wednesday afternoon. School closes early for rugby and I had nothing to do for the final period, so John let me leave early so I could get in line quickly and get ticket. that is, of course, unless they run out of tickets again while I'm standing in line. Screw this. I'm going to the Yeats exhibit at the National Library on Kildare Street.

Attempt #4 was Thursday morning. I woke up and went straight to the GNIB first thing in the morning. At 8:30am, a half hour after opening, I get ticket 188. Luckily I can leave the building with the system they have there, but ticket 188 probably isn't going to be served until after noon. Let's go wander. When I come back I finish a chapter, and act, and a scene in the three texts I brought with me. I also avoided the glances of a well-groomed young Chinese man who kept smiling at me. Most of you know that I love the gay community, just not in that way. At 1:30pm, 5 hours after getting my arrival, I leave the GNIB with a new (thankfully free) stamp on my passport. I am now legally able to teach until November 28, more than a month after I will leave Blackrock College.

After research I find that the man at the airport who was either hard of hearing or hard of understanding wanted me to get a GNIB card because I'd be a student staying in the country for more than 90 days. I will be in and out in 70 days and gave him the documentation to prove it. I am a student at Duquesne University in America and also showed him the documentation to prove that.

An H-Dip back at Blackrock has been reading about immigration. Some articles from the Wall Street Journal apparently has some interesting views on the process - get rid of it. He says that the people who work at immigrations actually do nothing. They don't provide a product. They don't provide a service. They just take salaries from the government; physical resources in forms of booths, buildings, paperwork, and uniforms; and time from the people queuing for hours on end.

Today's story is brought to you by the number 4 and the letter Q.

One Night in Belfast

Actually two, but this title sounds better. Actually by connecting the Unionist-Nationalist conflict to the USSR-US conflict in Chess, the show featuring "One Night in Bangkok," one could make the argument that [SLAP!] . . . sorry.

Friday I left straight from school to get the train from Dublin Connolly train station to Belfast Central.

Problem #1: One of the viaducts between the two cities collapsed. I knew about this in advance and anticipated taking a bus for part of the journey. No worries.

Problem #2: There was a . . . disruption along the lines that caused the Belfast travelers to change back from the train to a bus at Newry, which was a surprise to us and apparently the workers at Newry train station. Minor worries.
Problem #3: I got to Belfast 30 minutes late and 30 minutes before my hostel closed its registration desk. Concrete worries. What proceeded was a walk-run through an unfamiliar city and country following a computer-printed map lit by streetlights. It worked! And it was fun! I arrived at the kickass Arnie's Backpackers in time!

After throwing my stuff up on my bed I went to the common room to watch the end of Die Hard with two other travelers my age. As we said goodnight, we proceeded to the same room, because apparently we were roommates. I fell asleep early, because my body is fixed to that pesky teacher's body schedule. ("Pesky" modifies "schedule" here, not "teacher.")

Saturday I woke up to go to St. George's Market with Chen and Anna, two people around my age who work at the hostel for now and invited me to go out last night. St. George's Market is an indoor market with over a hundred craft and food booths in Belfast city centre. I bought a muffin here, a cookie there, a sausage biscuit, an apple, and a few other items for about a pound apiece (or a "pind" apiece, as the local accent apparently goes). There was a live guitar and flute act in the center of the market. After lunchtime I split off from the group and head out to the city.

I grabbed a tour bus that took me around the city and its outskirts. The remarkable part was the journey through the neighborhoods of north Belfast still separated along Catholic-Nationalist and Protestant-Unionist lines. There are building-sized fences in some places that divide the neighborhoods. One tourist once asked our guide when they will be taken down. "When we no longer need them," he replied. "They're peace walls. Right now they appear to be working." The guide also pointed out some of the streets that were the most active during the Troubles. He had a great Belfast humor: "Here's a place for some great shots, I mean pictures." Dozens of murals displaying peace, history, or "hooray for our side" cover Belfast. At no point did I feel unsafe, but at every point I was wary of the very recent history.

After the tour I found the Crown Bar and took a walking pub tour through Belfast. (For professional reasons I must declare that at no point did I imbibe in any alcohol, beer, booze, spirits, hooch, brewskies, rotgut, or grog.) The tour was pretty cool, but more importantly I got to know the twelve people I was with. At the last pub a group of us stayed after. A Dane, two Scots, two Dubliners, and I stayed at McHughs, played their Guitar Hero contest, hung around, and had a really good night out. It was the best night out with others I've had since I got here.

