Despite having to deal with the influx of crazy Europeans, who flooded what we very quickly came to think of, as one student put it, as "our Dublin" on St Paddy's Day, we had, as the adage runs, the time of our lives--and we learned more in that concentrated literature-in-culture week than we did in the regular semester, probably in the entire academic year.
As the students' reports testify, each day was jam-packed with cultural, literary, and social stimulation that somehow pulled together the multiple intangible dimensions of texts and culture that cannot be fully taught in a classroom. A huge part of the experience was spending an intense five days (and they were long days--especially for someone old like me) with each other and drawing on each other's energy and excitement for everything experienced. I think we all agreed that a highlight of the trip was the guided bus tour from Dublin to Belfast, which underscored to us the extent to which Ireland's Troubles and the literary and cultural figures involved in the continuous historical struggles from St Patrick himself through Jonathan Swift, James Joyce, and the martyrs on the so-called "Peace Walls" dividing Belfast and Protestant from Catholic are still very present to every Irish person.
I am going to let the students speak, but I want to stress how grateful I am to have had this opportunity and how proud I am (if that doesn't sound patronizing) of each of these students and how each represented GSU and the group and worked together to make this experience the very best that it possibly could be. I'd like to thank the College of Arts and Science and everyone there who helped to make these intensive Spring Break courses possible. I have close to 200 pictures. I think the students have even more than I took. Some of those will come out in their personal and academic/intellectual responses below. These are a couple of my favorites. The first is most of us with a castle that you cannot see in front of us and the Irish sea behind us. The second is after a long but fulfilling day taking in the culture and history of the Irish countryside and Belfast, and it captures the excitement of the experience.
TMC
Julie's Response:
I just had one of the best weeks of my
academic career so far! Being able to
study writers and their works in the cultural context within which the authors
lived, worked and wrote, greatly enhanced my understanding of the literature we
studied in Dublin during this week-long program. Visiting such places as St. Patrick’s and
Christchurch Cathedral, the Irish Writers Museum, the James Joyce Center, the
famine memorial, and the beautiful medieval illuminated Book of Kells at Trinity
College, to name but a few of the sites/historic witnesses of the past was a
privilege that I did not take lightly, and I will be forever grateful to Dr.
Tanya Caldwell for all of the work she put into making sure students got the
most out of the trip.
From day one through day six, the
Literary Dublin experience excelled all expectations for me. There could not have been a more perfect
introduction to the trip, for example, than the visit to the renowned Abbey
Theatre. Owen McCafferty’s play, Death of a Comedian, was a poignant reminder
of Ireland’s troubled past and the effects on its people of colonial oppression;
an important concept to be aware of given the works we were studying on the
trip. Every word in this play, like
every word in Swift’s Modest Proposal
and Joyce’s Dubliners, was deliberate
and potent. The comedian’s incredible
performance, which showed the gradual decline of an individual’s identity concluding
in the death of his soul, was unsettling to say the least as the individual clearly
stood for the universal and served as a powerful reminder of the effects of colonialism
on the Irish people as a whole. Watching
the comedian metamorphose from a colorful uniquely distinctive character to the
very monstrous thing the comedian not only despised but also feared, brought
Joyce’s Dubliners to mind as this
collection of vignettes portrays characters that resemble the comedian at the
play’s conclusion. Reading about the
effects of British rule on Ireland’s natives is one thing; seeing it in action
as I watched a person’s soul die right in front of me was something else
entirely!
Travelling to Belfast with the images
from the play still fresh in my memory, I saw more evidence of the effects of colonial/political
and by extension sectarian conflict. A long
wall dividing known Catholic and Protestant neighborhoods in Belfast serves as
a reminder of the secular violence that ensued well into the
twentieth-century. As our tour guide
drove right down Falls Road, I had to remind myself that we are living in a
different time as the wall had a life all of its own, an eerie presence that I
could almost feel. Over on the
protestant side, along Shankill, murals on the side of buildings tell of
allegiance to England. I saw the site of
the Bayardo Pub bombing where a memorial was erected to the five Protestants
who were “slaughtered by a republican murder gang,” as the emotive inscription
tells us, in August 1975. Of course,
there is still unrest between loyalists and republicans today, and this
knowledge coupled with memories from my childhood of regular IRA attacks on my
home country, made the experience all the more intense for me. I was glad to see both sides of the wall though
because I realize it is important to remember that innocent people on both
sides of the conflict suffered.
While I personally saw the wall as a
symbol of suffering, the Irish may see it as a symbol of peace. It is, after all, called a peace wall. This wall, and others like them, were erected
to keep neighborhoods safe from sporadic attacks. However, it was good to see other symbols and
monuments as we made our way into Belfast city and then back down to Dublin
that I felt more closely resembled symbols of peace. The Statue of Hope and Reconciliation was one
such monument, and The Spire of Hope that protrudes 250 feet from Belfast
Cathedral was another. Also, reminders
of Ireland’s conversion from pagan to Christianity resides in a beautiful
mosaic which sits above the entrance to the Chapel of the Holy Spirit. The mosaic depicts St. Patrick dressed as a
bishop and accompanied by two ladies, one a pagan, the other a Christian. And at another site, the Hill of Down, it was
interesting and fun to see the supposed final resting place of St. Patrick who,
as the tour guide reminded us, was not a saint and was not even Irish.
The last site I took in before returning
to Dublin was the breath-taking Mourne Mountains. A stone wall, which seemed to stretch all the
way around the mountain, is regarded by many as a famine wall according to our
tour guide. Apparently, its construction
served no purpose other than to provide the destitute of Ireland a way of
earning their keep. While this does seem
like a noble attempt to preserve the dignity of those who were at risk of
starving to death, the same tour guide said earlier on the tour, “never let the
truth get in the way of a good story.” It turns out, after a little extra
reading, that the wall was more likely constructed to enclose a reservoir
catchment area to isolate it from the effects of cattle and sheep. Whatever the story, the wall did bring much
needed employment and many people benefited from taking part in its
construction—this in of itself is positive.
Going back to St. Patrick, it appears the
non-canonized saint’s origin makes no difference to the Irish; they claim him
anyway, and they certainly know how to celebrate his legacy. What a treat it was to be able to watch the
St. Patrick’s parade, and from a fourth floor window no less! It was a spectacle to remember, which was topped
off with a visit to the Guinness Storehouse.
Ahh, Guinness!
On a more humble note, by far the most
awe-inspiring experience of the week was the visit to Trinity College to see
the Book of Kells. I spent many hours
absorbing this exhibition and it was not long enough—how could it be? Poems scattered here and there at the very
beginning of the exhibition not only spoke of the demanding life of the
scribes, but they also gave life to the beautifully illustrated pages that
stand as witnesses to the long-past ninth-century. These books literally embody the life and
soul of their creators, a sacrifice that I felt deserved more than a moment’s
pause.
If the Book of Kells was the most
awe-inspiring experience of the week, the Dubliners Walking Tour was the most
exciting. I like to think of myself as a
Joycean scholar even though I know I have a long way to go to earn the title,
so a walking tour of the sites most meaningful to Joyce and his works to
someone like me, is of course an incredible treat! I made the most of every opportunity to speak
to our tour guide and feel satisfied that I gained some valuable insight from
him and the tour.
In an attempt to preserve the popular
tradition of saving the best until last, I want to end with what the trip
awarded me in terms of personal relationships.
One expects in situations like these the opportunity to get to know
people, but I have to say that I appreciate and treasure more than anything the
friends that I made during this trip. I
was touched by some very special people and look forward with excited
anticipation to getting to know them better in the future. Dr. Caldwell, I thank you from the bottom of
my heart for this wonderful opportunity that you created for us. It is worth repeating that this was the trip
of a lifetime for me. Thank you so much
for all that you did to make it happen!
Brittny's Response:
Being
my first time traveling on my own I had prepared for everything. Packed all the
necessities, double- and triple-checked the weather of my destination, and took
all the preventative measures to insure that I would ready for everything. All
of this is great...until you lose your luggage, get sick, have a dead cell
phone battery, and end up lost for an hour and a half trying to find the hotel.
