Signs, signs, everywhere signs...

Okay- that last post was very energy-intensive, so it's time for a lighter one!

There are lots of signs in Europe, and most are just things you squint at trying to figure out where to go, but  some make you do a double take. Here is my archive of signs worth all the funny looks I get for taking pictures of them. 

A bar in Vienna, Austria. People are allowed to drink wine and beer at age 16, and everything else at 18.  If you break the law, though... 

Dublin, Ireland. What on earth does this sign mean? To run under flying cars? To jump your car over running pedestrians? I find the spatial relationship of the icons open to all sorts of interpretations...

Near my apartment in Santry, Dublin. Tell me- what do you think this means? To me, it seems to say I should poop on the footpath if my dog does...

But upon further reading, that is not, in fact, the case...

Dublin is a very pedestrian-friendly city.

Cork, Ireland- where the signs are ambiguous and the people are clever.  

On the Metro in Rome. I think it's a series of informational signs about the characteristic Roman Metro dance moves... all to be done without touching the doors with your hands. When in Rome...

The elevator in the Eiffel Tower. I am so grateful the pickpockets are red! Makes them much easier to spot. 

I have seen so much vegetarian propaganda that I forget where this is... somewhere in continental Europe. Anyway people, I DID. 3 years ago. So lay off. This isn't going to work on somebody out to get a burger, anyway. 

See what I mean? But at least the Romans show some enthusiasm!  This could totally become a cheer for Team Vegan. I see the fans shouting in unison already... "carne equals morte, GOOOOOO vegan!"

Howth, Ireland. Thanks so much for informing me, because otherwise I would never have noticed the sudden drop into the ocean.

Hope you all enjoyed that! And remember, inspiration comes in the most unexpected places :-)

Tá Cúpla Focal Agam: Páirte 1

Hello! It has been a while since I blogged. Dublin life is distracting, full of meetings and interviews and nights out and nights in. And lots of ice cream.
However, as I am going to Oireachtas na Samhna in a few days I figure it is the perfect time to lay out the Irish I have learned, and hope I remember it come this weekend.
I have been taking Irish classes through the Cumann na Gaeilge at DCU, but being the overzealous student I am I have also bought a book, and I travel everywhere with a dictionary trying to read the bilingual signs in the museums and on the streets. I've picked up a random smattering of the language, and included almost everything here with my best approximation of a pronunciation guide.

Disclaimer: There are several distinct varieties of Irish. You will quite possibly run into a fluent speaker who says things very differently!

Greetings

•  Hello: Dia duit  (día ghwich)
•  Hello (in response): Dia is Muire duit (día iss mwarih ghwich)
•  How are you?: Conas tá tú? (conas atah too)
•  How are you? (Connemara): Cenchaoi a bhfuil tú? (kenkwee a will too?)
•  How are you? (Donegal): Cad é mar atá tú? (cujaymur atah too)
•  I am well: Tá mé go maith (tah may guh mah)
•  I am wonderful: Tá mé go iontach (tah may guh eeuntuch)
•  I am excellent: Tá mé ar fheabhas (tah may ar yawuss)
•  I am not well: Níl mé go maith (neel may guh mah)
• Goodbye: Slán (slawn)

Introductions and Personal Information

•  What is your name?: Cad is ainm duit? (cud iss annum dwich?)
•  __ is my name: __ is ainm dom (iss annum dum)
•  I am (a) ____: Is mise ____ (Iss misha). E
• Example: Is mise Cortney means "I am Cortney." I can also say: Is mise mac léinn (iss misha mac lane), which means "I am a student." 
• Nice to meet you: Deas bualadh leat (djay-as booalah lat)
• Where do you live?: Cá bhfuil tú i do chónaí? (caw will too ih doh choney?)
•  note: think of the German sound of the name "Bach," with the ch in your throat. Say "honey" with that sound at the beginning, and you're pretty close.)
• I live in...: Tá mé i mo chónaí i... (taw may ih moh choney ih...)
• Example: Tá mé i mo chónaí i Meiriceá (America). 
• What is your phone number? Cad is d'uimhir teileafóin? (cud iss divver telephone?)
• My phone number is: M'uimhir teileafóin is...

• Note: numbers in next section!
• What is your address?: Cad is do sheoladh? (cud iss doh hyóla?)
• My address is: Mo sheoladh is... (muh hyóla iss...)
• What age are you?: Cén aois tú? (cain eesh who?)
• I am __ years of age: Tá mé ____ bliain d'aois (tah may ___ bleeun d'eesh).
• note: "bliain" changes spelling depending on your age. This is for people aged twenties onward). 
• examples: 
• I am twenty years of age: Tá mé fiche bliain d'aois. 
• I am twenty-two years of age: Tá mé dhá bhliain agus fiche d'aois (literally, I am two years and twenty of age). 