The next morning I jumped a bus outside the Belfast International Youth Hostel and Causeway Cafe, where I had my first Ulster fry. The bus took me up to the Carrick-a-Rede rope bridge around some more absolutely gorgeous landscape. After that we headed up to Giant's Casueway, which would have sparked my imagination more during my conspiracy theorist days in middle school.

180 miles later I was back in Cabinteeley Village.

Greek Life on Friday the 18th

School on Friday went smashingly well. My first period second years (8th graders) are still going strong with Of Mice and Men. I also assigned a weekend composition (as is the usual for my cooperating teacher) that I look forward to grading. Yes, ha! I look forward to grading it. [Sticks out tongue.]
One of my fifth years (junior) had his birthday. Usually a barely remarkable event, except that made him exactly as old as my brother. Weird.

The notable period of the day was John's sixth period sixth years (seniors). We discussed a little bit of Greek theatre on Thursday, but were going more in-depth today with a learning activity I borrowed from John Lane, my college theater director/professor. The main idea is that Greek theatre had to be performed certain ways because of the performance conditions (the connection between drama and performance space). For example, the acting style was big and over-dramatic, because the audience in the back had to see it. Subtle it is not. The lines also repeat themselves a lot because the audience might not have caught it the first time around. The boys, John, and I went to this outdoor amphitheatre in Blackrock Park near the school. (awesome pictures on Flickr soon.) I had two gracious volunteers read a scene of Oedipus Rex normally. No one could hear of course. Then they projected better, but only one side could hear any given actor. Then they projected facing forward, making it as good as it would get vocally. Then I asked them who was the king and who was the messenger. They weren't 100% sure, so we added masks (large print-outs) of a king and a normal man. At the end I asked what we lost by making our actors these large-headed broadly-gesticulating figures before us. Realism and subtlety mostly. We then did a similar activity with a single chorus member who became a large somewhat-in-sync mob. The discussion afterwards dealt with storytelling: what can theatre do that films/poetry/novels cannot? What can the other forms do better than theatre.
The boys seemed to enjoy it and learn from it. They gave good responses during the final questioning section. This also grounds their reading of Oedipus Rex not only in history, but performance needs. John was very complimentary of the lesson. He said they'd remember it for a very long time. I will.

Oh What a Beautiful Morning . . . !

Hello!

I had a great weekend! I got well-deserved quality sleep Friday night. Saturday I woke up and set up the blog and sent a few emails. Then Douglass and I headed out. (Douglass being the small frog figurine that I sometimes take with me. Gail present. Long story.) I went up to City Centre to catch a Dublin Bus tour at 2pm. It was a tour that ran north of the city and ran up to Malahide Castle and back down the coast. It was a beautiful day and I got good pictures, some of which made it to the Flickr account. Malahide is an old castle that has been around since the 1700s, I think. I clearly didn't pay attention well enough during the tour. The castle's style has changed over the years and the overall effect is that every room is a different century from the last. Picture a time travel novel written by Martha Stewart. Lovely place. The tour continued and I got to see part of Ireland's eastern coast. After we ended in City Centre ( I have to break out of the habit of saying "downtown") I had fish and chips at the famous and oft-recommended Bashoff's on O'Connell Street.

I had planned to see another Fringe show that night, but because the weather was so nice, I took the 46a south to Dun Loaghaire (pronounced "dunn leery") and walked along the pier there. It was absolutely beautiful. I pulled off to the edge and read a bit more of The Dubliners. I wanted to find a pub to watch the end of the Leinster-Dragons rugby game. I passed up two fancy-schmancy looking pubs and ten minutes later stumbled upon a great place called Mark McKennas . . . I think. I only caught the end of what appeared to be a blow-out game. The moral of the story is not to settle for the first or second choice, but to keep looking until you get what you want.

Sunday was GORGEOUS, which apparently doesn't happen much in Ireland this time of year. I went on a walk with Martin and the guys again. Ab-so-lute-ly beau-ti-ful. Plenty of pictures on the Flickr site, because describing it would be silly. We walked up and around Glendalough, a medieval village with remnants. Again, pictures are better than my sloppy wordsmanship. What I didn't take pictures of were my sore legs, because while I was hiking up and running down beautiful mountains I didn't think about how I was hiking up and running down beautiful mountains until this morning when getting out of bed became a longer ordeal than I would have thought.

