So there we were at Malahide Castle; ancestral home of the Talbot family. Photography of the fantastical centuries-old furnishings and portraits are strictly forbidden so when we left the castle interior, I sprang like a cat to snap anything I could. While photographing the arched gate-cum-portculis (complete with a mini door for the Puck, the castle ghost, to pass through), I heard a roar:
“Take a picture of me!”
I moved my eye from the viewfinder and saw a little boy clad in a green sweatshirt. A quick glance around the castle walls showed that he and I were alone.
“Come on!” he cried, pulling himself up onto a stone ledge, his arms crooked like a prize fighter’s.
“Okay.” I stood back to include as much of the castle turret as I could into the frame.
“Wait. Annie!” At his call, a little girl scampered onto the wall from behind a topiary shrub. “Come on, then!” A third child – older, wearing a red sports jersey – dived into the shot.
“Okay, guys. One, two, three.”
The children grinned and the flash went off. They congratulated each other heartily and scrambled off the wall, preparing to vault into the walking trails, I assume, to find their parents.
“Thank you!” said the boy in the green sweater as they dashed past me. Had I really done him a favor? I wondered if it had occurred to him that he’d never get to see the picture.
I remembered a solitary trip I took to Rome 4 years ago. My mission: to duplicate a photo of my 9 year-old self standing in front of La Bocca Della Verita. At the site, my camera battery conveniently died but a kind Spanish couple took a photo of me with their own camera. We exchanged e-mail addresses and within a couple of weeks, they sent me the shot. It, and the old picture that inspired it, are still two of my favorites.
It’s too bad that those kids won’t get to enjoy the picture taken of them in front of Malahide Castle that day – although I’m sure their parents took plenty and that my shot, taken at dusk, will be much worse than the ones in their parents’ collection. Nonetheless, I’m sure they’d like to see it. I haven’t got their e-mail address and I somehow doubt they’re avid expat blog readers, but just in case:
After all, stranger things have happened.
In these days of economic crisis, I see signs like this in all the shops. Buy Me, I’m Irish. Irish grown. Support Irish industries. P.S. – We’re Irish. Hey, Mr. Cowen!, emblazoned on a Burger King Recession Special bus stop ad. Some of the stores even list Irish-made products separately on receipts so buyers can see how much money they’ve contributed to the national economy.
When I see signs like this, I’m torn. I want to help Ireland’s economy, I do. But is it even more important for me to buy American while living abroad? If the global economy weren’t suffering, I’d obviously go for only Irish products in the spirit of delicious acclimation to my new environment. But things are different now. Surely I should go for the Pringles, not the Taytos. The Sam Adams, not the Murphy’s. As an American, it must be my duty.
But the products are priced higher than they are back home. And they’re in Euro to boot.
Help me, Uncle Sam. I don’t know what to do.
Maybe I’ll just let Sean do the grocery shopping from now on.
Sean’s mother: Bring some of the chocolate cake on the train with you. It’s a long ride back up to Dublin.
Liv: Oh, I’m fine. Thank you!
Sean’s mother: Ah, go on, sure.
Sean: Yeah, go on. Bring some cake witcha.
Sean’s brother: Do you want some cards to bring with you on the trip?
Liv: Oh, I don’t know. Do carrots really go with cake?
*
Shopkeeper: Are you all right, there?
Liv: Yeah, I’m fine. Why?
*
Sean to his mother on the phone: Grand, grand. Liv’s grand, too, but she’s just after giving out to me.
Liv: Oh my god! What! What! What? What are you telling your mom?
Sean: Settle down, will ya? I’m after telling her how you yelled at me for not taking out the rubbish.
*
Sean: Well, what did you think of my friend, Bill?
Liv: He was nice.
Sean: You didn’t understand a word he was saying, did you? That’s a real Cork accent he has there, b’hoy.
Liv: Not … a … word.