Numbers

• 0: náid (nawt)
• 1: (h)aon (ayun)
• 2: dó (doh)
• 3: trí (tree)
• 4: ceathair (ca-har)
• 5: cúig (coo-ig)
• 6: sé (shay)
• 7: seacht (shacht- think "shocked" but with that throaty ch instead of ck)
• 8: (h)ocht (acht- same as above)
• 9: naoi (nee)
• 10: deich (deh)    
• Note: when giving a number, like a phone number, say "a" before the numbers 1-10. It is in this case that aon and ocht become haon and hocht. 
• Example: M'uimhir teileafóin is náid, a dó, a trí, a sé...

Alright, that is a lot- be on the lookout for Páirte 2! Slán!

 

A Brief Transformation

I love books. I wander into quirky little bookstores, lose myself in late-night reading binges, find inspiration and wisdom and adventure. Today I realized just why I love books. Books make things beautiful. Oftentimes I miss the meaning in my own life until I write it down, because the very act of doing so lends every event significance and character. Even ugly, painful, or sad things become beautiful in books.
I am on what is perhaps one of the greatest adventures of my life right now, spending five and a half months living in Ireland. I have dreamed of this for years. Yet dreams and adventures are full of a surprising number of mundane matters and frustrating obstacles, like the phone company that ripped me off and the two hours I spent in phone stores when I would otherwise have been out "adventuring" in the uncommonly sunny Irish autumn afternoon. On the verge of tears and mourning my wasted Euros I suddenly noticed a bookstore I had unknowingly bypassed several times, and went right in. I asked the man working there what his favorite books were, bought two of them, and emerged to find Dublin transformed. Once more the cobblestone streets beckoned, the old brick and stone buildings hinted at the centuries of history they have silently witnessed, and the rare treat of a blue sky promised something wonderful.


Dublin was magical and romantic in all its bustle and I wandered over to St. Stephen's Green, strolled by the pubs as the streetlights started to come on, and wondered what Dublin had in store for me. Just the very act of going into a bookstore, and the faith in literature that brought me there, gave me newer and happier eyes with which to see Dublin. If my afternoon were written down, it would sound quite romantic: walking on Grafton Street, dropping coins for the street musicians, listening to the Garda man ring a bell to notify people that Stephen's Green was closing for the evening... if written it would all be a dreamy haze of quickly glimpsed and blended details, and it would all be there for a reason. I guess that's what is wonderful about books- everything is there for a reason. If my life were a book those few wasted Euros at Vodafone would be significant, would be set in the context of some sort of personal transformation or set of dramatic events or portrait of life in a city. Books make the ordinary a work of art, and just enjoying the presence of a few books turned a frustrating afternoon into several hours of romantic dreaming in a faraway land I had finally reached.

And then I had to try and get that damn new SIM card working... "real life" jars like the unpredictable, jerky Dublin buses. But I've written them down, those buses, and they are now characters in my beautiful story of life in Dublin.

Roots in County Clare

Mary McInerney of Cahergal, 1925.
Photo taken from "Newmarket on Fergus: Looking Back"
compiled by Brendan P. Arthur.

Living with a host family gives one a totally different experience of traveling than staying in a hostel or apartment. Here, at Cahergal Farmhouse with the McInerney family, I am surrounded by things like this.

Noreen's uncle, a Bishop, with
the Pope

                                    The Murphy sisters, whose family owned Cahergal before one of the few Murphy daughters who didn't become a nun married a McInerney.

They have lived on this property, first in the smaller guest house and now in the big main B&B, for 4 generations. As Noreen told me the other day, her husband Michael was born here. So was his father, and so was his grandmother. And long before then, all the way back in the 1300s, this land was McInerney land. One local Luke McInerney has published several articles on his medieval ancestors, who can be traced all the way back to their progenitor Donnchadh Mac Conmara, who lived during the 1100s (See article by Luke McInerney). The McInerneys of history built some of the structures that developed into the castles, churches, and, well, bed and breakfasts that dot this landscape. They owned land that I've walked on, and in fact murdered each other over it during a dispute in the 1500s. Land is livelihood. As Michael reiterates, it's all in the grass. His horses grow strong on it and his cattle grow fat. He tends his hundred or so acres day in and day out, with the help of his sons when they're here. Whether they'll raise their families here too is yet to be seen; as Noreen resignedly tells a curious neighbor in for a visit, no marriages yet. But family ties run strong and roots run deep. In contrast, only one of my parents was born 3,000 miles away from the other, and my maternal grandfather came all the way from Poland. There were no Copelands in California before probably about the 1800s. The Murphys, one of whom was Michael's grandmother, were living in Cahergal then, and their house was already at least 100 years old.
And now for a little family history.