That evening after te walk Marjorie and Paul's adorable grandchildren came over with their mother, who works in educational technology. I loved talking with her and hope to see her again. I got my Little Acorns training to use when I played with the kiddies while the adults talked. We played mostly mouse-and-lions, where one was the mouse and two were the lions. Very complicated game. Lots of fun!

And now I am here. It is Monday. It is 7pm. School let out four hours ago. I am finishing work so I can go to sleep prepared and up-to-date.

God bless that coffee machine.

Summary: Go to my Flickr account.

Post-Script: You'll notice that a mojority of my pronouns are "I." While I am having a great time over here, I miss you all very much. I often think "Man, Max would love this," or "Gail would've enjoyed meeting her," or "Mom would love this story," so know that you are in my thoughts while I am here.

Updated

Okay, now that I've got this blog up and running, I should keep it going properly. Thank you all for your support and communication! I miss you all but am having a lovely time here in Ireland.

Cheers!

Journey Across the Sea

Originally Dated: Saturday, August 29, 2009

Hello!

All is well here, like I said.

So I got off the plane and got both suitcases, which was victory number one. Then I had to go through customs. Ha ha. Well . . . I had a bit of a hard time proving to what essentially is Boarder Patrol that I am not getting paid to student teach, which would have been a whole different pile of paperwork and visas that I don't have. He had me go to the back of the queue so he could verify my story with Blackrock College. It was 8:45am at the time, so nobody was there when he called (which I thought was strange, but whatever). Like I said, "All is well," so he let me pass through after stamping a lot of stuff onto my passport. Then I dragged my two large suitcases through the terminal (think George Carlin reference). Automatically I become self-conscious of my accent. I need to ask questions, but I don't want to sound like a stupid American who has never heard of the AirCoach (which sounds like Michael Jordan's ride to the prince's ball) or seen a Vodaphone (Gail, if it were a Jim Voda phone, it would come on a motorcycle and make conversations twice as long as necessary). I get to an ATM and find out where to catch the AirCoach through Greystones. At one point I sat down, had a Clif Bar, and emailed you the first "I'm still alive" (Jonathon Coulton reference) message. I also find out that there actually isn't a place to purchase a cell phone . . . I'm sorry, "mobile" phone (pronounced "moh-buy'-ill"). In my infinite optimism, I figure that this will work itself out somehow. (It does. Remember: all is well.)

So I get to the AirCoach, stow my luggage, and pay the driver. I sit halfway back clutching my map and Marjorie's email, hoping that something will say Cabinteely Cross - my stop. Luckily the driver calls out the stops as he finds them. I ask a bloke (see, I'm learning!) on the bus if I can borrow his phone (with all the appropriate fresh-off-the-plane details). His is out of batteries. Okay. No worries. I get off at Cabinteely Cross. I look down the road. Nothing but highway, an unlikely place to find a phone. Up the road is a residential area. More importantly, above the road is a pedestrian walkway with a father and young daughter. This was a good sign, because little girls don't like to walk very far and are an excellent signifier of civilization. I go to the walkway. To the right are houses, but to the left are some shops. Good crack! (Which I swear means "good fun" and not quality cocaine. [Dammit, this email will probably now be tracked by the government because of the phrase "quality cocaine."])

At home I read about Saint Brigid and Saint Brigid's cross. It's kind of cool. Look it up. I mention this because as soon as I cross the bridge I see Saint Brigid's Church. Hooray! They'll help a poor Catholic American boy in need of a phone! Oh it's raining a bit too. God sought it fit to make sure my blue coat holds off Irish drizzle too. The lovely lady behind the church desk helps me call Marjorie. I say thank you and tell myself that I will buy one of those Brigid crosses before I leave. I wait outside the church for Marjorie.

She comes soon. Marjorie is Irish Susan Hanely. She takes me to her house via the left side of the road. Not that she's a bad driver of course, but the roads are backwards here. Either that or Ireland has it correct and everyone else is confused. We arrive at her house and she shows me around and to my room. I'll send pictures soon. She leaves to go back to work. I planned to set up my room and take a quick nap. Instead I hang two shirts and fall asleep for four hours. Mind you I slept maybe two hours on the plane. I wake up, shower, and set up my room some more.