At the Dublin Crafts Fair
It’s November 1st and my friends back home have commenced the usual Nov. 1 activity: posting Halloween pictures from the night before on Facebook. I’m seeing the traditional slutty nuns, 80s cartoon characters, and props-as-concepts. My friends ask me: “What did you do for Halloween? Do they even celebrate it in Ireland or is it just an American thing?” Little do they know that some of Halloween’s roots are, in fact, in Ireland – planted long before the holiday became co-opted by Christianity and Hollywood.
In the world of the Celts, the festival of Samhain – “summer’s end” – was held from October 31 to November 1st; signifying the end of the lighter half of the year and the beginning of the darker half. The veil between the spirit world and the mortal world was believed to become thin, allowing spirits to mingle among the living. Scholars believe that the practice of wearing ghoulish masks and costumes developed as a means of protection to confuse evil spirits. Bonfires were lit as part of cleansing rituals and large turnips were hollowed out, carved with faces and placed on windowsills to commemorate the souls in purgatory. Over time, when the Catholic and Pagan traditions mingled in Europe, Samhain became associated with All Saints Day, celebrated on Nov. 1st. The term Halloween, once All Hallows’ E’en, comes from Old English.
Here in Dublin in 2009, there are no bonfires on Halloween. There are, however, fireworks. They popped all afternoon and early evening long, their sparkles fanning out like peacock tails over the Canal as a parade of costumed Dubliners trekked to and from “fancy dress” Halloween pub parties. Sean and I headed down to one of the quieter bars in our neighborhood to attend one ourselves: I was Holly Golightly, he was Albert Einstein. Typical elements of Hollywood Halloween were strewn across the bar – pumpkin jack-o-lanterns, spiderwebs, and gravestones. A skeleton poured Guinness while the DJ spun Lady Gaga. Costumes observed: a walking bottle of Jagermeister, slutty Little Red Riding Hood, slutty Snow White, slutty Dorothy, a scarecrow, two Teletubbies, a biohazard official, a Roman orator, the Pope, Cleopatra, a Werewolf, a slutty Werewolf, Medusa, a policeman.
Cultural reference alert: when a trio of men wearing nubby Aran sweaters and paddy caps trooped past, Sean snorted in distaste.
“Dubs,” he sneered. “They would think farmer clothes are a Halloween costume. My mum wears Aran sweaters. Eejits.”
When asked about the Halloweens of his childhood, Sean remembers bobbing for apples, eating apples hung from the ceiling on a string, and enjoying barmbracks – Irish Halloween cakes. Barmbracks are light fruit cakes with special treats baked inside. If you find a ring, you’re going to find love. If you find the coin, you’re going to be rich. If you find the peanut, you’re going to be poor. Sean says he collected all of the lucky charms in his childhood. It would be hard not to, he says. You eat the cake so many times.
… the houses look like this:
‘Tis grand, you know what I mean, like?
When Sean was growing up, the prize for finishing all of his dinner was a cookie. Now Sean is a adult and he can have 10 cookies if he wants, any time of the day. He often does.
Sean loves cookies. He brings home a new package every week to savor while we have our tea. I’m always excited to see what he’s bought, since so many of the brands are unfamiliar to me.
Once, we had Mikados:
Mikados are shortbread biscuits layered with jam, coconut, sugar, and pink gobs of Peep-like marshmallow. They taste about as great as they sound.
Another time, we had crispy chocolate covered digestives:
Though I can’t vouch for any improvements in my digestion, they were terrific.
In the past few weeks, we’ve had tiny packaged apple pies that need to be baked in the oven, Kinder Surprise eggs, shortbread cookies, and arguments in the snack aisle because Sean has always believed that Nabisco, Kellogg’s, and Cadbury are Irish brands.
This week, we have Penguins:
Crunchy, creamy and chocolatey all at once – Penguins are most excellent cookies. As if “delicious” and “named after a lovable creature” weren’t enough, the folks at Penguin decided to add a whole new dimension of awesome to their product by printing penguin-themed jokes on their wrappers. Every time Sean eats Penguins, he makes sure to quiz me. Who knew how much fun a pair of adults could have with a handful of cookies?
Sean: What’s black and white, black and white, black and white, black and white?
Liv: My newspaper as I whip you for asking, “Do ye have Pringles in America?”