Patrick and Bridget Murphy were prosperous farmers with 13 children, 9 of whom traveled the world as nuns and others who died young but one, just one, who stayed, and married one of those McInerneys who in the 1600s were called "a great ancient noble family" (see Luke McInerney footnote 30). So it is that the doors of the guest bedrooms where so many tourists spend a night before heading to Shannon Airport bear a McInerney coat of arms. 

Photo taken from the article "My Mother Taught me How to Pray" by Caitriona Clear

Michael's dad was a farmer, and this property was much different then. For one thing, the 300 year old guest house didn't have solar panels yet. The building that is now the B&B was one story, not two. There was a dirt (or, sometimes, mud) driveway instead of a paved one. It wasn't uncommon to see people using horses to plow their fields.  

Today Cahergal is a successful, modern business: fancy guest bedrooms with ensuite bathrooms, energy efficient appliances, a location right by the Shannon Airport, etc. People stop in here for a night before they jet back home, or like me they live here for a while as a volunteer or student on a practical experience assignment. French, Czech, German, Austrian, and now American girls have stayed here to take endless photos of the cattle and get overstuffed on Noreen's homemade scones. What is it that draws us here, to an old Irish farm? Upon hearing that I could stay in a 300 year old house on a working Irish farm, I jumped at the opportunity. What is it about age, history, and the continuation of a way of life for generations, that makes us want to be a part of it? I'm going to disappoint my readers by saying I don't quite know. What I do know is that, after walking the fields, scrubbing the floors, and welcoming the travelers much like myself, I have put down some young roots in this old soil. My only Irish ancestor came to the U.S. right around when the Murphys were raising their 13 children, so I can't claim the kind of family connection to the land that so many Irish families here have; but something about continuing a way of life through generations, and living in a place where the everyday presence of history makes it feel as close to the skin as one's own blood, makes me feel like this is home. I may be moving to Cork tomorrow, and perhaps I'll find some connection there too, but at least one part of my wandering mutt of an American self has become a native of County Clare. 

Cortney Copeland of Cahergal, 2011

Mommy, Where Does Steak Come From?

     "Don't wave anything around now! They'll think you're making a bid."

     Michael doesn't want to accidentally end up with another cow, so I freeze, pink digital camera in hand, where I sit on a wooden riser above the auction ring surrounded by men leaning over the fence, casually flicking a finger or winking an eye to bid on a young bull calf. I stare intently, trying to discern what is going on as scruffy old men with cigarettes bid against young boys and gentlemanly fellows dressed in collared shirts. Michael asks me if I can understand the auctioneer, whose voice is a constant current occasionally punctuated by loud proclamations of some number. I can understand if I focus- some of the time. 

     "See that red one- he's good. He'll go for about 500," Michael says.

      But the bids only get up to 390 Euros. 

     "Ah, the owner's not selling. Says it's not a good price, and he's right." So the red bull calf with the ample, curved muscling on his hindquarters and the broad, meaty shoulders will come back another week. I sit there with Michael for a while, learning to pick out which calves are better than others. 

    We're at the Clare Mart, a livestock market that twice a week fills with the sheep and cattle of all County Clare, and echoes with their calls. Michael took me here as an indulgence of my curiosity about farm life. 

     The Clare Mart opens every Tuesday and Thursday. An enormous, green-roofed metal barn with concrete floors and an endless maze of metal pipe corrals and fences is packed with ewes, rams, and cattle of all ages. It smells of animal urine, cigarettes, and men- although Michael points out one other girl about my age and assures me I'm not the only girl in the building. The mix of people here is a delight for somebody looking to experience the real Ireland- old men with tufts of white hair and checkered newsboy caps tilt their heads together to hear above the din of mooing cows and fast-talking auctioneers as they discuss prices and catch up on each other's lives. They lean on the sticks they carry for herding cattle through gates. 

    A young boy runs with a stick after several sheep, chasing them toward a gate as another boy opens it. 

    "Look at that young fellow, he'll love that job!" Michael says with a smile.

     Michael remembers doing the same when he was a boy going to the mart with his father and helping with the sheep. He's been a farmer his whole life, and when I ask him he says he likes it. There are men of all ages at Clare Mart, from the small boys who must be about 8 years old to the handsome farmers' sons who make me realize the origin of the cliché "strapping young fellow" to the grizzled old farmers I mentioned above. Michael fits right in, occasionally breaking his attention away from explaining things to me to talk with a neighbor. 

     It looks like chaos in here, with gates swinging and thousand-pound animals passing, sometimes more or less cooperatively, down the concrete aisles. As Michael explains to me, though, there is a detailed and intricate system at work. 

Upon arrival, animals enter single file through chutes.

Cattle are given ID stickers for the day,
in addition to their permanent ear tag IDs.

Sheep are weighed as they enter, and are sorted into pens.
Signs (not pictured here) display the pen number,
the number of animals, and their average weight.

Cattle are sold individually in the auction ring, which they
enter through a pen with a scale. They remain in the ring
just a few moments, with their weight, ID, age, owner, and
recent disease test dates on an electric display board,
until the bidding stops.

