Having some good, Irish craic

Here we are in the middle of February (non ci posso credere. where is time going?) and yet another horrible packing job is now under my belt.  I seriously thought that by this point in my travels... oh six months and six countries later... I would be a master packer.  

Audrey, Lauren, the rain, and the Irish Harp bridge

Clearly, I was mistaken. Packing for my trip to Ireland, this past weekend, was yet another immense struggle.  Poor, little, Vera carryall is mighty sick of my overpacking tendencies. Things I’m glad I packed? A raincoat.  People do not lie when they say that it rains in Ireland. It rains like a lot like.  

Nope, that extra “like” on the end of that last sentence was not a mistake.  In fact, it was placed there on purpose.  Did you know that, along with their lovely accents and priceless phrases, the Irish--for some godforsaken reason--add the word “like” to the end of phrases that certainly don’t necessitate a “like?”  I’m sitting there, anticipating a good, old simile... The roads were so slick because of the rain like.  Like what? Don’t go leaving me hangin‘ there, Irishfolk... like what?  

We spent the weekend with Lauren’s friend Laura, a Dubliner, and the perfect, stereotypical, ginger, Irish girl.  Unfortunately for her, she was stuck touring around a group of Americans who found her accent and choice-words to be unbelievably entertaining.  Among my favorites: 

*pickles = gherkins

*bathing suit = togs

*having fun = having some good craic. Because the word “craic” is pronounced “crack” this phrase became particularly confusing.  Here we are, imagining innocent Laura drugging with coke-out addicts somewhere in back alleys.

*tutoring = giving the grind. What?! People of Ireland, you do speak English, therefore you should understand how completely absurd this sounds. Laura had to leave us yesterday to give a boy a math grind. C’mon. That’s just wrong.  

Anyhow, we trekked all around Ireland with Laura on Saturday in her teeny, blue shoe of a car in which we were all wildly thrown-off by the fact that they drive on the wrong side of the road.  (This is also a bit dangerous for foolish, American pedestrians when it comes to crossing the street.  Fun fact: warnings are painted on the ground, telling walkers which way to look. Ridic.)  

We saw the ocean which was quite reminiscent of the waterfront towns near Boston.  Though the water looked particularly frigid... I mean, it’s February in Dublin, of course it’s cold...we watched an elderly man wade carelessly around in the bay for a few moments sporting only a speedo.  Yummy.  

The next morning, we made our journey cross-country in search of my friend Audrey who’s studying with Holy Cross in Galway.  She greeted us with homemade cookies.  Can she be any cuter? Lauren and I ate 85% of the plate.  Can we be any fatter? 

Later on, Audrey and Emily--yet another Crusader!--toted us around the quaint, coastal town for a hearty, Irish meal and a night on the town.  I ordered a shepherd’s pie (trying to be Irish, ya know?) and was not hungry for the rest of the trip.  Think that stopped me from eating? You’d be wrong if ya did.  

We spent the rest of our night studying Irish pub-life.  Oh don’t let my month of aimless European travels fool you, of course I’m studying...  We plopped ourselves at a table, directly in front of the live band, while analyzing the pure, drunken happiness that all Irish people seem to omit.  The Irish folk songs were great and when we left at the end of the night, we absolutely took a picture with the folk band.  When the sixty-five-year-old-guitarist told me that I could wear a pair of jeans, I knew it was time to leave...

The rest of the trip was spent driving deep into the countryside.  In reality, Laura drove and I slept essentially the entire time.  (Mom, can you say “return rides to Holy Cross?” Haha.) Put me in a moving car and I’m an instant goner.  We could be drive to the moon and back amidst a meteor shower and this girl wouldn’t stand a chance.  

However, I was awake long enough to note that Ireland is truly something else.  It’s beautiful in all of the ways that you would imagine it to be.  Dad, I now see where you developed your green-lawn obsession--Ireland is so unbelievably green. It’s really a fine aspiration for good, old 36 Chestnut. (One day...)  We passed a trillion wide, open fields, however, it never ceased to amaze me how truly breathtaking they are and how badly I want to adopt one of the black-faced, longhaired sheep!

Yup... that's how I feel about (Irish) beer. Ew.

In other news, the Polish side of the family will be happy to know that in today's Italian cooking class I learned to make cenci.  What's that? Only the Florentine equivalent of chrusciki, those out-of-this-world, fried, powder cookies. Nom!  I snagged about 27 of them before calling it a night.  I hope you guys are ready for a cenci-filled future because, secondo me, they will be invited to every forthcoming family event.


Countdown to Mom and Auntie Linda: 7 days Woo hooooo!

Prepare for picture overload

Hmmm... Not much is new in my Florentine life.  At the moment, it is freezing outside so I am snuggled beneath the covers of my bed, reading and listening to possibly one of the worst sounds in the world.  What’s that?  The sound of pennarelle (markers) scratching quickly and carelessly against paper. Ugh. To me, the equivalent of finger nails scratching the chalkboard... I am such a marker snob.  

I cannot even imagine the baby-face I gave Nina when she asked to borrow my pennarelle because she left the ones that I gave her for Christmas--fine, American Crayola’s for the primary purpose of deterring her from using my Sharpies--at school.  