From this start, I didn’t know what to expect. I was excited to be there, but I
was already panicked. Once I had found the hotel and my group I was then able
to relax and really get a chance to look around me and breathe. It might have
been a heavily cigarette scented breath, but I could breathe either way.
After
getting over jetlag and calling the airport to see if they had found my luggage
(they hadn’t), I was privileged to enjoy Owen McCafferty’s play, Death of a Comedian. Watching a play by
an up-and-coming playwright allowed me as a student to understand the viewpoint
of an Irish artist as it is now. It was loosely tied to the secondary text,
Oscar Wilde’s The Importance of being
Earnest, in the artistic ideology of identity and trying to figure out what
Irish identity was and is. I say loosely because there are stark differences
between these two plays (for one McCafferty’s had pyrotechnics), but there is
still the action of seeking an identity. In McCafferty’s play the audience is
able to see what can happen when someone, in this case the main character Steve
Johnston, sells their identity to become what they believe they want to be. His
death is one of his soul and personal identity at the hands of fame. Steve’s
sense of becoming stuck in this snowball effect of fame mirrors (again loosely)
the paralysis that is seen within James Joyce’s Dubliners. After the play everyone discussed the play in a local
pub that was right beside a sweets shop that sells cream doughnuts. That day I
learned about the paralysis of Ireland’s identity and that I really, really
like cream doughnuts.
On Sunday our group got up before the
sun, granted it’s always foggy in Ireland so I just might not have seen it, and
walked over to Discover Ireland bus tour for our tour of Belfast. From this
trip I learned many things from the main crop of Ireland is grass to the
political turmoil of ‘The Troubles.’ I never realized that Belfast was the
location of the main St. Patrick’s Cathedral and his grave site, and that it
was the location where the Titanic was built. The main impression I took away
from this excursion was the political problems that Ireland has had over the
years. I have known about the IRA, Irish Republican Army, from my family
because my mother’s parents were very politically involved in the 60s and 70s
but I’ve only been told very rudimentary details. When I told my grandpa that I
was visiting Ireland he plainly told me, “You can’t go there! The IRA is still
active.” Other then that I wasn’t informed about any political ‘troubles’
happening. From the images I have been researching more into the not-so-distant
past for more information, and, more surprisingly, their connection to American
political conflict of the 70s.
Monday morning we walked, we did a
lot of walking, to Trinity College to see their library and their exhibit of
the Book of Kells. I got a chance to
see this book of Old Irish writing beautifully encased. Here I found a
beautiful riddle:
An enemy ended my life, took away my bodily strength; then
he dipped me in water and drew me out again, and put me in the sun where I soon
shed all my hair. The knife's sharp edge but into me once my blemishes had been
scraped away; fingers folded me and the bird's feather often moved across my
brown surface, sprinkling useful drops; it swallowed the wood-dye (part of the
stream) and again traveled over me, leaving black tracks. Then a man bound me,
he stretched skin over me an adorned me with gold; thus I am enriched by the
wondrous work of smiths, wound about with shining metal. Now my clasp and my
red dye and these glorious adornments bring fame far and wide to the Protector of
Men, and not to the pains of hell. If the sons of men would make us of me they
would be safer and more sure of victory, their hearts would be bolder, their
mind more that ease, their thoughts wiser; they would have more friends,
companions and kinsmen (true and honourable, brave and kind) who would gladly
increase their honour and prosperity, and the heap benefits upon them, holding
them fast in love's embraces. Ask what I am called, of such use to men. My name
is famous,of service to men and sacred in itself.
From
this campus we walked on to the National Gallery of Ireland where I purchased
an anthology of Irish Ghost Stories. There were so many books and I’m lucky I
managed to leave with only one. The Gallery was huge and it had a painting by
Rembrandt van Rijn, “A Rest on the Flight to Egypt.” I really enjoyed looking
over this painting because it is (according the to plaque) the only night time
setting that Rembrandt did. I, maybe because of the dim lighting and because I
just got a book called “Irish Ghost Stories,” also thought that the background
looked very creepy with the animals looming over baby Jesus while he played
with the fire. I found it both creepy and interesting.
On St. Patrick’s day there was a lot
going on. From our hotel we watched the St. Patrick’s Day parade that had many
different people from all over the world represented: Japan, USA, ect. After
the parade we left for the Guinness Storehouse to learn about the brewing of
the world famous beer. It was very interesting, but the best part was the
panoramic views from the top of the building where we all enjoyed a pint and
the best views of Dublin. Then a smaller group strolled (or hiked rather) to
St. Patrick’s Cathedral to view the outside of the building. Aside from walking
over 18 miles this day it was a great day for relaxing and people watching
during the festivities.
For the last day I got up and walked
around the Garden of Remembrance soaking up a bit of sunshine before meeting
with the group. This day everyone went
on a tour of the Writers Museum and a guided tour of James Joyce’s Dubliners. At the museum I learned about
several different authors of the Irish Romantic period like Charles Robert
Maturin and Bram Stoker (didn’t know he was Irish). I also learned about a
couple of women writers, such as Kate O’Brien and their works to show women in
a different light to readers. This was a calmer day of strolling around and
enjoying literature after understanding the history behind it.
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Maria's Response:
“’allo, Love, where are you heading today?”
That’s how my charming Irish cabbie greeted me on my arrival
to Dublin. I’ve traveled fairly extensively, and I’ve never had a cab driver
shake my hand before; I’ve also never
had a hotel front desk clerk hug me goodbye when I checked out. Without
exception, the people of Ireland were helpful, friendly, charming and engaging
during my Literary Dublin adventure.
The people, the places, my fellow students, my professor –
everything about this cultural immersion exceeded my expectations.
But the people – with those amazing accents, and those happy
dispositions. They made me feel good.
In Belfast’s St. Patrick’s Cathedral stands a quote: “I was
a stranger and you welcomed me.” Legend says St. Patrick was kidnapped as a teen
in Scotland, escaped, and returned to Ireland to spread Christianity to the
pagans. Much about him is conjecture,
but I believe this quote attributed to him must be true. No one feels like a
stranger in Ireland.
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At 59, I was the oldest person on the trip, and started out
kind of feeling like a stranger. FYI – no one in Ireland has gray hair. I stuck
out. One of my fellow students believed me when I joked I was 80. Ouch.
Frankly, at first, I thought I might have made a mistake by being part of this
much younger crowd. But those feelings quickly disappeared. Isn’t this what we
all love about Georgia State? The diversity – of not just ethnicity and race,
but age? We shared some poignantly personal discussions, during which we
discovered we had quite a lot in common. (Even though I didn’t raise my hand
when Andy asked, “Who’s interested in getting a tattoo while we’re here?) It sometimes almost brought me to tears to
share time with a group that loved literature as much as I do. It’s rare to get
that kind of concentrated time with people – it’s a gift.
Another gift can be described in two words: Mushy peas. YUM.
I could live on this dish – incredible. My dear British friend and expert
Joyce-ian Julie has promised to make them for me. I can’t wait.
But again, the people. From the guy who pointed us to St.
Stephen’s Green for one of the most memorable runs ever, to the amazing woman
who led our historic ghost tour; from the couple who showed us photos on their
phone of the deer in Phoenix Park (before we lucked into spending time with a
herd of them!) to the man at St. Patrick’s in Dublin who translated a Latin
quote from Swift. And I can’t forget the cab driver who took us home for five
euros instead of 10, because that’s all we had.
Through Dr. Caldwell’s carefully planned excursions, we
gained insight into Irish angst. And I now understand why Irish music is so
mournful and soulful. Our experiences were rich and diverse – from touring the
Guiness storehouse to enjoying a Dubliners walking tour to marveling over Trinity
College’s Book of Kells; from seeing a contemporary play to traveling to
Belfast to watching the St. Patrick’s Day parade.
It’s no wonder Irish literature has such depth; it comes
from rich broth as flavorful as the seafood chowder at Murray’s Pub.
