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.