Soon after Marjorie and her husband Paul come home and they invite me out to the pub they patronize on Fridays. My first Irish meal was Guinness, Jameson, and then stew back at the house followed by football (soccer). I went upstairs and fell asleep after that.

I wake up, well, about now, and have a bit of energy, so I'm composing this email. I hope all is well at home too!

Love you!

-Joe

Fringe and Mountains

Originally Dated: Saturday, September 6, 2009

I've been in and out of the Dublin Fringe Festival this weekend. Friday night I saw a horrendous production that insultingly called itself a play. I wouldn't patronize such an empty ego-driven smattering of non-existent content again if someone payed me €50 to pretend to find it legitimate. I did talk to some interesting people before and after the show. Met a Polish guy named Igor who is living on the dole in Ireland. I talked with a German film student after him. Finally I met one of the extras in the play and talked about Ireland and the like. Great guy.

That aside, I had a great day in Dublin yesterday. Again I was at the Fringe Festival; this time the location was the Absolut Fringe Center, a church on Smock Alley in Temple Bar that they turned into a lobby with two adjacent performance spaces. (Nothing makes a Pittsburgh actor/South Sider happier than a church transformed into a something else creative. It's how some of the most unique spaces in Pittsburgh got their origin.) I saw a dance piece called "12 Minute Dances" that was nice. I enjoyed it.

BUT!

Later on that night I saw an ABSOLUTELY FAN-TASTC and BRILLIANT play called "This Is Not A Drill." I walked into the space, the basement of this church, some chair lying on the actors' space and ready-made stadium seating for the audience, two projectors flanking the upstage limits. I fell in love with the space, and then the play started and I only got happier from there. It's a post-apocalyptic social commentary featuring four neutrally-dressed actors playing multiple unnamed roles. The themes were the familiar anti-materialism, pro-skepticism, Thoreuian modernist mantras, but the way they presented them was brilliant. They had these two projector screens that they assumedly experimented with a while back ans showed the end results of their experience in the show. Had the script been weaker, the projectors would have been clever at best, but since they played so soundly into the themes, their playtime was extraordinary. I'm going to go back again. I sat in the back corner, so when I was the only person to shoot up for a standing ovation at the end nobody saw me or was able to follow my standing, but next time I'll be front and center.

I went on a "walk" (hike) with Martin, one of the teachers, and three of his friends this morning. We went to the Wicklow Mountains. We left the car, crossed a stream, ad headed directly UP. After this we turned ad headed directly DOWN. So I sent this morning doing some mountain hiking I haven't seen the likes of since Philmont.

First Two Weeks

I am still alive and doing well. I've been at Blackrock College for two weeks now. My arrival was a bit of an adventure! The first week was half orientation and meetings and half actual schoolwork. I'm in charge of a first period group of second years (8th graders). We've spent most of our time working on grammar/punctuation, but just had an introductory lesson on the Great Depression on Friday in anticipation of our Of Mice and Men unit. Some of the boys knew a lot already, and they all asked great questions. I used a video of Dorthea Lange photos and Bing Crosby singing "Brother, Can You Spare A Dime?". They're a great group of boys! I follow my cooperating teacher for the remainder of the day and help him out when I can.

I'm working with a fantastic cooperating teacher named John Sheil. He's well-respected, head of the English department, and the author of his own textbook that he uses in class. I'm really lucky to be working with him for my time here. He walks to and from school, and I walk to a bus stop along his route when going home, so we will often walk with each other after school. I met his wife yesterday when he and I stopped on the way home to sit in a restaurant.

The woman with whom I am staying is Marjorie Nolan, a lovely woman who reminds me of Susan Hanley and is head of amenities at the two schools and boarding house on Blackrock's campus. She's been treating and feeding me well since my arrival. She and her husband Paul were an integral part of my getting to know the Dublin area.

Most of my weekdays have involved going to school and then heading to Dublin for the night. At first these were exploratory trips, but then the Dublin Fringe Festival started. It's fantastic! As of today I've seen four shows, one of which I've seen twice because another show was sold out. Soon the Gate Theatre (Yes, theatRE. I'm in Ireland.) will be starting a series of plays by Irish playwright Brian Freil. I plan on seeing those next week. Hooray for student discounts!

My weekends also involved going through Dublin, especially my first Saturday when I took a bus tour of Dublin to get an idea of where everything was. Last Sunday one of the teachers invited me on a walk (hike) in the Wicklow Mountains. It was great! He and his friends are planning to go again tomorrow.