Raven's Response:
When I told my friends
and family that I would be going off to Ireland for Spring Break, the responses
were expected. “Oh, you lucky dog!” “Why didn’t you tell me sooner so I could
give you money for souvenirs? Bring me back something Irish.” When I proceeded
to tell them that I would be in Dublin for St. Patrick’s Day, I think you can
guess as to their reactions. In a similar fashion, after arriving in Dublin and
taking my first steps onto Irish soil, the local people asked me why I was there,
already waiting for the expected answer. For the parade, yeah? They didn’t know
what to say next when I revealed to them I would be studying literature. It was
as if they had rehearsed the full conversation of St. Paddy’s Day revelry so
many times, there wasn’t anything else left to talk about with tourists. In
fact, other than our brilliant Dubliners tour guide, very few of the local
Irish folk I spoke with seemed keenly interested in my studies. Apparently,
most people go to Ireland for something else.
Speaking of the expectations of tourists,
the influx of the world’s population into the city of Dublin is undeniable. I’m
still uncertain if the foreign visitors are present all year-round, or if they
too were here for the parade, but their presence made the experience all the
more memorable. In my hostel, located on the other side of the river from the
rest of my compadres and situated close to one of the hottest bar areas of the
city, I met someone from a different country about every twenty minutes. While
writing a paper in the kitchen, I had the chance to practice my Italian with a
Roman woman. In my room, I met a couple Spanish girls who were studying abroad
with their English friend. I had breakfast with Germans, Swiss, and Belgian
gents. I played Jenga with a couple Danes. I embarrassed myself by dancing with
a group of Brazilians. And this was all within the walls of my tiny hostel. The
mix of nations went well beyond those flag-decked walls. The experience was
reminiscent of listening to the commentators introducing the bands of nations
during the opening parade of the Olympics.
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For this same reason, perhaps the most
memorable and fantastic times of this trip occurred within the pubs. We frequented a very popular pub called
Murray’s which featured traditional Irish music and dancing every night. In the
middle of a performance, the band, known as The Gypsies, would point to
different sections of the floor and ask where the people there were from.
Exuberant shouts from all around the house erupted as people eagerly
represented their homelands: “España!” “Schweiz!” “Italia!” “Malta!” “Brasil!”
“Deutschland!” As one band member stated, “It’s like a meeting of the United
Nations.” Even beyond that, what was truly remarkable was how the music brought
everyone together. As the band played, I looked around the room and saw how
truly happy everyone was to be there with friends and strangers, singing and
drinking and living well. Several times when the band played especially popular
tunes like Molly Malone, every glass was raised and all voices chanted the
chorus. (I later had the pleasure of discovering one of the original versions
of this lyric in the Dublin Writers’ Museum). The infectious elation resonated
like the piper’s melodies, and I couldn’t have asked to be anywhere else on
those nights.
On another note, something that caught me
off guard was the incredible amount of knowledge the locals knew about Atlanta!
Every time we stated to a tour guide, bartender, or gift shop keeper where we
were from, they each had something to reference about our city. And they hardly
ever gave repeated answers! From being the home of the Braves to having the
most active airport in the world, they knew so much more about our hometown
than I feel like many Americans were even aware of. It was heartening, but also
shaming on account of my own ignorance I had toward Dublin.
In preparations for this trip, some of my
American friends were largely under the assumption that I would partake in
crude debauchery. They wondered how much green beer I would consume before
getting into a bar fight. Also, could I bring them back a leprechaun? Their
expectations and stereotypes failed to hold. From everything I experienced
here, the most definite conclusion I’ve gathered is that the Irish people are
some of the most genuine, kind, hospitable hosts I’ve ever had the pleasure of
meeting. They’re just as excited for you to be here as you are.
Every time I looked around at all of my
classmates, I was overjoyed to see the pure cheer emanating from each of their
faces. No, it wasn’t the Guinness glow, nor a case of Jameson jubilee. It was
an endearing satisfaction. To be here, at the places which some of us have been
studying for years, with the Irish people who have been through so much more
than many realize yet stubbornly refuse to be downcast about it – this is the
epitome of every nerdy adventure. Every time our class came together over a
succulent Irish stew or gracious heaping of bangers and mash to discuss the
resounding angst in the play at the Abbey or the perfectly executed smirk and
style of Oscar Wilde’s statue, the pervading feeling of content around the
table seemed to indicate that we had all reached some axiom of understanding
and could do nothing more than relish in existence. We are literary scholars;
this is what we live for.
Andy's Response:
My 8am Practical Grammar class
seemed long, clearly buffered by the anticipation of getting out of the country
once again. This was the kind of consciously temporary stress that is far less
significant than the terrifying notion of arriving at an airport without a
passport. The passport, however, had arrived about two weeks earlier, renewed
with an updated picture and blank pages. No longer was my acne-ridden forehead
beneath bleach blonde hair the glossy image staring back at customs agents as
the embarrassment of my 2002 fashion sense annually increased; instead, a man
with a full beard and city scarf barely smirks a friendly albeit ignored nod:
“Hello there, customs worker. I’m glad I don’t have your job!”
I packed
light – one backpack full of clothes I would be okay with leaving if the need
arose. Toiletries were safely zipped away in their one-quart bag, also geared
to be left behind to save room for Irish things. It was a sling bag and the
strap weighed rather heavily on my shoulder as I steamed through crowds to find
my gate at Hartsfield-Jackson. I wouldn’t have noticed my friends from high
school also there around the same time, heading to France for a World
Literature study abroad week. Perhaps they wouldn’t have recognized me with out
the blonde hair.
On our first night, we met up at
what would become our most frequently visited spot, Murray’s Grill, which
boasted authentic Irish music and dancing. This is where we would spend our St.
Patrick’s Day dinner, drink most of our Guinness, determine plans, and discuss
Irish literature over Irish stew, fish and chips, shepherd’s pie, and many
other dishes that seemed simultaneously new and ancient.
Perhaps I was simply excited or
drawing from a well of energy that is only partially accessible, but after the
flight, I wasn’t feeling at all tired.
After
dinner was another place we would frequent another time or two, Maddigan’s,
otherwise known as “The Joyce Lounge” as it read against the inner glass doors
in bold brass-colored letters. This was, we were told, one of the bars that
James Joyce frequented. “Yeah, Jim drank here,” one bartended stated.
We all
noticed that he referred to James Joyce as “Jim,” like Joyce was his old pal
and not the self-exiled Irish writer.
We also met
a man named Noel (we think it was Noel) dressed in a suit and tie who took
particular interest in our group that night. At this point of the night, we
were Randall, Mostafa, Steven, Raven, and I and the class had not yet began. It
was difficult to understand what Noel was saying through his thick Irish accent
and Irish inebriation, but I was able to translate at least 50% of what he
said. There was a pseudo-marriage, a lesson in rugby, and a bar-wide
familiarity with Noel that perhaps rests as the centerpiece of the Joyce Lounge
for me. We saw him later in the week, still dressed in a suit and “ready for
the night” as he told Randall. It was clear he didn’t remember us.
The next morning came early, but
we’re professionals. The Charles Stewart dining room was downstairs, accessible
through a narrow stairwell of dark stained, creaky wooden steps. Below, a small
stairway led to an opening on the left where coffee, tea, cereal, granola bars,
butter, water, and orange juice was always available. Passing this room led
into the actual dining room set up with wooden tables and chairs that usually
sat four people.
After
sitting down, a woman came by to tell me about breakfast: “We have eggs, sausage,
bacon, beans, and toast.”
“I’ll have
that!”
As the server
scurried off, I noticed, unsurprisingly, an accent.
It wasn’t Irish.
After breakfast, we gather in the
Charles Stewart lobby and headed to the Abby Theater. Julie, who had just
landed that day, met us there just in time to see the play. Owen McCafferty’s Death of a Comedian had a small set, and
there were only three players involved in the entire play. The main character,
Steve Johnston, was only rarely off stage. The other two characters, Steve’s
girlfriend Maggie and manager Don Wright, are the only other personalities
present.
There were jokes and pyrotechnics.