Sheep are auctioned in groups by the pens into which they are sorted.
The man in the green sweater is making a bid, and the man in the red vest is the auctioneer.

Throughout the day, animals are closely watched
and regulations enforced by an authority who
checks animal ID numbers, among other things.

     Michael doesn't buy or sell anything today- he just came to show me around, but he will be selling his calves and lambs in November. This is just a small glimpse into the work of farming in Ireland. Michael spends his days checking the condition of all his animals, plowing and reseeding the fields, and keeping track of the animals' breeding so he will have livestock to sell at the Clare Mart come Autumn.
    Clare Mart is probably not on any tour book lists, but it's the most authentic Irish experience I've had, and it is a nice change of scenery from all the castles.
    Also, who wants to bet I am the only vegetarian to ever walk into this building?

The Day After Tomorrow

     " 'The Day After Tomorrow,' you seen it?" Noreen asks me as we wash the dishes from our light lunch here at Cahergal Farmouse, the bed and breakfast she and her husband run from their farm. 

     "Yes."

     "Do you think it could happen? I saw that movie, and I say to Michael, 'Michael, do you think it could happen? We won't be around, but our kids..."

     For those of you who haven't seen this movie, it's one of many films that seem to demonstrate cinema's obsession with the world's cataclysmic demise. In the film, climate change ushers in a new ice age, wreaks havoc with violent storms, and the people of the world have to migrate to survive. For a better synopsis, see IMDB's synopsis of the film. I'm not a fan of the melodrama, but the message to be taken is that climate change is terrifying and powerful in a way that makes our nations and social structures irrelevant.

     I told Noreen I didn't think anything that dramatic would happen, but mentioned that I had heard a story on NPR about an island nation where people already have to move their houses out of the way of a rising sea. Read the story and watch the video here. 

     In my five days in Ireland, I've noticed that nearly everybody has something to say about the environment. The delivery truck driver John, who gave me a lift from Cahergal House to Bunratty yesterday, works for Kingspan Environmental delivering parts and doing service on their biocycling sewage treatment units. Ireland no longer allows septic tanks due to the possibility of leaks and pollution. "No houses built in the last ten years have septic tanks," John told me. I imagined that big hulk of a vaguely rectangular hill in my parents' back yard, where their septic tank is buried. If we went by Ireland's laws, we would instead have something that treated sewage naturally and released it as clean water. That water could irrigate our orchard. It's hard to imagine a law like Ireland's ban on septic tanks passing in the US, though. 

     As we talked on the approximately thirty minute drive to Bunratty, John told me Ireland's climate has changed. "We used to have all the seasons here, now we only have two." From what he told me, Irish summers used to be milder and less prone to the pouring rain that had kept me inside the day before. The winters, however, used to be much colder with more snow. Now John says it's the same all year round. "How's the climate where you're from, is it changing?" 

It is, actually. I don't know the science behind it, but my home town of Sacramento has seen unusual weather two years in a row. Sacramento is normally rainy up through March or April, and then hot and dry from May through September. For two years running we've had rainy, stormy weather up until June, with an increase in hail and other violent weather. I told this to John and he added that things are changing everywhere. 

The outlet has a switch!
Red means electricity is flowing.

     I must admit that I didn't expect to hear climate change talk from a truck driver. I didn't expect it from a farm and B&B owner, either. Noreen is very environmentally savvy, not because she is an eco-freak but because she is practical. "Fill the sink partway when you wash the dishes, to save water," was one of my first lessons. At home I would run the faucet and use new water for every dish; here I probably use half as much by simply filling the sink and washing the dishes in there until the water gets dirty. We conserve electricity here too. Noreen's 300 year old farmhouse and the somewhat newer bed and breakfast are equipped with power outlets that actually turn off, to avoid the kind of waste that happens when appliances are idle but still draining electricity. It makes so much sense it hurts; why don't I have these at my house? At home I always feel a compunction when I am too lazy to reach under a desk or move the sofa to unplug something, but here in the Irish countryside miles away from town all I have to do is flip a switch and I am more eco-friendly than I ever was back in Sacramento. And when I mentioned that John had told me about biocycling, Noreen treated it as common sense. She doesn't want septic tanks leaking pollution into the green pastures where her sheep and cattle graze. And of course she recycles, while food scraps go to the chickens and dogs. Nothing at Cahergal House is wasted. 

Deefer will eat anything.