Sean: Wrong! It’s a penguin rolling down a hill.
Liv: Oh.
Sean: Okay, finished that biscuit. Let’s try again. Why don’t Polar Bears eat Penguins?
Liv: Trick question – they totally do! It’s the ciiiiiiiircle of liiiiiiiiife.
Sean: No! They can’t get the wrappers off.
Liv: Seriously? What, did someone at the Penguin joke think tank skip lunch or something?
Sean: Give me another biscuit. Yum. Who is a Penguin’s favorite aunt?
Liv: Ice Flo. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ….!! Oh, wait, you said “favorite.”
Sean: A penguin’s favorite aunt is Aunt-Arctica.
Liv: Oh, man. Okay, enough with the penguin jokes … I think I’m … NUMB with boredom. A ha ha ha ha ha ha …!
Sean: Why are you laughing?
Liv: Get it? “Numb”? Like from the cold?
Sean: Ha. Ha.
Liv: *I* should work for Penguin cookies. I’m hilarious!
Sean: Penguin biscuits.
Who knows what our next shopping trip will bring?
We’ve carved out a schedule of sorts these days. I’m in class 3 days a week, put in time for the two travel magazines I work for, and write about 20 hours for myself and for school. I cook dinner 5 nights; Monday is pasta, Tuesday is chicken, Wednesday is Hump Day Wild Card, Thursday is fish and Friday is International Surprise (!). Saturday is the day we clean the apartment and the night we try out a Dublin restaurant. Finally, Sunday is “trad night,” when we enjoy some traditional culinary delights. Sunday has been dubbed “trad night” due to convenience because Sunday is also known as “day trip time” around these here parts. When you’re visiting a famous Irish spot, you tend to want something potato-ey for dinner. Three Sundays ago, we took the bus down to the old fishing village of Howth:
Moody gray Irish coastline
“Now don’t you be whingeing about food again, Mary; you’re just after having had some seafood chowder at the pub.”
The Irish Sea
Fish is life.
The Bloody Stream – a lovely pub, purportedly built upon the site of a 12th century battle during the Norman Conquest of Ireland. There, I enjoyed a pot of fine mussels alive alive-o and some of the best seafood chowder I’ve ever tasted; piping hot, brewed with savory salmon and dill. Afterwards, a stroll past the boutiques and tugboats while enjoying vanilla ice cream cones before the bus ride home.
Last Sunday, we took the 44 Bus to Powerscourt; a stunning heritage property located among the famed Wicklow Mountains in the small village of Enniskerry. Powerscourt began its life as a 13th century Anglo-Norman castle in possession of the le Poer family. Through the centuries, it’s been held by several other powerful British and Irish families. In the 18th, 19th and 20th centuries, a succession of whimsical castle extensions and fantastic gardens were built. This particular day trip was just perfect to get me in the mood for Part 3 of the BBC’s Emma miniseries, premiering that night.
Enniskerry
Walking to Powerscourt from Enniskerry
Cemetery
The entrance to Powerscourt
A long, leisurely walk through the countryside to the manor
Mountains
Lovely manor amid the Irish countryside. Galloping horses and lords not included.
Entering the manor
In the Italian Gardens
“Oh, Mr. Churchill, we must have ourselves a ball!”
“Mr. Elton, why do you not ride with Harriet? She would ever so enjoy your company.”
“Emma, dear, fancy an excursion to Box Hill? The weather is most fine!”
P.S. Emma Part 3 was excellent.
Had my camera battery not died, there would have also been pictures of the Japanese garden and its beautiful technicolor momiji, the azalea and rhododendron garden, and the delicious pie-rific trad dinner of Shepherd’s Pie, Chicken and Mushroom Pie, and Apple Pie we shared back in Enniskerry at a charming cafe.
Next week: down to Cork to visit Sean’s family. Perhaps a trip to Blarney Castle is in order, if Sean can overcome his terror of being mistaken for a tourist.
My latest attempt to keep the Euro from kicking my tail; inspired by a billboard I saw while waiting for the bus the other day.
No, it doesn’t work.