The acting was good. The play is, like the allusion to Death of a Salesman in the title, a tragedy.
After the
play, we went to the Joyce Lounge where we were meant to discuss what we had
just seen. It didn’t quite work out that way due to a rugby game that took up
most of the seating, but we made do between both sides of a wall jutting
between our groups. Our the conversations focused on the play, Joyce and Wilde,
or some other digressive observation about Dublin and/or Irish culture.
We ate at
Murray’s again that night. The servers had already begun to recognize
us/Randall’s beard.
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“The ‘peace wall’ as
it’s known was constructed to separate the Catholic neighborhoods from the
protestant neighborhoods.” – David Busdriver
I had been to three foreign
countries before Ireland, but had never been on a bus tour. “Going to Belfast”
sounded really cool, but “bus tour” sounded really lame.
To my great pleasure, I was proven
completely wrong.
Once we arrived at the meeting
place, David, our bus driver/tour guide, guided us to his Mercedes bus. As we
eventually discovered, a few smaller groups of German, Chinese, and Italian.
Predictably, there were no Irish on board sans David.
As we left
Dublin, David told us about a lot of the history around some of the houses we
passed by in Dublin and the Georgian style characterized by the half-circle
arches/windows over the front doors. “The more affluent the archways
represented a higher social and economic class,” David notes. After we connected
to the M1, David announced that he was going to stop talking, dim the lights,
and play some “peaceful” music for an hour and a half, and for an hour and a
half, he did.
The music
was terrible.
Once in Belfast, we chugged up the
hill to Saint Patrick’s cathedral where we saw Saint Patrick’s grave. A large
stone is placed over it in order to, according to David, keep natives from
ritually taking earth form the grave when traveling abroad. The cathedral was
under construction and the man running the cash register did not like what they
were doing.
To no significance whatsoever, this
was the first time I had needed to go to the bathroom that day. In attempts to
be a purveyor of humor to the group, I took a picture of the very plain, un-saintly
bathroom door to be funny.
Nobody laughed.
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We headed over to the “peace wall,”
driving to both sides in order to see how contrasting each side really is. For
now, that is peace in Belfast. One side is covered in graffiti, and, despite
the signs that say you’re not to, people were adding their names and whatnot to
the murals accordingly.
During our lunch hour, we broke off
into smaller groups. I was with one who ambulated to St. Ann’s cathedral.
Outside the cathedral are three large buoys, and behind them is, quite
noticeably, the world’s largest Celtic cross. I wasn’t there long before I was
ready to get food, and David had recommended a pub call the Crown that, after
two cathedrals in Belfast so far, seemed more interesting.
We only had time for a pint before
we had to head back to the bus, but it was worth it. The Crown was exemplary of
early 20th century architecture that, somehow, had survived the
Belfast turmoil.
Back on the bus, we visited a
castle, though I cannot recall whose castle it was or its historical context.
It was a British warlord’s, I believe. Afterwards, we stopped by a reservoir,
now on the way back, where a few of us skipped flat rocks off of the water with
the Italians. The ride back snaked through the mountains, many of which were
lined with “famine walls,” dry stone walls constructed during the potato
famine. From what David told us, this was the Irish government’s way of
avoiding charity; their citizens worked for their stipends even if the wall was
predominantly useless.
Back on the M1, David dimmed the
lights, remained quiet, and played better music. When we got closer to Dublin, he
initiated a music game where he played a track of old Irish tunes sung by
famous Irish musicians. Sting was one of them; Bono was another.
I missed every question.
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“This is, by far, the
weirdest parade I’ve ever seen.”
St. Patrick’s Day with a discussion
on Joyce’s Dubliners. It was clear
that we all had a lot to say about Joyce and what we had read thus far. This
was promising. Still, as we finished our discussion, we couldn’t help but
notice the crowds lining up outside the Charles Stewart. We were able to watch
the whole parade from the hotel, though some people stepped out to join the
crowds.
I began to
get excited about the parade when I heard the marching bands playing in the
distance; almost every marching band stopped aside the Charles Stewart and
played a quick song. There were bagpipes at one point, and a lot of them. I was
looking forward to more bagpipes, but there were only one or two large sets of
them. We saw the usual things we all: the mounted police, the cars of important
people, a military detail. Strangely, there were no fireman or fire trucks.
The rest of
the parade was simply weird. The floats alluded to things with which I was
completely and utterly unfamiliar. There was a huge mechanical spider at some
point, a man sleeping on a bench, and very large-dressed women played by men on
stilts singing, impressively, very loudly.
Of all the floats, bands,
politicians, and civil servants, the people who got the most cheers were the
street sweeps who, backpacking gas-powered vacuums and armed with large-mouthed
tubes, always and only following at some distance the horses. Shit suckers deserve
the loudest applause.
I think
that this was the most Irish thing about the parade.
We had a
reservation at Murray’s that night and, though there was a bit of trouble with
finding our table and later in calculating the check, was an overall a good time.
It was
clear by the time we awoke on March 17th and the days that followed
that the parade isn’t something that all of the Irish flock to attend. There
were loads of Europeans there, and the hype surrounding the event – the green
decorations covering the streets, the stage lights animating the spire, the
Irish bands playing the crowds in all the pubs –catered predominantly to
tourists. We were in our proper place in Dublin and it resonated very loudly
with me there.
I was
surprised, for instance, that the lights dancing around the spire were being
taken down the next night. There was a part of me that thought this should have
been very obvious. The scaffolding holding the lights was clearly temporary,
though covered in advertisements since we had arrived. The spire itself was
something that was apparently erected without much if any meaning, but there it
is, in eye’s view of the James Joyce statue and the General Post Office.
The Dublin Writer’s Museum and the
Dubliners walking tour characterized our final day. We got up early and went to
the Writer’s Museum, which was just a few steps away from the Charles Stewart.
I saw Samuel Becket’s phone, a pair of Meerschaum pipes that I wish I could
have gotten my hands on, and took a selfie with a bust of James Joyce.
The walking
tour meeting place has an excellent gift shop and an patio area covered with a
mural of Joyce quotes. On another side of the patio stands the door of Leopold
Bloom’s house. The door was literally cut out with a small portion of the wall
from the physical building and placed there. It was being borrowed from the
owners.
There was
another large room where the film adaptation of “The Dead” was playing. The
room itself had been restored at some point, and there were photographs of that
process hanging in various places.
Upstairs
was a Joyce exhibit that I neither had the Euros nor the time to see, but I
will certainly visit there if I make it back to Dublin some day.
Our first
stop along the walking tour was across the street. Our tour guide (whose name I
don’t recall) carried an old paperback copy of Dubliners and felt that the whole collection was a very grim
representation of Dublin and its people. I disagree with that in some ways, but
his point was rather well made by the end of the tour. He also suggested that
the text’s major theme is paralysis, but I couldn’t get Julie’s thesis about
gnomon and simony (or epiphany) as equally weighted themes.
Strangely,
almost everywhere we walked were places we had walked before. There was an
obscure corner that we hadn’t seen at one point where, once upon a time, Joyce
lived. Joyce’s house had since been torn down and another building built in its
place.
The most
memorable part of the tour for me was where it ended. By this point, the tour
guide told us a brief history of Charles Stewart Parnell, a politician who
somehow managed to unite multiple Irish political factions. Catholics and
Protestants alike revered him, but Parnell was eventually betrayed and
abandoned by the very people he advocated for and relied upon after another
politician made a long-term affair explicit.
He died
within a year of the scandal.
It was this
sense of betrayal that apparently motivated Joyce while writing Dubliners. Standing on the Parnell
Bridge, we asked our tour guide several questions before he bid us farewell and
strode back the way we came.
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The “Aer” in “Aer
Lingus” Doesn’t Mean “Air”
That evening was our final official
class meeting. We discussed the specific short stories selected before leaving
the US and then went to prepare our departures. Some were leaving the next
morning, while others were leaving a day or two later. Randall and Mostafa
hopped over to London for a couple of days. I had one more day to spend, and I
knew exactly how I was going to spend it.