     Guests here have also surprised me with their consciousness of the environment. Last night I went to check on a couple of guests while they took their evening tea, and as conversation got going I learned that the gentleman, Dave Hogan, was an ecologist and tour guide originally from Connemara. When I excitedly mentioned that I was considering a job in ecotourism, however, he didn't share my enthusiasm. He doesn't want "fifty people tramping the same bog day after day," and doesn't want a tour company's need for profit to undermine conservation efforts. He leads only a few select tours a year through Ireland as a part of Irish Byways, taking small groups of people to the lesser-traveled parts of Ireland and sharing with them his knowledge of history and ecology. Since the few tours he can do without negatively impacting the land don't provide enough income to earn a living, and since he is unwilling to compromise the environment for the sake of earning money, he works several other jobs as well. 

     Like John, Dave says Ireland is changing. He talks jokingly about his brother, who "when he's had a few too many starts talking about the old days." Dave quotes him: "There are two things that changed Ireland, I don't know if it's for bad or good: the TV, and the school bus, and they both came in 1965."  

There are fewer farmers and more tract homes than there used to be. John says the pace of life is faster; people don't say hello to each other any more. I think Dave would agree. He doesn't like hurried tourists. "They want to walk ten kilometers a day, every day." They never stop to look at the plants they step on, and which Dave could probably spend hours informing them about if they would stop and listen. He talks more fondly of a group of botany students he took out. "We spent a whole day in a half acre of peat bog." 

This house older than the Declaration of Independence
has solar panels, which gather sunlight during Ireland's
nearly 18 hours of daylight during summer's longest days.

     The environment is ever present in the minds of people here. All I have to do is talk to somebody for five minutes and the topic somehow comes up. And even amid the mixed feelings about Ireland's growth and also its Americanization, I can't help but be impressed by the Irish concern for and commitment to environmental sustainability. Noreen showed me the solar panels she had put on a house that is older than my country. "Do you have that in the states, solar? You don't have much of it, do you." I guess the few solar panels I see every here and there in Sacramento are not that impressive. If Noreen was running the US like she runs her bed and breakfast, the deserts of Texas that so impressed her with their heat when she visited would be full of solar panels. "You've got the climate for it," she keeps saying. She shakes her head at how many things we haven't done. We haven't taken such simple steps as replacing paper towels with cloth rolls, using solar energy, and saving our water. When running a farm on a small island country, it is a matter of practical survival to take every opportunity to save resources. There are so many missed opportunities in the US, where sustainability is left to the eco-freaks. There are no eco-freaks in Ireland. Just people like John the delivery truck driver, and Noreen with her bed and breakfast, and Dave with his tours that often move far too quickly through the beautiful Irish countryside they all want to preserve for tomorrow, and the day after. 

American Popcorn

Hello from Cahergal House, a farm and B&B outside a small town called Newmarket on Fergus in County Clare, Ireland. I promise a detailed blog about this place soon, but for now I thought I would share some of the interesting lessons I've learned about two of my favorite things: food and conversation.

On Food

Europeans put sweet corn on pizza. "Americans don't seem to have a taste for it," said Paul, the son of Noreen McNerny who runs the B&B here. We didn't have sweet corn on hand yesterday, so I have yet to experience this interesting phenomenon.

Speaking of corn, popcorn here is sold as "American popcorn." I asked Paul why, and he said that's the only way he's ever seen it. I figure it's akin to the tendency in America to call soda bread "Irish soda bread." Noreen makes soda bread; it is hearty and filling with a good crunchy crust.

Zucchini is not called zucchini. Courgette is the proper term (plural courgettes). I still can't imagine calling zucchini bread courgette bread, but I told Noreen I'd make some.

We considered putting some courgettes on our pizza we made yesterday, but didn't have room. My roommate and fellow volunteer here Christa, from Austria, made the pizza from scratch. She dips her pizza in ketchup, and when I asked she said that's how everyone in Austria eats pizza. I tried it out of curiosity, but I think I'll stick with a non-ketchuped pizza. I told her that in the states we sometimes dip pizza in ranch dressing, but had a hard time explaining what ranch dressing actually is.


On conversation

First, some word differences I have noticed:

boot = car trunk
to let = for rent (I see this sign on lots of buildings...)
ring = call (i.e. You ringing Mike right now?)
courgette = zucchini
hoover = vacuum (both in noun and verb forms, i.e. Hoover the breakfast room, please)
queue = line, line up, wait in line
pram = strollers

Now for the accents. I've heard plenty of people speak in an Irish accent before, although they were usually movie stars and perhaps not actually Irish... Here, I have to mortify myself by asking people to repeat themselves two or maybe three times. I was warned that the Irish speak very fast, but as I am a fast talker myself I didn't believe the warning. However, now that I am here and constantly feeling like I am not, in fact, fluent in English I can see why they warned me. Nevertheless, I wouldn't trade a thing because it is delightful being here surrounded by friendly people who, although I can't always understand them, have a beautiful Irish accent.

Again, this is just a small collection of snippets, but I promise to post a nice coherent story about Cahergal House and the four generations of people who have been living on this beautiful property. In the meantime, there are dishes to wash, beds to make, scones to eat, and lots of carpets to hoover...

