Hemingway

April 1st, 2010
Dublin
Sharon and I wait for bus number 15 at the O’Connell street stop. We are sporting matching pink Jansport backpacks, blonde hair, and loud accents. Local passerby’s look at us grudgingly. I don’t care much. After nearly four months of being away I’ve learned to embrace the American in me. The sun is shining, but it is once again deceitful. Goosebumps emerge under my cotton jacket which isn’t warm enough for the chilly April weather. Sharon comments on how New York is just starting to warm up, and images of blossoms in central park flit through my head. I think about telling her she can stay in Dublin and I’ll go back to New York instead. I decide that defamation of the place she is vacationing won’t make me a gracious host. We board the bus.

April 3rd, 2010
Dublin
Sharon is visiting til Easter and I’m enjoying the company of a friend from home. We spend the day buying souvenirs for Sharon’s family and drinking Guinness. I feel like a tourist again, but realize I’m not Irish, either. Trapped somewhere in the middle, I decide its okay to take have Sharon snap a photo of me on Grafton street.

Later on a tour bus I giggle as we tap our shots of complimentary Jameson together. Sharon says ‘cheers’. It’s a familiar word that the UK has taken out of context. Here it means thank you, but I prefer it as a toast. On the way home from the day tour we get caught in the rain. We are both cold, and the rain soaks through our jeans. We stop at Burdocks and order fish and chips. I am unaware that the “fish” part is actually a whole battered cod until the waitress places it in front of me. I glance nervously at the thing that looks too similar to itself pre-mortem . I use the cliché, ‘When in Rome!’ and bathe the thing in lemon juice. Not bad.
Were both exhausted, but it’s not a vacation in Ireland without a proper night out. We head back to the house to shower and take a nap. Later were meeting my friends at temple bar.

April 9th, 2010
London
Our tour guide squeals ‘wake up sleepy heads’ as we step off the bus. I can’t recall ever hearing such a nasally English accent. I am happy to escape her dreadful commentary and dry humour which lasted the previous two hours. We’re after visiting Windsor and Bath, and the day has been long. Wrecked, I decide that sight seeing is too much work.


Off of the bus the sun is warm. I take off my coat, basking in the weather and silently wish god didn’t create clouds or raindrops. Denise and I stroll down the paved path towards the massive rock formation and I begin taking photographs. It’s been explained to us that nobody really knows the purpose of Stonehenge, but that its age and ambiguity make it unique. I see the man-made, yet supernatural rock piles in the distance. They are larger than I’d imagined and the surrounding greenery and sunset makes them beautiful. I feel humbled. It’s nice to appreciate something without an explanation.




April 10th,2010
London
I’m sitting alone in a dimly lit Italian restaurant near Piccadilly Circus. The surrounding tables are filled with couples and families ordering from the Prix-Fixe theatre menus and I have tickets to Mamma-Mia. The waiter approaches and asks if I’d like a drink in an Italian accent. I smile and ask him how he knew, then order a Peroni. Denise and I have split up for most of the day to explore London on our own. As I wait for my beer I become self conscious about dining by myself. Everyone seems to be looking my direction. Suddenly, my thoughts of pity turn to thoughts of independence. I decide to feel grown up instead.

After finishing my meal I leave the restaurant and board the underground. The train is crowded and I wonder how claustrophobics fare in big cities. As I step off the train a sign informs me that the escalator from the platform to the street is broken. I frown at my choice of wardrobe, a short party dress and black stilettos, but sigh and begin climbing the endless concrete staircase. A group of boys whistle as I near the top. I decide I would rather have company than feel independent at the moment. I hustle to the top and head into the bustling street. The show starts in 30 minutes.

April 16th, 2010
Dublin
The sun pours through my bay window, waking me up before my alarm. I suddenly realize why the Irish only talk about the weather. You learn to appreciate a good day when there are so few of them. Since the sun is out I am headed to Howth to take pictures with Sara. Photography has become my escape, and I’m yet to see the nearby fishing village.

We take the train to the Howth stop and have lunch at a garden restaurant. We linger after our meal sipping coffee and chat about how we are both cynics. Afterward we walk along the pier taking pictures of the sailboats and old couples holding hands. The breeze is slight and the scenery is epic. The harbor is full of brightly coloured tug boats, old nets, and perfect moments to capture. We decide to set the self timer on her camera and take pictures of us jumping off a ledge. Later we look at our airborne facial expressions and laugh.