When I first asked the group about
getting a tattoo as a souvenir while in Dublin, I was surprised at the number
of people who so enthusiastically expressed getting a tattoo as a good idea. In
the end, only Randall and I got one, but it was still something that permeated
the entire week. We researched a few tattoo parlors around Dublin. By that point,
I had bought several tin signs from the Jameson distillery and the Guinness
brew house, a tobacco pipe from Peterson Pipes, and a hoodie from Guinness. A
tattoo was the only thing left that I wanted.
No shamrock
or harp, thank you. Nothing stereotypical. I wanted something that was of a
more local habit, something that I would get as a Dublin resident or an
American tourist.
We stepped
into Dublin Ink about an hour after they had opened. The building was
surprisingly small and housed about six tattoo artists sitting on stools or
scurrying about with ink and gloves and paper towels – the usual tattoo parlor
scurry.
I spoke
with a gorgeous woman with short blonde hair, who we later discovered had a
photo shoot published in a tattoo magazine next to the waiting couch.
“I don’t
want anything stereotypical,” I said.
“So no
shamrock?” one of the other workers asked with a smirk.
“Not at
all.”
“You like
Guinness, right? How about a toucan?”
I wish I
had thought of that . . . Still, my plan was at work: Walk in to the parlor,
ask for something different, and see what’s available.
“One of our
guest artists just drew up a toucan yesterday.”
Perfect.
Where did I want it? I’ve a lot of skin. How about this forearm? It would be a
good place. About a palm’s size? Nice. How much? Okay!
Marc aka
Marc the Pirate was the guest artist who drew the toucan. He didn’t think
anybody would want it so he was fairly excited about doing this work.
The piece
took about four hours. In that time, I learned that Marc is actually from
Portugal, and that three of the resident artists working in Dublin Ink are
actually from Brazil.
No Irish
accents at all.
They
occasionally spoke to each other in their native Portuguese. Marc was very open
to me asking questions about his tattooing experiences, including a man he
almost refused to finish tattooing, his most awkward tattooing experience
involving a pornographic film, and his father’s mild acceptance of his life as
a tattoo artist instead of an IT specialist.
Randall also wanted a tattoo but
had to find another place that could cater to his ideas. He found one a few
blocks away called Colorworks. I moseyed over to his location after I was done
and walked downstairs to where he was shirtless on his side getting an old-school
style whaling vessel on his upper shoulder. His tattoo artist, Aimee, was
incredibly pretty, intelligent, and a wonderful singer.
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When I got home, my bag was heavy,
even though I left behind a pair of jeans, a white t-shirt, lotion, shampoo,
face wash, and a few other toiletries. My friends were there to pick me up. Eventually,
I would show them the signs to add to my tin sign wall, the pipe to add to my
pipe collection, and the tattoo (still sore) to add to my others. On the drive
home, I would reflect on the surprisingly cosmopolitan nature of Dublin, which
makes perfect sense as a city. I would fill answers to cultural and literary
questions with more historical information than is necessary with no more a
reason than to hold on tightly to what I had just experienced and learned in
Ireland. One of the first and shortest questions of all prompted the most
direct answer I can give about this experience:
“So how was the trip?”
“I’ve got to go back.”
Shari's Response:
Looking
back on my daily journal and the photos I took, several photos in particular
capture for me the essence of our trip.
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(St. Patrick’s Day Parade. O’Connell Street, Dublin Ireland, 3/17/15)
Our lives are enriched by the multiple stories and narratives
we encounter and carry.
In Dublin
we had many narrative encounters, beyond those we would ever encounter in the
traditional classroom setting. During
our trip we were privileged to go beyond classroom readings and discussions
(which we had many of), to walk in the footsteps of many writers of the past,
Joyce and Swift among others. We were
able to see the various neighborhoods/sections of the city. We were able to see the countryside. We walked the same streets, and viewed the
same cathedrals, monuments and rivers of those we read from and those
characters we read of. We became
characters in our own developing story of Dublin.
We reviewed texts at Trinity college, took notes at the same
libraries and pubs in which the Irish writers of the past wrote. We were able
to see original, first edition manuscripts, and read the playbills and original
notes from theater productions and drafts of novels and short stories. We
became much more immersed in the works, as we immersed ourselves in the culture.
It was not only a journey reflecting on
the past, we reflected on the present and the future of the city, the culture,
and on the stories we would come away with.
James Joyce’s
Dubliners is often read as a negative depiction of a city that was static. However, with a closer reading one can see
that Joyce’s stories represent a call to action to the Dubliners of his day, to
embrace their city, to improve and grow a city that he loved. As an expat, the heart of his writing was
still centered on the people of his cherished Dublin. I believe he would be impressed, as I was and
I believe my classmates were, at the transformation. Comparing “Eveline,” a short story in Joyce’s
Dubliners, with a more recent novel, Landings, one can see the
transformation. Eveline is a woman with limited choices, within a patriarchical
society. Her life roles are not hers to
define. We witness her looking out through a pane of class that separates her
from the world at large. Comparing this
to Landings, by Emma Donahue, we
encounter a woman that traverses the same neighborhoods we explored. In this
current Dublin, we read the variety of life choices she has before her, and how
she can determine and will determine he own fate/destination. Joyce would be impressed. So, would Swift. The diversity is present. Swift’s life
choices would be tolerated.
However, with this transformation to a more open and diverse
culture, we were also able to experience the angst that current Dubliners may
face. In one instance we were able to
experience this in a performative manner, invoking all of our senses. Visiting the theater district we learned of
the historical controversies and progression of plays performed on famous and
more current stages. We were privileged
to see the play Death of a Comedian,
by upcoming playwright Owen McCafferty. The play portrays a man having many
choices and, with choice, questioning at a later date the journey and personal consequences
of those choices.
The other thing the first photo reminds me of is that
we are the stories we carry.
A rather dramatic,
moving experience for me was our trip to Belfast and the stories that are
carried forward. Stopping at a shop, I
had the opportunity to strike up a conversation with an elderly couple. Having lived in Belfast for their entire
lives, we discussed the dividing yet memorial wall. Looking at a picture of the wall, it is a
symbolic testimony to religious conflict and division.
Still remaining, I wondered how this symbolic narrative,
carries this story forward for future generations. The divide is always present. Can the narrative inscriptions, and tributes
to historic and civil demonstrations move one beyond this divide?
Prior to this trip, seeing pictures of the wall would never
have moved me as it did standing there.
Simply viewing them would never have captured what I felt as I touched
the inscriptions, stood small in comparison to the height and expanse of this
winding, lengthy wall. I was privileged
to hear first-hand testimony of what the wall symbolized for those living
through the height of conflict and currently, with their fears of tensions that
still linger, but with the hope peace will reign.
So now, those of us who had the privilege of participating
in the literary Dublin study abroad experience, we have stories of our own--
stories we will carry with us of the city, the Irish
culture, our experience with Irish literary works, and more importantly the
stories of friendships formed, exchanges had with one another and those of our
new adopted city.
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Christen's Response:
Every once in a while, we are blessed to
go on unforgettable experiences. For me, being a part of this group was
unforgettable to say the least. Not only did I experience my first plane ride,
which I cried on the first plane, but I also was able to leave the country for
the first time in my long twenty-one years of life. To say that I was excited
would have been a vast understatement. Coupled with the excitement was
apprehension. I mean, come on, I have never been out of the south so for my
first trip out of the south to be across he big pond was quite
frightening.
The
moment I arrived in Dublin, I was overwhelmed. From the airport to the streets
of Parnell, everything was so different. Seeing people drive on the other side
of cars and on the opposite side of the street took some getting used to. I
often thought that a collision would ensue. I was amazed at how modern the city
was. Oftentimes, Americans foolishly believe that we are the only modern
country in the world and that everyone and everything else is barbaric in
nature. In my naivety, I thought it to be true to an extent. Of course, I was
wrong. The modern nature of the country coupled with the advancements in
technology made it somewhat easier to adapt in the city. Especially with the
medical advances and pharmacies. It would be fitting that I became sick during
the beginning of my trip. Due to my illness, I missed out on some awesome
excursions that I will regret for the rest of my academic career. However, the
things that I actually were able to experience were truly remarkable.