The People-Watching Scavenger Hunt

I am currently in Denver with 2 more hours to wait for my plane to Newark, and I have decided to entertain myself by coming up with a scavenger hunt. I hope that this will help others pass the inevitable hours of waiting that come with air travel. I've flown a good bit, and in just about every airport in the US, you can find the following people:

The Cowboy: This person wears medium-tight jeans, a tucked in button-up shirt, a belt buckle, a white cowboy hat, and leather boots. You can find Cowboys where you least expect them, and they wear their traditional garb wherever their travels take them. There are lots of Cowboys in Denver, but in a state whose football team is the Broncos that is no surprise. You may also encounter the cowgirl, although they are harder to identify due to more variation in their clothing.

The Military Personnel: With the U.S. military as active as it is in countries all over the world, there are almost always people wearing their military uniforms at the airport. Whether they are leaving or coming home, it is always poignant to wonder where they're going for what reason and for what amount of time.

The Person with the Cute Dog: Dogs in airports tend to be portably small, and adorably fluffy. Finding this person is always a nice bonus for the dog lovers among us.

The Person with the Runaway Child: Toddlers see an open space in front of them and, for inexplicable reasons, feel compelled to run as fast as their chubby bow-legs can take them while screaming and waving their arms. This is especially interesting when they see those tubes that people walk through to get onto the plane, and make a mad dash past the airport staff to adventure onto a plane their parents are not, in fact, boarding.

The Touchy-Feely Couple: While most airport couples can be identified by more subtle clues like their matching bermuda shorts or their runaway children, there is always at least one couple that has to be touching at all times. There's the hand on the thigh while sitting by the gate, the pauses to kiss right in the middle of foot traffic, and the enviably cute way they sleep on each other's shoulders while waiting out the layover during which they could, in fact, be participating in an exciting scavenger hunt such as this one.

The Hawaiian Shirt Guy: He may be lanky and skinny or pot-bellied, but is usually at least 40 and often accompanies his Hawaiian shirt with a hat and sunglasses. This hardy sort of person can be spotted even in the cold climate of Denver's winter, as I learned during my first people-watching adventure at this airport some years ago. I wonder how the snow looked when it gathered on the brim of his straw hat.

The Airport Beauty Queen: Although it makes no sense to me to wear my best skin-tight mini dress during the crowded, uncomfortable, and sweaty business of traveling, I must admit that I envy these ladies who can do their hair and makeup and wear something better than sweatpants. They look ready for a nightclub, are surprisingly nimble with their luggage despite their high heals, big earrings, and skimpy attire, and always look like they're going somewhere. But it still makes no sense.

The Traveling Group: The Traveling Group is usually a group of youth, although it may consist of adults. The primary characteristic is the matching outfits. The group travelers in Denver today are sporting cheery bright orange T-shirts, but my favorite group of my people-watching career was actually a group of German choirboys in black suits who were traveling in Salt Lake City. A close second to them was the very attractive men's volleyball (or was it basketball?) team I was once blessed to share a plane with.

The Sleeper: The only identifying characteristic of the Sleeper is that this person is asleep. Not just dozing off in a chair, but laying on the ground by a wall or in some other manner fully asleep. I wonder if, like me, they fall deeply asleep and then forget where they are upon waking.

The Look-Alike: I cannot tell you what this person will look like, for you will not know that until you get up to say hi to one and then realize that the Look-Alike is not, after all, the person you thought he/she was. Here in Denver I was about ready to say hi to one of my professors when I realized that the person was not my professor but a Look-Alike. Look-Alikes commonly take the form of ex-significant others and former high school classmates, but they come in a huge variety, including professors.

The New-Friend Strangers: Along with people watching, some people actually talk to each other. You will find them sitting a few feet apart, leaning in to cover the distance as they exchange pleasantries, personal information, and perhaps some overly personal details that somehow surface when somebody knows they will probably never encounter their interlocutor again. However, some new-friend strangers do remain in contact, and my mother has accrued quite a collection of them including authors, researchers, professors, and musicians. I recently acquired a new email buddy who gave me some very useful information for my upcoming research project. After all, I am a fan of talking to strangers.


There are plenty more people to encounter in an airport, and it is always interesting to learn who you will meet. I am fascinated by the life stories I have heard and the individuals I have met- jewelry show representatives, horse breeders ---- INTERRUPTION, CUTE DOG ALERT. 2 in one day, I'm lucky!----- stained glass artists, and all sorts of interesting people. And there are always the cowboys. So if you're bored in an airport, keep your eyes out and see if you can spot the above people, and meet some other interesting strangers out there too.