I couldn’t say “no.”  She needed to finish an art project. 

I couldn’t lie. They were sitting quite visibly on my desk from my afternoon of coffee-shop-doodling with Adair. 

So now, I sit helplessly, like my third-grade self... a prissy, marker princess who would only lend markers to eight-year-old boys that swore on their lives that they would not “press down too hard on the tips.” Seriously, it’s as if these are the last markers on the face of the earth or something. I’m ridiculous. 

Anyhow, this week is essentially purgatory--as have become all of my weekdays over the past month since my exam--because my friends and I are traveling like maniacs.  

My schedule: unpack, speak some Italian, eat some pasta, learn some new verb tenses, repack.  What a life!  

Last Thursday, Adair, Lauren, and I set out for Switzerland:  home of some pretty famous chocolate and mountain-ranges.

Instead of traveling to random Slovakian cities in order to arrive at our final destination, we signed ourselves up for a packaged tour designed especially for study abroad students.

  

There were two, essentially-monotonous hostel options.  Being the breakfast-fiends that we are, we chose one over the other merely for its breakfast options. Nom nom, That’s enough for me.  We woke, bright and early, for the day of snow-trekking ahead of us and headed downstairs for a breakfast-of-champions.  What was awaiting us? None other than some bread, jam, and yogurt.  All I have to say is that the hotel administrator is one lucky duck that I am the yogurt-enthusiast that I am.

The three of us were all ready for snow-trekking--What’s up spandex, sporty shades, and Holy Cross gear from head-to-toe?  Disappointingly, when the van arrived, the driver asked us if we were snow-trekking that day, waited for our affirmative response, and then told us that we were not, in fact, snow-trekking that day.  Apparently, of the two-hundred students traveling with our group, only three signed-up for snow-trekking.  Which three? Us three. Um cool.  

The thoughts running through my head at this point: We are earthy-crunchy-hippy-weirdos... who else would ever sign up for something like this?  Luckily, we got the snow-trekking date switched to the next day so that we were able to find out.

In the meantime, our paragliding appointment was moved up... giving me zero time whatsoever to process the fact that I would soon be running off a cliff with merely a parachute and a man attached to my back.  

During a thirty-minute drive up the Swiss Alps, three daredevil guides listened to three, jumpy, twenty-year-old girls freaking out about the mountainscapes and the idea of parachuting off a cliff.  At the top of the mountain, we were decked out in red-jumpsuits, helmets (size Large for this girl. Anyone surprised?), and ridiculous backpacks that transform immaculately into seats.

Before!

Here, I expect rigorous paragliding lessons.  

Flashback:  Surf lessons, Coronado California, circa August 2008.  Kyle, can you recall how many times we paddled into sand and leapt onto the beached-surfboards before actually hitting the waves?  Yeah, like 300. 

All of a sudden, I’m standing on the side of mountain, in the Swiss Alps, strapped to a strange, Swiss man, watching my friends run off a mountain.  After a few seconds, I was running too... running...running...and POOF... flying, like a bird, like a plane, floating somewhere far above Switzerland.

I skipped away from the field we landed on, and was on an adrenaline high for the rest of the day.

Fortunately for us, our adventures did not end there.  The next day, our snow-shoe-trekking-dreams were realized after all.  And you know what? I am SO glad that they were.  Ronny--a big, German-speaking, lumberjack-type who learned to ski before learning to walk--toured the three of us, in addition to a sweet, Swiss couple, all around the mountains via snow-shoe.  

We hiked up.  

We ran down.  

We went too fast.  

We fell down.

What a workout!  ...And better yet, what a background...

Fluff'n'go with a random, Bernese Mountain dog? I think so.

That night, we returned to the mountains for night-sledding.  When I hear “night-sledding,” I picture a bunny hill:  One big, wide, bunny hill--illuminated by stadium-lights for all to see.  The Interlaken-idea of night-sledding, however, is about 100 doses more extreme than that.  

We arrived at the top of the mountain in the pitch black where we were gifted with tall, plastic sleds that require steering... not quite the blow-up tube edition to which I’m accustomed.  Our only hint as to where the trails ended and where the mountains dropped down thousands of feet, was the hardly-visible, white of the snow.  Our only lights were the green glow-sticks laced around our necks and the sparkling stars above.  (I am fully aware of how incredibly cheesy that sounds, but this was by far the most unbelievable sky I have ever seen in my entire life.)  

Look at those perfect bunches of stars!

For the rest of the night, the three of us referred to the sky as a “Lion King Sky” (If you don’t know what that means, we cannot be friends) and to the other sledders as “bugs” because we all looked like little, green fireflies.  Yeah, we’re weird.

At the end of the hour-long, sled-run we were greeted by a traditional, Swiss, fondue dinner.  It was delicious... though we didn’t receive anywhere near enough cheese fondue.  We ended our Switzerland adventure excursion with a tame day that consisted of a mug of Swiss hot-chocolate atop the tallest hotel in Interlaken and a search for some fine, Swiss chocolate for those chocoholics back home.  We’ll see if it’s still so good in June, but the chocolate bar I’m eating at the moment is pretty, darn tasty.