My
favorite part of the trip would definitely be the trip to Belfast. As one who
is not big on written history such as textbooks and museums, Belfast was
refreshing. It is great to learn about history in books but to visually
experience it is another thing. I am truly thankful for our tour guide, David,
because his profound knowledge of the culture and history of Belfast made the
trip that much more enjoyable. As we embarked on our trek up the mountain, he
eloquently unfolded Belfast’s history with his own personal narrative.
I
think what struck home to me the most is the civil rights issues that the Irish
citizens bear such as the division between the Catholics and Protestants. For
some reason, that really affected me. Seeing as both religions are strikingly
similar, it is amazing that both religions that preach love and forgiveness,
cannot really function together. The situation was appalling and saddening. Hearing
the stories of how people were persecuted and killed because of their beliefs
was gut-wrenching. We sometimes take religious freedom for granted as
Americans. To be able to live in a neighborhood where as a Christian, I have
atheist and Catholic neighbors but we are still able to live in harmony is
something that I will never take for granted.
Additionally,
the bus ride in itself served as a great source of entertainment for me. I met
two awesome people: Nicholas from France and Rita from Italy. I learned about
some of their culture and language and in turn, I was able to teach them a few
American idioms. Nicholas seemed to be particularly taken with the term, “Build
a Bridge and Get Over it.” A term that I have not ever truly thought about, was
seen as profound to him and Rita. It is amazing how the different cultural
barriers are breached once people come together. I thoroughly enjoyed meeting
them and also acting as their temporary love coach.
Thankfully,
all of our time was not spent on the bus. Downtown Belfast struck me as modern
day New York City with a rich history. I was particularly taken aback by the
St. Anne’s Cathedral. The immaculate beauty of the structure was unbelievable.
As a Baptist, I never saw the point in going into a catholic cathedral but to
experience an establishment such as St Anne’s touched my spirit. There was a
presence of true holiness that radiated throughout the place. I could feel the
strength of the spirit coming through the sanctuary. The spirit was so strong
that I could not bring myself to walk to far into the church because I felt it
to be disrespectful. It was an experience
that I never thought could affect me in such a way.
As
the trip to Belfast continued, I enjoyed the scenery. The mountains, hills,
cattle, and overall landscape captured the true essence of the country more
than the city life of downtown Dublin. I honestly wish that we could have spent
another day in Northern Ireland. There was so much more that I wanted to
experience.
As
one who is not keen on the basic existence of tourism, I wish the trip
contained more substance. Tourism only brushed the surfaces of the raw and
unadulterated cultures of the world. Tourists usually only experience their destinations
through a rose-colored glasses. There is an underbelly that I feel is important
for all to experience when traveling to other cities and countries. There is
more to life than the museums and restaurants.
Overall,
the trip was satisfactory. If I were ever presented with another opportunity to
visit Dublin, I would but under more culture driven. A program that is more
structured around blending the history of the country with the current existence
of humanity would have been more suitable. However, for the Literary Dublin
trip to have been the first one, it was put together rather well. It is an
experience that I will always cherish and I greatly appreciative to Georgia
State University and Dr. Caldwell.
Randall's Response
The
travel time from my front porch in Atlanta, Georgia to the Charles
Stewart Guesthouse in Dublin City spans about twenty hours. That
includes MARTA, airport security,
runway taxiing, a reasonable layover and overbooked flight in NYC (which
nearly costed me a day of unused hotel accommodations but would have
resulted in generous compensation and a free night in Manhattan), an
over-night flight, and a bus trip that ushers
me into a disoriented and sluggish walk down unfamiliar streets. I
travelled alone. I planned it that way. I wanted to breathe foreign air,
plant my boots on Irish soil, and traverse Dublin landscape for the
first time with little distractions. Along the way
were people, unique people, all telling like stories but with different
details. And now on this island are people, a people with rich cultural
heritage, a sad and troubled history, and an identity muddled by the
paralysis of colonization, famine, and religious
unrest.
Aaron
is the first Dubliner I meet. With a map in hand and a lost stupor on
my face, I stand on Dublin sidewalk for the first time. He stops and
asks, “Are ya lost?”
We look at the map together, I tell him where I’m trying to go, and he
seems as lost as me. He goes inside of his workplace and comes back with
vague directions about how the Charles Stewart Guesthouse is just
straight ahead and around the corner. I trust him
and soon find the guesthouse. The time change and night spent on the
plane has me weary. I drop my bag off and walk to find a full Irish
breakfast. This city is beautiful. Across from my hotel is a theatre.
Just up the street stands a church on the corner.
Next to the church is the Dublin Writers Museum. Everything around me
has history. I’ve only been in Dublin for an hour, and I can already see
that this is surely a walking city. The locals seem to walk fast.
Everything moves fast. Conversation is precise and
to the point, yet it is endearing. As I walk, I notice how trash litters
stairwells leading to hotel basements. I find breakfast at a place
called Kingfisher. I have coffee with my meal, strong coffee.
When
I’m finally allowed into my room, I am exhausted. I take a nap that is
far too long when considering there is an entire city to explore. I make
myself get out of
bed just as it is nearing nighttime. I read, shower, and get ready to
welcome one of my roommates for the week. Mostafa arrives in Dublin
around 9pm. He has been traveling for the last 24 hours. He is clearly
tired but still agrees to go out for food and drink
with me. We find a place called Murray’s, which would soon become our
group’s favorite pub. Maggie serves us. She’s from China and has been in
Dublin for six years. She has an interesting Chinese-Irish accent. She
tells us about how crowded the streets get
on St. Patrick’s Day and shows us photos. Kavish also serves at
Murray's. He moved here twelve years ago when he was eighteen. He's from
an island off the coast of South Africa. He says his country is
multicultural, and he grew up speaking English and French.
The food, drink, and traditional Irish music and dance at Murray’s are
all perfect for our first night in Ireland.
Mostafa
and I meet Gabriel on our walk after dinner. He's from Northern
Ireland. He refers to the Irish and Irish-Americans as “Paddy.” He says
that Irish-Americans are
the ones who fled Ireland during the famine, which he refers to as the
”Irish Holocaust.” He says that the ones who stayed in Ireland were the
wealthy land-owners. He claims they have no idea of what the Irish have
endured, and because of this, they have a
much weaker sense of national unity. However, Irish-Americans have a
strong sense of this unity. Gabriel displays vast knowledge of world
politics. Much of what he says I have a hard time understanding, both
because of his thick Northern Irish accent and my
own political and national ignorance. I thought he may be homeless, but
he is not. Gabriel says that Ireland is one of the only countries in the
world that can sustain itself – six million people that can feed fifty
million. He says that America should be feeding
the world, but instead it is fed by the world. He has citizenship in
America, Ireland, and Northern Ireland. He says this is illegal. He
calls Americans "feathers."
Dr.
Caldwell and Andy arrive in Dublin the next morning. The four of us
decide to make a pre-curriculum trip to the Old Jameson Distillery. We
pay for the tour and order
Jameson cocktails as we wait. We discuss our anticipation for the week.
The tangible excitement we all feel is obvious. We spend these moments
talking about our respective programs and our expectations of how this
study of literature-in-culture will influence
our personal and professional endeavors. Soon, the voice over the
loudspeakers announces the start to our tour. Rob leads our time through
the historic distillery. He is a tall and stout irishman, his hair long
and pulled back in a ponytail. His personality
entertains us and the rest. We see every stage of the distilling
process. Rob ends the tour with a whiskey tasting. I call Rob over
after, and we all have the pleasure of colorful conversation. He tells
us about tattoo shops, whiskey bars, and good places for
food.
On
Sunday, David narrates a bus tour to Northern Ireland. He is from
England but displays extensive knowledge of Irish landscape, culture,
and history. We travel to Belfast,
passing through Catholic and Protestant neighborhoods as we make our way
into the city. He takes us through Falls Road, which is predominantly
Catholic, and the Protestant neighborhoods along Shankill Road. We
travel back to Dublin by way of the Mourne Mountains.