On Talking to Strangers

     Today I walked to the river. It's easy to forget that I live so close; after 15 minutes on a bike or about 30 on foot I can smell the blackberry bushes and hear the water while watching out for those packs of zooming bicyclists in their bright spandex outfits. I didn't plan on walking to the river. In fact, the only reason I got up well before I had to leave for work was the Internet. I have been waiting for an important email regarding my application to be a Glimpse correspondent during my upcoming stay in Ireland. I was told that finalists would be announced in July. Today is July 31st. Remembering this, I got out of bed and checked my email. Still nothing. What with one roommate moved out to DC, the other away housesitting, my ended relationship now 6 weeks in the past, no mail coming because it is Sunday, and no Glimpse announcement, today could have been the kind of lonely and disappointing day that I dread. But I walked to the river, and in so many simple ways my life is better for it.
     There were people along the river. I met an elderly couple who walk their American Bulldogs out there every day. We talked for a while about them and me and their dogs and the families of wild turkeys who live out by the river. They were happy to share with me, and pointed out the dark shape of a turkey up ahead in the dry yellow grass. I don't remember exactly how our conversation got past hello, but I know it started with hello. Isn't that how almost all great and small relationships and life intersections start? That nice lady said hello and now I know that there are turkeys along the river and that American Bulldogs are calm, loving dogs who weight about 85 pounds and that there exists in this world a happy healthy old couple who walk their dogs to the river together every day. I aspire to be like them. I wonder how long ago it was when they first said hello to each other...
     I passed them eventually and kept on walking to find that there were blackberries along the river. I tiptoed and picked my way over the round river pebbles and thorny low branches to pick some for breakfast. Wild blackberries for breakfast, just like that! I consider any day on which I can eat wild blackberries along the river a good day. They made me think of the blackberries that grow out by the barn, and the people I always see pulled over to the side of the road so they can pick some. Maybe I will talk to them, too.
     There were friends riding horses along the river. I had turned my back to the water and was beginning to head home when I saw those big four-legged shapes off to my left, down the dusty stone-strewn path. Two ladies were taking a Sunday trail ride together, and I waved and walked over to them to introduce myself as a fellow horse owner. I used to think that this was considered bothering people, but I said hello anyway. They halted their horses to stop and chat and told me about the best places to park a horse trailer when I decide to go riding along the river. I told them that if I was not Ireland-bound in a week I would get their numbers and come riding with them next time. Imagine that- I could find trail riding friends that easily, just there along the river like the blackberries.
     And of course there were turkeys along the river, just like the old couple had said. Concerned-looking hens clucked and herded their chicks along the sides of the bike path, and the chicks reminded me of the big flock of little kids who play on the sides of my street some afternoons.
     There was life along the river. After that first conversation with the elderly couple, I greeted everybody I saw. Who knows what they have to offer? A quick conversation, a warm greeting, useful information, perhaps the beginning of a new friendship. A smile and a hello can bring about any of these. Spending time with my next door neighbor and her small son is how I learned she has a sister in Dublin who is married to a professor at Trinity College. I am now corresponding with him via email and he offered to show me around the historic campus when I get to Ireland. Taking up my other neighbor's offer to fix my loudly clattering bicycle led to a long laugh-filled conversation in his driveway and free tune ups for both my bike and my roommate's. Living in my community- talking to my neighbors, greeting people on the street, going for a morning walk to the river- is perhaps the best way to expand my horizons. When an empty house and an empty email inbox left me feeling lonely and unfulfilled this morning, I went out into my community and delved into this place where I have put down a few roots but perhaps not enough.

We were strangers 4 years ago. In Ireland I'm adding
 WWOOFing and maybe Glimpse to the list of crazy
things she's gotten me into. 

     Come to think of it, even this Glimpse program I'm waiting to hear about is something I learned of during a face-to-face conversation with a friend, when I felt like "wasting" time socializing in between classes instead of doing my homework alone. And this friend is somebody who was once a stranger until one of us said hello.
     This lesson is perhaps the most important one I will be taking with me when, a week from today, I get on that plane to begin my five and a half months away from home, far on the other side of the Atlantic in Ireland, surrounded by strangers. I cannot wait to meet them.

Scheduling the End of a Life

    When at the beginning of the summer I became so busy teaching riding lessons that I actually had to keep a schedule, I bought a planner and have since been living by it. People want to schedule a lesson: I check in my planner for a space to write it down. I need to get a haircut: I check in my planner, find some time for myself, and write it down. I'm busy. I have a lot of things on my plate. So I have a planner.

    The most recent addition to my planner is an appointment next Tuesday, August 2nd, with my veterinarian.  I stood in the corner of my parents' front pasture with him and my father, talking in a businesslike manner about my work schedule, his availability, etc, and I wrote the appointment in my planner. Next to me was my aging burro Eva, completely unaware that I had just scheduled her death in a convenient spot in my schedule. Just one more thing on the list. 

    Eva is an old burro. She has a severe case of founder, probably brought on by Cushing's Disease, and she has very little time before the rotating bones in her hooves puncture through the skin and completely debilitate her. 

    Usually when people have to put down a pet, they talk about how the pet is a friend, how they remember when the pet was a puppy or kitten or whatnot, and how closely bonded they are. It is not so with me and Eva. In fact, I know very little about her and her life before she came to me, already an elderly and stubborn old burro who was at first reluctant to put up with my ideas. It once took me 40 minutes to lead her through the round pen gate, and she scared off the first farrier who tried to work with her. She now stands and leads quietly, but with her dignity. I am always aware that she has simply chosen to become (mostly) docile in her old age, and that she accepts me as her caregiver without depending on me. 

     Eva was rounded up in the wild by the Bureau of Land Management as part of their regular population control program, and adopted out with two other burros, Banner and Glory. When their adoptive owner abandoned them, they came to me through a BLM agent with whom I happened to be acquainted. I will never know how long Eva was with her old owner or what kind of relationship they had. I will never know what it was like to be rounded up from a wild herd and taken into human society, but I figure it must have been hard if she was already along in years when this all happened. Perhaps Eva had offspring of her own. She may have been a leader among her herd, or she may have fallen at the very bottom. She has had her own long life, and a wealth of experience I will never know. Therefore, I have always had to balance my role as a handler responsible for her training and handling with my role as a youth deferring to an elder. I can't be condescending toward Eva. She's not my baby. 

     It seems strange that after all that has happened in Eva's life, she ended up in a front yard in West Sacramento, with a 21 year old college student scheduling her death into a planner full of horseback riding lessons to teach and personal appointments to keep. Only birth is equivalent in significance and intimacy. I have known Eva for the very last 6 years of her life, and I will be the last major person to have influenced it. I hope my presence has been a good one for her, and I will be giving her as many carrots and peppermints as she could possibly want in her last 5 days before it comes time to cross off one more of those many items written in my planner. Bless you Eva, and good bye.  

My Battle with Facebook Syndrome

      Facebook syndrome... this blog is the beginning of my recovery. Online social networking has had a remarkable influence on my social habits. When I recently noticed that I was thinking of my life as a series of status updates, and feeling as though the interesting or fulfilling things I did in a day were less worthwhile if I did not post something on my wall for every one of my 378 "friends" to see, I realized that I had Facebook syndrome. I have an insidious, contagious disease that makes me think that I need to share every detail of my life with everyone, or else be left behind. If not for Facebook, would I tell that one out of state guy who I met twice that I got an awesome massage today? Does every last one of my current and former classmates need to know what my GPA is? Chances are no. But the constant stream of information I can project into my news feed gives me a continuous opportunity to look cool to as many people as possible. No, I really don't need to tell that guy about my awesome massage, but if he sees that information maybe he'll "like" it. Pressing that like button is almost interacting! It perpetuates a friendship that doesn't exist, much like pressing 2 to continue perpetuates "conversations" with automated customer support menus on the telephone.  

       Publishing everything we could possibly wish to share about our lives does not actually make us more interesting. I feel about my Facebook statuses the same way I feel about the Heidegger and Foucault and Sartre books that were, until two weeks ago, sitting on my shelf; I accumulate them because having them makes me feel smarter, but it is only a projection. If I keep books on my shelf simply to show off, then I am better off without them (and the used bookstores paid pretty well for a few of those texts, while my IQ does not, in fact, seem to have lowered since I parted with them). Likewise, despite my addict's convictions telling me otherwise, my life will not become less interesting if I stop posting about it on the internet. Yet I crave, I yearn, I NEED to tell people what I am up to, because Facebook syndrome tells me that if not everybody knows about my last delightful day trip or brilliant epiphany, it may as well not have happened. I suppose if it's that important to share, I have to actually pick up a phone and contact people, the way I did earlier today when I called an old friend simply to tell her about a funny license plate she would like. We talked for an hour. 

        When communication is directed at people, and not just at a nebulous cyber audience, it starts to mean more. I think more about what I say. After all, would I really have told my ex-boyfriend everything I posted on Facebook as a publicly passive-aggressive way to let him know how I was doing after he broke up with me? I felt like a tabloid star when I changed my relationship status back to "single." And I felt the burning need to post, and then repost 3 times, every awesome thing I did without him to rub it in his face. I would never do that to him in person. I would never call somebody to say "Guess what, I am having the best vacation without you!" But Facebook syndrome, that insidious disease, made me post every little detail about that weekend, just in case it hit his news feed. I didn't have to take responsibility for it- after all, I wasn't really talking to him. 

       The online fallout from my breakup helped push me to leave behind the habit of self-indulgence I developed during my years on Xanga, Myspace, and Facebook. I don't wish to seem like I'm picking on these sites, because social networking has revolutionized business, advertising, event organizing, and so many other aspects of social life. Perhaps Facebook is like alcohol. Some of us are just predisposed to using it poorly, and most of us overindulge at least for a while.