Irish history is ravaged with instability and struggle. The history of
Belfast speaks of a city that has been particularly torn. David refers
to much of the strife throughout Ireland and Northern Ireland as “the
troubles.” He takes us to the Peace Wall that
was created as a fissure between Catholic and Protestant neighborhoods.
The wall is decorated and graffitied. There are monuments scattered
throughout the city that tell of the Irish fight for freedom and peace.
It all stands to remind the Irish people of their
struggles: reminders of the signing of the 1921 peace treaty, monuments
that honor those who lost their life during “the troubles,” paintings of
Bobby Sands and other leaders who led their fight for freedom,
paintings of American civil rights leaders such as
Martin Luther King Jr. and Frederick Douglass, quotes from activists
that state “…Our revenge will be the laughter of our children” and “Free
us all…from the prison of mistrust…misunderstanding…and misdeeds.”
There is even a monument erected in 2014 with an
inscription that reads, “Marking 45 years of conflict in Northern
Ireland – 1969-2014 – Let this be the year the conflict ends.” The
people of Belfast have surely felt the weight of religious unrest. The
peaceful ride through the Mourne Mountains offers mental
rest, while the weight of Irish identity settles further into my mind.
For
me, the last day of our program would prove to be the most valuable
study of Irish literature-in-culture of the week. Marty leads a walking
tour around Dublin City
while discussing the life and work of James Joyce. He is confident and
well-versed in Joyce, Dublin, and the Irish struggle. His story-telling
sits alongside stories from The Dubliners. He crafts an
experience that takes us through streets mentioned
in the novel and past apartments dedicated to some who were close to
Joyce. Outside of the Gresham Hotel he discusses the final chapter of The Dubliners, “The Dead,” and the Joycean epiphany. Across the street stands Dublin’s General Post Office.
His knowledge of it’s history and the events of the 1916 Easter
Rising impresses and intrigues all of us. Above the building, the
extension of cranes can be seen – seems to be a fitting nod to the
rebuilding of Ireland. He mentions the significance of the
huge spire erected in the center of Dublin City, an explanation that
lacks the importance assumed of such a structure. Marty leads us all the
way to the River Liffey. He points us west towards Grattan Bridge and
reads from “A Little Cloud.” We listen to Marty,
the passing busses, and the river below – all telling Ireland’s story.
The
experience of this trip will forever be a marker in my scholarly and
personal journey. To learn about a culture by experiencing that culture
cannot be matched. We
learned about Irish past through monuments, statues, libraries, and
relationships, and we experienced Ireland’s present through the work of
contemporary playwright Owen McCafferty and his play Death of a Comedian.
Along the way, new friendships were
formed and old friendships were deepened. A group of relative strangers
from Atlanta, brought together by the vision of someone passionate about
intensive cultural study, experienced Ireland in an invaluable way and
left connected by the entrenching nature
of the Irish people and culture. Conversations that happened across a
table, in a hotel room, or in the center of a ruined Irish castle cannot
be recreated elsewhere. The inescapable reverence felt when gazing down
at The Book of Kells at Trinity College or
looking out at Irish expressions scribbled on city walls cannot be
duplicated. Thank you Dr. Tanya Caldwell and Georgia State University
for this opportunity. It’s a lovely day for a Guinness. Cheers.
Mostafa's Response:
While Dublin is a place that can be read
about at length and in depth through the many various texts by Irish authors,
it is a city that is best understood by experience. We all had a unique
experience traveling to and staying in the heart of Dublin for about a week.
What we read in James Joyce’s Dubliners
and Oscar Wilde’s The Importance of Being
Earnest paled in comparison to the things we saw, the people we talked to,
the streets we walked, and the food we ate. Traveling abroad gives students an
important opportunity to witness the world around a text or a series of texts
that share a common theme. It provides a rich atmosphere for the students to
gather crucial contextual information about a place that they otherwise may not
have. This paves the way to a deeper understanding of the place being discussed
and is vital to the complete knowledge about the matter at hand. With Dublin,
the matter was its quest and search for identity. The texts we read served as
primers for an idea of Dublin as a city suspended in a state of paralysis. Its
identity was largely unformed and it seemed like a city that was yearning for
self-discovery. What I experienced lead me to believe quite the opposite.
Paradoxically, in its search for identity, Dublin, and thus by extension Ireland
as a whole, has formed an original and authentic one of its own.
Dublin has an
identity that is formed by a compilation of its people. There are few places
that place such an emphasis upon its literary history. Many of the famous
writers are immeasurably celebrated with dedicated statues, sanctioned-off
property, and an emphasis on the places they frequented. Such examples of these
include the James Joyce Lounge, Oscar Wilde’s house and Dublin’s very own
Writer’s Museum. Trinity College is another grand example of the rich literary
history, housing a magnificent library with Long Hall and an exhibition of the
elaborate and historical Book of Kells.
Additionally, Dublin and Ireland contains no shyness with being associated with
St. Patrick’s Day. While the common elements of the holiday we are accustomed
to here in the US are similar—all-green everything, clovers, leprechauns and
beverages, there are stark differences between the way we celebrate it over
here and the way they celebrate it locally there.
St. Patrick’s
Day in Ireland is celebrated by celebrating the people, customs and life of
Ireland. As we would later find out, the St. Patrick’s Day parade included
various acts, floats, music and performances that touched on a variety of
things: ducks, marching bands, flowers, bees and other animals, water,
bicycles, and dancers. These are things we don’t necessarily think of right
away when we think of St. Patrick’s Day, but Dublin does. Additionally, a
significant level of importance is placed on its political history with the
likes of Charles Stewart Parnell and the recent cease to violence that exists
today between different factions within Ireland. Peace is a very new concept to
Northern and Southern Ireland. Up until just over twenty or so years ago, there
was still a strong strife between the two areas and it was dangerous for people
to travel between locations. All of these together form the identity of Dublin.
It screams as a city stuck in paralysis, and it may have very well been for a
long time, but is one that is abundant with genuine existence today.
My
trip to Dublin was a beautiful and inspirational journey. My flight landed on a
damp, wet evening following a brief albeit substantial downpour. The streets
were still slick when I got to our place of residence for the remainder of our
trip, The Charles Stewart Guesthouse. The guesthouse was a part of a prominent
row of hotels, banked on the sidewalk of O’Connell Street, which is a major
pathway through the city. This location of our guesthouse served as a vital
point because most of the things we planned to do on our itinerary were within
a manageable walking distance. As I went into our guesthouse, I was pleasantly
surprised to find out that we had a great bed and breakfast, which was an asset
to have as the dining room served as a place to discuss the day’s activities. I
found myself there on many mornings preparing for the day to come while
enjoying a traditional Irish breakfast. It was a tremendous part of the day and
the people who work there are some of the sweetest I have ever met.
Randall and I
went out for a dinner and came to a restaurant where we, as a whole group,
would eventually find ourselves intermittently over the remainder of our stay.
The restaurant served fresh Irish food and it was a rich environment to witness
live Irish music and dancing. This was our first glimpse into the Irish life
and identity. Irish people love to celebrate their heritage and culture.
Traditional Irish music and dancing is one of the ways they choose to do this.
Walk into any restaurant or pub at night and there is a high chance that there
is something lively going on inside. Over the course of the week, we would find
ourselves in numerous other establishments, all similarly designed and
structured by the inclusion of live celebrations. This wasn’t necessarily a
part of the overall St. Patrick’s Day celebration, but a part of the daily
routine there. Regular weeknights and weekends are no different—live Irish music
and dancing is a common staple in Dublin.
Our
itinerary included incredible and impactful activities that were part of the
greater narrative of Ireland. We discovered the secret behind the Jameson Distillery,
Guinness Storehouse and Trinity College. Additionally, we found truth in the
many museums we went to and the artifacts therein we absorbed. We saw a
riveting play, Owen McCafferty’s Death of
a Comedian, we crossed the River Liffey, we walked the streets and saw the
locations behind Joyce’s Dubliners. One
of the most prominent parts of our trip was the bus trip to Belfast, which
brought with it an abundance of welcome surprises. En route to Northern
Ireland, our tour guide pleasantly and delightfully informed us about the many
historical and noteworthy details along our journey, which lasted about two
hours each way. We passed by ancient areas of medieval battle and found the
inspiration behind the part of Gulliver’s
Travels where Gulliver is tied down (a large mountain in the shape of a
giant laying down). We saw the Peace Wall, which is itself a sight to behold.
We passed by a gorgeous lake, saw the burial location of Saint Patrick, trespassed
on the remnants of an ancient and beautiful castle, and witnessed the incredible
original location of the Titanic.
The
majestic harbor where the ship was constructed lays largely intact and
still—feeling almost haunted in itself. The harbor itself is massive and it is
awe-inspiring to have had the opportunity to just have placed foot on the
ground there. Adjacent to the harbor is a pillaring museum and gift shop that
commemorates the ship. There is an outline of the ship that is lit up, which is
magnificent to see and ever grander to pace. Randall and I walked bow to stern
and back, walking the entire length of where the ship once rested. This was one
of the many highlights of my trip there. Although the trip itself felt like a
“greatest hits” of Dublin adventure, being a part of the Titanic allure was
striking and significantly exceptional for me because Titanic’s history is one
I have been fascinated with since I was very young. I did not expect it to be a
part of the trip, but it is one that stands out for me in a beautiful way.
On
our last day in Dublin, Randall and I were surprised to find out the Dublin
Castle was open. As a group, we had tried to visit it during the previous few
days, but found it was closed every time we tried. This was not true on this
day and we were granted access inside, where we found out that this stood as a
vital standing point of Bram Stoker’s Dracula. We walked around and learned the
history and significance of the castle, as well as saw some of the intricacies
that made it special: the old halls, memorials, secret tunnels and ruins that
lay within. The castle dates back to medieval times, a point of history that
seemed to come up again and again through the various things we saw in Ireland,
which paints a vivid picture about importance of British expansion into Ireland
at that time.
The trip was very academically inclined
and even when we were participating in the celebration of Irish life and
culture, we always did so academically. The experience really changed our
lives. We went to Ireland as group of students who had only read about Irish
life in books and came back semi-Dubliners ourselves, developing a first-hand
experience of what the city had to offer. It feels as if we somehow brought
Ireland back with us, perhaps in our hearts as well as in our memories. Perhaps,
by doing so, we also left a part of ourselves there—a part that exists with the
overall magic and eccentricity of Dublin. I cannot thank Dr. Tanya Caldwell
enough for allowing us to partake in this life-changing experience. Under her
leadership and guidance, many of us observed the trip of a lifetime. Like
Dublin, we also found ourselves finding a place and reason for ourselves and a
growing and developing identity of our own. As the guide at St. Patrick’s
Museum called us, we will be remembered in Ireland as “The Peachtree Posse,”
which is an appropriate and worthwhile group title.
Steven's Response:
I don’t know where to begin to describe the most incredible
trip of my life. I guess I’ll start at the beginning. I’ve never traveled
before this trip. I had always wanted to participate in a study abroad program,
but never had the financial means and could never get over the fear of being
away from home for a month. When I heard I could take a trip to Ireland for a
week, receive a full semester of credits, and receive scholarships from the
Study Abroad office and the College of Arts and Sciences, I jumped at the
opportunity. I am grateful to the Study Abroad office, the College of Arts and
Sciences, and Dr. Tanya Caldwell for putting this trip together. It was a life
changing experience, and I can never forget the great experiences I had in that
beautiful country.
My flight
left Atlanta at 10am on Thursday. I had a six-hour layover in New York, and
then I arrived in Ireland around 8am Friday morning. It was a long flight, but
being able to see the sunrise while flying over the coast of Ireland was
breathtaking. My roommate, Christen, was waiting for me at the airport. We
hopped on a bus and made our way to city center. Words can’t describe how I
felt when I breathed in the cold Ireland air for the first time. I was in awe.
Seeing the city for the first time was…I couldn’t describe it. Knowing I was so
far from home in another country was intimidating, but exciting. After we finally made it to our hotel, I didn’t waste
any time and set out to explore the city. The architecture. The columns on the
old buildings. The unique murals on the face of structures. The gigantic,
phallic, silver spire in the center of Dublin. Everything was new and
comforting in a unique way. I tried to take it all in and reflect on what the
rest of the week would hold.
The first
activity was seeing the play Death of a
Comedian at the Abbey theater. It was a magnificent play; however I didn’t
fully appreciate it until the end of the trip. After being immersed in the
culture and the literature of Ireland, the themes of the play came into
fruition. Visiting Belfast, St. Patrick’s Cathedral, the Irish Writers Museum,
the Book of Kells and Trinity College, the James Joyce Center, and other
museums and monuments enhanced my understanding of Irish literature and
culture. On the first night, a couple of us stopped at a small pub. By
coincidence, the pub was named the Joyce Lounge. We asked the bartender about
it’s name and he replied, “James Joyce used to get drunk here.” It was suck a simple
response, but it was an incredible feeling. Not only were we studying the
authors, but we were visiting places they visited—experiences things they
experienced. Like Joyce, I drank my faire share of beer in that pub throughout
the week.
I could
write pages on my personal experiences for the entire week, so I will just
discuss my favorite experience. The bus tour to Belfast was definitely my
favorite excursion of the week. I was unsure of what to expect. I’ve never been
on a bus tour before. The all day trip was so informative of Irish history and
the effects of British colonialism. We were able to see the “peace wall” and
“peace murals.” Not only did the murals portray Irish conflicts, they also
showed conflicts around the world. The murals showed images of Gaza, African
American history, Israel, Baghdad, and many more. It was a breathtaking wall.
The bus tour was not exclusively about literature, but we did see things
related to literature. We passed the
family home of the Brontës. We saw a hill that apparently inspired an
important scene in Gulliver’s Travels.
We saw the site where the Titanic was built. I fully embraced my destiny of
becoming Rose (Kate Winslet) by standing at the tip of the ship, with my arms
outstretched. I heard Celine Dion playing softly in the background. If only I
had the necklace to throw back into the ocean…I visited the St. Anne’s
Cathedral and the largest Celtic cross in Ireland. On the way back to Dublin,
we stopped at St. Patrick’s cathedral and his final resting place. A giant
stone marks his grave. When the Irish would leave their homeland, they would
take a handful of soil from the grave in order to always have a piece of their
home with them. When we stopped at a lake along the Moher Mountains, I
remembered this tradition. It moved me to pick up some stones along the lake,
so that I would always have a piece of Ireland. The trip also took us to a
ruined castle, which was by far my favorite thing of the trip. Touching the
walls of the castle was like touching history. The history within those walls
goes so far. Being able to touch it? Brilliant. The castle also provided a
magnificent view.
This trip was by far
the best experience of my life and academic career so far. The food was
fantastic. The beer…oh lordy the beer. I am now a huge fan of Guinness. My most
precious memories were made with new friends in a pub over a pint of Guinness.
I met so many different people from all over the world. I visited traditional
Irish pubs, gay bars, and restaurants. I experienced all walks of life, from a
drunken man growling at me in an alley, to a gentleman walking me around the
National Gallery and acting as my personal tour guide. I have made lasting
connections with people I would have never met, if I stayed home in Atlanta.
Sidenote-I was surprised by how many people knew something about Atlanta.
Multiple people told me how frustrating Atlanta streets were because they are
all named Peachtree! Anyway, I spent a lot of time alone in the city. I had two
days to myself, once the class ended. I visited the National Museum of
Archeology and Natural History. I took a train out of the city to visit the
Battle of Boyne, and the New Grange Monuments. This trip allowed me to discover
Ireland, but it also helped me discover things about myself. Being able to
spend a week in Ireland studying literature was a treat. Being able to
celebrate St. Patrick’s Day and my birthday while we were there was an added
bonus. I am forever grateful for this experience. I couldn’t have asked for a
better group of people to spend that week with.